Italy Reviewed

The whole time I was in Venice--I kept of replaying The Italian Job scenes in my head.

No trip to Europe would be complete without a taste, as small as it may be, of Italy. And like every other proper tourist, I took the plunge for a weeklong tour of Italia!

Our traveling plan was as such: fly into Milan, fly back to Holland from Rome. All else in between? We had a rough roadmap of Venice and Florence….and not all of our hostels booked in advance, something I (the planner) have never done, but my fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants friend, Hans, was all about. So we took an insanely early flight to Milan for a day trip before finding a train to the ridiculously amazing town of Venice.

Milan…All tour books (as well as my exchange friend Mimi, who hails from Milano) say that Milan is one of Italy’s most livable cities. It’s also the richest; though since Milan is the epicenter of all Italian fashion, the fact that it’s the richest…not a surprise.

Once we arrived, we took a bus to the huge train station, plastered in massive Docle & Gabba ads, to order our tickets to our next destination for that very same night. Popular opinion holds that Italians are slow and severely bureaucratic. Tourist books and exchange advisors recommend that one have an open mind and throw away such silly stereotypes.

Stereotypes stem from truths.

And all those stereotypes about Italians, aren't stereotypes at all: that small kernel of truth popped to grapefruit sized popcorn pieces!

Milan’s train station has a many a sign. How many of them accurate? Well, that’s a whole ‘nother story. Hans and I went from information desk to information desk trying to find out any information about the train schedules. In lovely, straight forward Holland, trains are on time, schedules are easy to read, and domestic trains are all run by one company. The Italian train system leans closer to the American flight world. Delays, millions of companies traveling to the same destination at various price points decided by goodness knows who, but after taking a fabulous zig zag run around the train station we found a lovely English-speaking Italian train employee who helped us book our tickets. Whoo hoo us!

We took off to explore the city. Milan was nice, cleaner than others, a pleasant walk and metro ride of a town. Seriously, that’s all. Pictures below:

"Friendship" Bracelets

One incident, close to the hearts of all who have recently jumped over to Europe, are the hordes of African men hounding tourists with their “friendship” bracelets. Wispy green string, wrapped tightly under a multicolored twine aching to be passed off as a sweet memento. These men will seriously grab (usually the victim is a young girl) one’s hand and before you know it knot the droopy rope concoction on one’s wrist. As soon as the victim rejects the “gift,” the men explode and reply that they’ve already tied it to your hand and you're disgustingly are not paying them for their amazing merchandise, while their six children and wife starve back home and you run around throwing money like it was Mardi Gras.

You've cheated them!

My method of avoiding said situation, usually includes speaking Ukrainian, never raising my arm as to shoo, but always sternly shake my head, sans smile. Hans on the other hand, had no tried and true method. I always say, have a plan, have a plan, have a plan. But nooooooo, no one listens to Anja. As we near the magnificent Duomo, an African man approaches us, bracelets in hand. Cue eye roll and my tried and true avoidance method.

Not for Hans though. Oh no.

I try to walk away from this man, but he pulls a fast one on me. He hurls the pathetic rainbows at us! I dodge. They miss. They slump down onto Hans’s shoulder and arm. “Free! Free!” The man shouted after me, as I made a quick beeline to admire the Duomo’s magnificent doors. Though as I speed walk, more bracelet men surround my path; dodge right, duck left…finally safe at the front. Look back, and what is Hans doing? Ah, chatting it up with the bracelet man of course. Ten minutes after staring at the doors and taking more pictures than one should ever have of a bronze dog, on a door, Hans waddles over. He explained that it was the man’s country’s independence day and he was giving us the bracelets as a gift. Well, that was nice. The man also said that Obama would one day be president of his country as well as America. My money's on Obama not moving to an African nation anytime soon...

To Catch a Train

After wandering around Milan and giving, what we thought more than enough time to get back to the train station, we found out our planning was…wrong. Standing in a crowded metro car, I was frantically glaring at my phone, praying we make our train to Venice. We funnel through the metro tunnels, shove our way into the train station, race up the escalator while trying to find out our train platform. By the grace of our Lord, the escalator shot us out directly onto our platform as we sprinted toward the conductor, who was precariously leaning out of the almost moving train, whistle teetering on her bottom lip. We leaped on and made it! Thank goodness for cross country all those years ago!


Venice

Venice at night. Warm summer breeze, mellow golden light reflects off the soft waves of the cannel, laughter wafers in the air. No wonder so many authors choose Venice as the setting of their novels. It is everything one dreams for and so much more. In order to find the bus depot, we had to ask a few people and reach the edge of the town and the only vehicle access plaza in Venice. From there we took a twenty minute bus ride to a near by town and stumble our way to Camp Joy Hostel/Campground. The next day was all about exploration!

These signs of modest dress were all over Italy's churches. This particular day I wore totally appropriate shorts and shoulder covered t-shirt. But NOOOOO, I was forced to buy this very snappy number. It can be a skirt, a shawl, it can be...well anything. Don't expect it to catch on though. There were more than plenty of them in the nearby trash cans.

 

As I mentioned earlier, I’m a planner. Daily planner = my best friend.

When scheduling out this trip, Hans and I divided responsibilities and booked hostels equally. Hans was in charge of Venice hostel booking, and he booked only one night. We were there for two. Thus, once in Venice and at the front desk, I discovered that we needed to book us a hostel for the night. We had to crazily call the hostel every few hours praying we get some kind of bed for the night. And we did! It’s just that we didn’t get a room, or now that I think about it, a real bed.

Camp Joy, is a campground, with tents. Everyone who knows me, knows I’m not a camper. Hiking ‘til your feet fall off? Yes! Campfires? Yes! Fresh air and nature? Yes! Tents? Oh no. I don’t do that. I camp because of one sole reason: peer pressure. If you need to torture information out of me; put me in a tent. I will sing like a canary in a matter of seconds. With my lovely luck—we got a tent for the night. And yes, for those of you gasping right now, jaws dropped, drool dripping, I, Anna, Anja, Anichka, Anyuta, whatever you call me, spent the night in a tent.

All right, so it wasn’t that bad. Actually, it wasn’t bad at all. But I still stand by my plan ahead method. Spontaneity is only acceptable when planned.

We survived on these fountains! They were all over town and we refilled our water bottles at almost every one we saw.

I don't think they fear the bird flu as much as we do in the states.

We hopped over to the isle of hand blown glass. The streets were paved with hand glass blown trinkets. It was spectacular.

Carnival! Every year thousands of people flock to Venice and don these amazing masks for the celebration.

Market on the water? Why not?