Ru Paul says that if you can’t love yourself then how in the HEEEEELLL you gonna love someone else?!
(Can I get an AMEN?!)
I didn’t realise how much I needed to hear this, until some of my closest told me the same thing. I’ve always been a bit of a floater. I didn’t love myself because, well, I didn’t know myself – I was a bit… lost.
After going through a period of self-assessment (having an identity crisis and reading lots of mindfulness books), I came to the conclusion as to why I have always felt a little lost, and for me, it came down to two factors.
I don’t know what I want to do
I don’t know where I want to be
Looking for my purpose among the greenery
Languages are my passion, and I think I speak for a lot of grads when I say after four years of learning a language (or two), my eyes were opened to the world, I had had the time of my life, and yet was left with z e r o idea of what to do with my honed skills and hungry attitude.
If you check out my post on life right after graduation, you’ll know that this thirst to learn more (and earn more), led me to working in the city, before making the move to another – Madrid. Skip a few years, a few roles and a couple of moves (abroad) later, I felt richer in life experience, but somehow back in a similar position of not knowing what to do… The only thing that had remained a real constant was my love for languages, travel and of course, writing . I needed a little push in the right direction.
“Yes that’s great and all, but WHO are you writing this for? WHO is your audience? WHO do you think will want to read what you write?”
Ouch. The career adviser was hard-going, but I give it to her; she really made me think about what I wanted (in general) and also, what I wanted from my writing. Ergo here we are, with a concrete purpose and sense of direction; and this is the idea behind my blog; I’m writing for those twenty-somethings who haven’t quite figured out what life is about yet, except for the fact they would like to enjoy it for all it’s worth, working out the adult stuff along the way. For those who were or are a little lost in life. Also for anyone else who wants to come along for the ride that is my quarter-life crisis.
There’s tales of woe, near-misses (flights) and heartbreak, but mainly mischief, friendships and adventure – everything a bestseller boasts.
I’m pretty (100%) certain I suffer from imposter syndrome, and it’s something that I feel language learners in particular can relate to (Oh my god my accent doesn’t sound EXACTLY like the locals – they must think I’m an incompetent FOOL). This brings me onto my second issue – where do I belong? Being so exposed to another culture has made me question my own identity, and if I’m being honest, I don’t feel completely at home in one particular place, but rather, a mix of a few. Speaking to friends with a similar background, I don’t think I’m alone in this.
I want this blog to be for these people too – those interested in travel, those who wish to travel more, those thinking of making ‘the move’, and those who are travelling but perhaps struggling with the hardships that come from being a ‘world citizen’. What do you do when you want to be everywhere at once? Where is your sense of belonging? Where does the line of integration cross the boundaries of your own identity?
I found it!
Learning a language and discovering new cultures is something that changes an individual, and I don’t think this is talked about enough; not enough people discuss the expat effect – I’m not talking about missing your builder’s tea and bourbons, or even the convenience of living in the same city as friends – I’m talking about the way a place can change you, your way of thinking, and whether this is something you should immerse yourself in or perhaps be wary of?
From my experience, I can say the languages I’ve learnt and the cultures I’ve adapted to have enriched me immensely, in many areas, but I can’t deny that I’ve partly lost myself along the way. And should this be classed as a loss or is it simply personal development, or perhaps a psychological symptom of the travel bug?
I think the key for me is striking the balance between being completely open and willing to adapt to a new culture, and keeping true to yourself and your beliefs at the same time. This is something I struggled with particularly when living abroad for a long amount of time, and I would love to hear if others have had a similar experience or a different one altogether (please comment and let me know!!)
Wanderlost in Mexico: Monterrey, the city I called home for a while
How do you accept that things are ‘the way they are’ in a new place without becoming trapped in the new mindset bubble – Do you really believe in this way of thinking, or are you just acting on what your current surroundings are portraying as the norm?
How do you stay true to yourself while integrating into a new way of life?
Accept or adapt altogether? How far do you go?
How can you know who you are when who you are is always changing?
Who feels more lost now than they did at the beginning of this post?
This hot mess was brought to you by Sam’s Sunday evening breakdown special. You’ve been an incredible audience.
If you made it this far, thank you for sticking with me on this journey – I think it’s safe to say that even though I now have more of a purpose (writing is the one – Yay!), I’m still a little wanderlost. And that’s ok! The more I travel, the more I discover about myself, and I’ve found this curiosity only fuels my desire to explore further.
Please subscribe and stay tuned for more drama. I might even find the answers to some of these questions one day.
Late July in Madrid was miserable. The weather was glorious; it was hot, but not quite ‘August hot’ and everyone was in holiday-mode; part of me forgot that I was a working professional and the six-week summer break was no longer applicable. And the reason I was sad was because after months of beers on the balcony, living in a bit of a bubble, and loving every moment of our Sol apartment life together, time at Casa Calle de Atocha was up.
I watched Esaú clear out his things as he packed his suitcase; the semester was over and he would be heading back to his native Mexico the following week, which I was trying very hard not to think about.
“Do you want this?”
“YES.”
“And this?”
“YES.”
“Probably this too, right?”
“GIMME.”
The only good thing to come from his leaving, was that I was going to inherit a few belongings he couldn’t quite fit into his case/those he would have thrown away, had I let him.
Our balcón
Esaú is not like me. He is organised. He is very black and white about some things. Nothing in his wardrobe is over 2 years old. If it doesn’t fit anymore, he throws it out. If the material is old, he throws it out. If something no longer fulfils its use, he doesn’t need it, therefore, that’s right, he throws it out. He is, what I would call, rational.
I, on the other hand, still have a plane ticket from when I went to Bangkok in 2011.
I probably still have most of my old boarding passes. Travel brochures of cities I’ve visited, museum passes, postcards, you name it, I’ve kept it.
“But…why?” Esaú couldn’t quite grasp my reasoning for wanting to hang on to E V E R Y T H I N G.
I would always give him the same answer, which has become a running joke between us. “Keep it for the memories”.
“Sam, it’s an old cinema ticket…”
No ‘maybe’ piles here
Okay, so it seems a bit much I’ll admit, and just to make this clear, I don’t literally hold onto every piece of paper that passes through my hands. In this case, it wasn’t just any old cinema ticket, it was from one of our very first dates together. I explained this to him (blushing a lovely shade of beetroot the whole time) and he gave me a little smile, which partly said “you’re a bit nuts” and partly “that’s quite sweet actually”, or so I’d like to think.
For me, the little things count, and, as insignificant or disposable as they might appear to someone on the surface, perhaps just another proof of purchase, or silly souvenir with googly-eyes; if something holds a certain connection to a specific memory, and reminds me of a time I wish to treasure; a moment I would like to revisit long after it has passed, then it carries a completely different value altogether.
Admittedly, I am a hoarder. I don’t like throwing things away. I am a romantic at heart, a sensitive soul who gets attached to objects all too easily, should they remind me of a certain person, place, or a moment that was special to me. But having moved around so often, it’s times like these, when you’re packing and unpacking, that you have to decide what stays and what goes, and in this case, Esaú had a point.
Just a few collectables (including the cinema ticket of course)
So I’ve learnt from my ways. I no longer keep a hold of as many things and I’ve become a bit more selective with my choice of memorabilia. When all’s said and done, I’ve realised, it is not the object I’m attached to, but rather, the moment I associate it with.
In the end, are all these little trinkets and keepsakes worth, well, just that – the sake of keeping?
As I pondered over this great debate, Esaú continued to sort through the remainder of his things. It was interesting to observe the thought-process behind someone-else’s packing, especially when their method was so different, and from my perspective, cut-throat. A small voice in the back of my head wondered what had happened to all the tickets he must have gone through on his various trips in the past year alone *sigh* ‘What a collection there could have been’
His process was very thorough, efficient, and managed without distraction (impressive, considering I always get in the way, whether intentionally or not).
But something was off.
He had paused. There was a moment of lapse in his concentration; a glitch in the matrix.
His wardrobe looked really sad. Only a bundled-up duvet remained, lonely on its shelf. All of his possessions had been snatched from where they used to hang happily at home, now neatly tucked away, bound inside the almost-ready suitcase. All of his things that is, save for one or rather two items.
Sadness
“How long have you had those boots?”
He was stood over and staring poignantly at the pair of leather booties, which had made their way out of the wardrobe but not quite into the suitcase. Slightly scuffed, and a little worn in, these boots would probably be considered ‘past-it’ in Esaú’s book, but by my standards, I think they still had a lot of life left in them yet.
He always takes extremely good care of his belongings, including this particular pair of boots. They were frequently cleaned, polished and treated with the tender love and care they deserved. So why would he throw them? Well, they didn’t look like new, and they’d been around for longer than a couple of years. They were, I had supposed, about to get the boot.
GET IT?
THE BOOT.
But no.
And actually, this is what’s curious. After adopting Esaú’s way of thinking and attempting to ‘cut back’ as it were on my addictive nature of collecting bits and bobs, I felt two things:
Freer. There is no guilt now when throwing away decidedly unnecessary items. Disposing of an entrance band does not mean I won’t remember enjoying the gig.
The pickier I am with the things I keep, the greater their sentimental value becomes.
Which was exactly what was running through my boyfriend’s head in that very moment.
These were not just a pair of shoes. They told a story. His story.
“You know, you don’t have to throw them…”
“It’s just…they’ve been everywhere with me.”
His little face said it all. The boots had gotten the green light. They would live to see another day, and I was certain, many more countries.
These boots had trekked pretty much all over Europe; endured puddles in London, the Dublin terrain during winter, and the bar crawls in Paris. The soles had undergone many a city tour, they’d seen Prague, Budapest and even Singapore. They’d been on trains, planes, and tuk-tuks; survived the snow-filled streets of Toronto (their origin) and the immense humidity of bustling Bangkok. They’d been trodden on by fellow tourists, they’d had to run to catch domestic and international flights and they’d been loyal when the weather was less so; they’d travelled three continents and had stayed faithful throughout it all.
For this reason precisely, they wouldn’t make it into the case.
Instead, they would be doing what they do best, and taking him on the long flight home, accompanying him on what was to be another adventure.
Ayutthaya, Thailand
London
Prague
Paris
Madrid
Budapest
Singapore
With this decision finalized, the suitcase was zipped up and the padlock firmly secured. Everything that needed to be, was stowed away safely. Including, I had noticed, every single gift I’d given him. Every token I’d bought him from a trip I’d been on, be it a shot glass or a tiny seashell; a colourful magnet or a novelty keyring – they’d all been carefully packed away first. It warmed the cockles of my heart.
We’re all big softies really.
Whether we openly admit it or not, I am pretty sure everyone keeps ‘silly little things’ purely for their sentimental value.
This couldn’t be more true than when you’re in a long-distance relationship.
When your person is no longer there, at least not physically, a lot of what you have left when they’ve gone, is the comfort of their memory.
Unfortunately we couldn’t keep our flat decor for the memories
A week went by, and it came time for Esaú (and his boots) to make their way home. Things just didn’t feel the same once he’d gone. My room was bare, the small balcony was now far too big and to be completely honest, I couldn’t help but feel like my heart had a great big fat hole in it.
Going from seeing someone everyday to not at all can make you miss every little thing about them, those aspects that you had become so familiar with before, and also, let’s face it, those you had taken for granted. For this reason alone, I was happy I’d saved those tickets, the silly snapchat videos, the trinkets from our days out together, and it goes without saying, every sweet and thoughtful gift he had given me during our time together. Because, until we would see each other again, these collectables would make the distance that little bit less painful, and help keep our memories very much alive, comforting me in the fact that there would be more like that to come.
Don’t tell, but I also kept his old metrocard when he left.
Oh God. I know what you’re thinking. Is she done telling this bloody story yet?
This is the third and final installment, I promise. Dobby has been reading through my drafts alongside me, and reminiscing about our little adventure:
“Sam, you know what, I think this might have to be a three part-er”
And I didn’t believe her.
Pour It Up
Okay so whizz back to part 2. Vinevia all’Amarone. Cute table outside. Even cuter Prosecco bottle sitting comfortably in its snug little ice bucket.
Finding San Marco Square and getting to Venice in the first place had tired us out a little, and what we really needed (craved) at this point was food, and lots of it.
We browsed through the menu and I found myself in that horrible dilemma most of us have had the privilege of experiencing.
“Oh my god there is just so much CHOICE”
“Wait, what does that mean? Oh it’s ………… – I love them!”
“Okay that will be a potential main”
“Or maybe I should try something typically Venetian. But they do have this dish and it’s basically my ‘go-to’…”
“Oh god the waitress will be back out in a minute – MAKE A DECISION – QUICK!”
“Maybe we can do half/half to try two different dishes?”
“God Dobby WHY ARE YOU VEGETARIAN?!”
“…Ooh bruschetta!”
“Omg focus – don’t waste time on sides!”
*gasps dramatically and clutches chest* “SIDES ARE NEVER A WASTE OF TIME”
Anyone else had that problem? Just me maybe…
What were seven or so of the most stressful minutes of my life passed by and we had somehow come to a decision.
“What goes well with Prosecco?”
“Darling, everything – you can’t base your decision on that alone”
So I think we went with our guts – which at this point were crying out for carbs, a creamy sauce and generally a large portion of substational and tasty grub.
Dobby ordered a lovely veggie dish (I know it was some kind of pasta) and I predictably went for my ‘go-to’, spaghetti marinara. I just love seafood and garlic and could eat a potful if you let me (unfortunately that wasn’t an option).
We also went for a starter of the ‘bread & bits’ variety. Very tasty and scoffed down within about 5 seconds of being delicately placed on the table in front of us (and our beady little eyes).
While we waited for our mains, we contemplated the next stop on our grand tour.
“OK, where to next?”
The wine had us relaxed and in a state of tranquility – the food enhancing this chilled mood even further.
“I’m easy – let’s just stroll and see what’s good”
“Let’s have a mooch, yeh”
Our dishes arrived and this is how I would define happiness –
The waitress walks out and the food heads directly for your table. Large white plates are served and the portion is not petite or ‘bite-size’, ‘delicate’ nor ‘Instagram-cute’ (what is this trend all about anyway – it’s just serving up a plate of disappointment and shattered appetite-based dreams people!)
Nay, the portions are deceivingly large, and the food looks beyond appetising; yet somehow still manages to exceed your expectations.
So at this point you’re salivating – it gets better. “WHAT?!” I hear you cry.
Cheese, my friend.
That freshly grated smell-it-from-across-the-room Parmesan cheese.
The waitress moves to serve the Parmigiano-Reggiano, waiting for you to gesture “stop”.
You don’t . The cheese never ends, there is cheese times infinity, the whole world becomes covered in cheese, and that for me is happiness.
In this case, I must admit, I committed the sin of all sins on Italian ground – ok not as bad as when I ordered a Hawaiian pizza, but getting there/coming in a close second. (Amici miei, look away now per favore)
Seafood and cheese. I found out a couple years later (or too late apparently) that this was a HUGE no-no.
The Italians couldn’t even understand why I would choose to DISRESPECT the marinara like that. I wonder what they would make of fisherman’s pie…?
Anyway, on that day I was happy as Larry pouring (most appropriate verb) Parmesan on and around my dish, and washing it down with chilled wine. And it was just everything.
As the dishes were taken away, we sat back in our peaceful slump, feeling entirely content with the world, our lunch and the rest of the time we had in Venice. I can’t remember if there was dessert, but I have a feeling we didn’t want to over-indulge (hold-in your laughter please), and so we made a move from the restaurant, at a pretty slow pace.
“That was…”
“Oh I know”
To be honest, lunch had made it for us, and we were both quite content in taking the rest of the day in our stride.
As I mentioned earlier, there is so much to see in Venice, it all becomes a little distracting. Being in a post-pasta bubble had turned us into a couple of ambling old ladies, wandering arm in arm and stopping to window-shop (or rather, glare) at the various boutiques lining the streets. After trying on a few masks, laughing hysterically and being frowned out of a shop (or two) we walked along the “Gran Canale” and took a few snaps on the famous Rialto bridge.
The Unfortunate Turn of Events
We were so fulfilled with our fabulous day out (pasta- and vino does wonders) that we *classic* lost track of all time. Here is where things got messy.
Turns out going for a stroll is okay as long as you have your logistics in check. We did not.
“Oh my god that is not the time”
*Bad word* “Dobby I don’t know if we’ll make it”
I love this girl and I don’t know many people who possess the same level of optimism.
“Okay…” *looks at map* “No you know what- I think we can make it. Let’s try”
Our past experiences (solo adventures and together) of ‘just’ making it on time for – you name it – parties, exams, flights (it’s not great I know) combined with our knowledge (comfort) in that the other is exactly the same way, had egged us on in previous situations, and this one was no different.
Imagine two girls, post-boozy lunch, running (and panting) through the streets of Venice, bags bashing against innocent bystanders, holding the look of 50% calm, 50% “Ooh not quite sure this running lark is all that worth it” on our faces.
Well that was the scenario.
Wine face
We got to what I remember to be the other side of Ponte della Constituzione, and Dobby laid down the card of sensibility – “I can’t, I’m sorry…I think it might wait – they never really come on time right?”
I threw in the towel too. Checking the clock, the train was already due and therefore had probably left 5 minutes before (they like to mess around like that sometimes – switching up platforms, going from delayed to cancelled: basically keeping commuters and baffled tourists on their toes).
I knew the train had left but we thought we’d check anyway – optimism. Entering the station we looked up at the board and our doubts were confirmed.
“Ok never mind, we’ll just wait for the next one out.”
That would have been a logical idea except in this case the next few trains departing were of the Frecciarossa variety, aka something which our student budget (particularly at this point in the semester – IT WAS OVER – OVER) would not stretch to. Simply put, it was decidedly not the Megabus of Northern Italy.
“*Another bad word* What are we going to do?”
By this time we had extended our timetable research online and I managed to find out that there was a cheaper train heading towards Bologna, just later on… MUCH later on.
And that would still leave us an hour away from home.
Suddenly the image of my chaotic cave of a room felt so distant and beyond reach. We looked at each other for a moment. “Done it again, haven’t we” but also “LOL I wonder how this’ll pan out” crossed both of our minds.
Then my battery died.
We didn’t make it.
We stayed in Venice; we’re still here right now.
We’re stuck forever; that’s us in the photo featured. Cazza’s finishing off her glass, and I’m pondering over what cheese selection would go best with the next bottle.
Just pulling ya leg.
As it turns out, Dobby didn’t have data and had about 5% more battery than myself. That’s 5 %.
Things got old school pretty quick.
“We need to get off the island”
Make the call
Our only hope right now was our sweet Casalooch. I had messaged Joshua earlier informing him of our pickle and he couldn’t, yet at the same time could, believe our predicament.
*Third bad word* “Oh we need to call Josh, quick, I’ll write his number down before your battery dies.”
Dobby got up the number while I rummaged in search of pen and paper. What I found as substitutes were a worn-away eyeliner pencil and ironically, my unused train ticket. Doing all of this in blind panic on the steps outside Santa Lucia station felt other-worldly. As I used Dobby’s back as a support for my frantic scribbling, I couldn’t help but laugh at how desperate we must have looked/actually were, especially when fumbling for coins for the payphone. PAY. PHONE.
Needless to say, it felt very 90s.
So there we were, chucking all the cents we had into this payphone, and dialing carefully (oh so carefully), waiting on Casalooch to answer, who had actually just got out of the shower at this point, and was chilling at home in Forli, or at least he was before becoming our human switch-board.
*Deep breath* JOSH I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS WE’RE TRAPPED IN VENICE LOL TRAPPED HAHAHAHA THIS IS SO US OH MY GOD WHY AM I RAMBLING DOBBY I CAN’T BREATHE CHUCK IN ANOTHER 5 CENTS—” beep
“Oh Sam. How have you done that?! I’m eating left over lasagna. Did it go off without you? LOL BYE. Oh deaar. Wait what are you calling me on now? Are you using CASH. Hello are you calling from the 90s? Darling what’s happened ok nevermind I’ve got the timetable up write this down. Is Dobby there? ELLO U CHEEKY TROLL”
The gang together in less desperate times … **coming SOON** Fuerteventura post!
Being our savior for the day, he practically planned and coordinated our safe trip back home: Sat in a towel, in his bedroom, some 100 miles away, googling every possible way for us to get “back from the islands”, Casalooch came up with the following itinerary:
“Okay so here’s what you girls need to do.”
*Dobby and I stand with one ear to the phone each, silently nodding and eager for instruction/direction/guidance/a miracle in our time of need*
“Train from Santa Lucia Venice to Ferrara departs at midnight – this means you need to get off at Bologna”
“But it’s for Ferrara…”
“This is the thing – you’ll have to buy a ticket for Ferrara and get off one stop later, Bologna. It’s the best way for you to get home without waiting until morning for one HAHA – sorry – but, no darling, we’ll get you home. Get off at Bologna.”
We bought the tickets straightaway. I can’t express how grateful we were for my best friend’s ability to organise and resolve under pressure. It was the best situation given our unforeseen circumstance, although there were a couple of things we were wary of:
Technically the first ticket was for Ferrara…so for one stop , we would have to avoid any ticket inspectors (if there even were any).
“Hide in the toilet”
“WHAT both of us?”
“Or play tourist! Technically you are…?”
2. The crossover at Bologna would mean a wait of 3 hours more or less, in the early morning, which was not really an ideal time to be in the city. However, from the few times I had been on a night out with the españoles in Bologna, I was aware of Piazza Verdi, a square popular with the young folk for pre-drinking, before moving onto the clerbz. This came to mind as I remembered Dad’s sound advice.
“There’s safety in numbers”
There were sure to be students around at this time.
“Let’s just enjoy Venice!” Dobby could see I was still getting over our little hiccup.
As we went through our action plan again with Josh, she breathed a sigh of relief – she was right, what was important now was enjoying the time we had left.
“What a blessing, we can see Venice at night!”
It did seem like we’d been given a few more hours to explore, and this was not to go unappreciated.
Sleep deprived. Ecstatic from sugar highs and the promise of what was to be a very very super-dooper fun day out. Deranged because of all the catching up (breath and story-telling) and also deranged anyway because that was kind of how we rolled. You’ll see what I mean as I go on to share the rest of my tale…
So beginning from the end of part 1. We had made it to Venice; lots of people on steps, lots of people on boats, basically lots of people everywhere. For anyone who hasn’t visited this city before, I would recommend getting yourself a map (vital step one) and highlighting the places you’d like to visit first – from what I can remember we nabbed ourselves one (for FREE!!) inside the train station, which was tourist friendly and already had circled where we wanted (or rather were obliged) to go.
Step 2 would probably be to now head away from the train station, and the boat stop – and to just keep walking (and weaving) until you find yourself in a street where you don’t feel your private space being invaded. Then make your way towards the circle on your map.
I may have exaggerated a little. I think the crankiness and my erratic state of mind that morning might have made me visualise more packs of people than there were. That’s right, I said it. PACKS.
One way to beat the crowds I suppose
Point being, if you’re like me, and don’t fend too well with crowds (particularly those armed with giant over-the-top/used-once digital cameras and canary yellow audio guides) I would recommend just barging through with brute force Rambo-style sucking it up and winding your way through, until you find yourself in a peaceful corner, or side street, where you’re able to get your map out (not just folds). There you can take your leisurely time and start plodding to your first destination. That’s what we did, and I’m all the more grateful for it. Too much of today’s hustle and bustle makes for boring people and tedious stories. If you charge about going from one spot to the next with headphones on and with only ‘the main attractions’ (or rather, that perfect Instagram setting) in your sights, how are you ever going to appreciate the place itself? One thing I love love LOVE to do when I travel is **cliché** take everything in: the sights, the smells, the feel for the city. No place is the ever the same as another. And you can’t take in all it has to offer if you refuse to just stop, look up and around or just slow the pace a little to catch a moment.
So in this case, here we find ourselves, myself and dear companion Dobby, stood in our gourmless travel-weary stance, worn-in Vans ready for action and heading to the first stop, San Marco Square.
Our first stop.
Smells: Baked goodness – I don’t care what it is: pizza, calzone, panini, everyday buns or the Venitian version of a humble cheese & onion slice – whatever it is, it smells amazing and it’s giving me life.
Sights: Something I loved about Italy in general, and what I wish London had a bit more of, is the old-time architecture. The faded walls which still remain pretty, postcard-worthy and charming in their appearance, and paved streets of historic stone, which unlike those in my ends, were not gritty (nor gum-filled). These little details just made it all the more enamoring a place, which was at that moment, filled with locals and tourists, munching on afternoon delights (aforementioned baked goods; and NOT the kind you’d find in Greggs either).
The plan was to see as much of Venice as we could in a day, (and of course fit in a big meal + bottle of wine in this time). Our train back to Bologna was due to leave at around 6pm from what I remember – this gave us just over 6 hours to explore. A good amount of time to see all the main attractions without rushing. I am picturing (with disdain) how some express day-trips can turn out: on-the-go sarnies and the Countdown theme in the background as you whiz desperately around the city.
The first time I came to Venice (post coming soon!), I was fortunate enough to arrive on the day of Carnivale. The city on this particular day was, without exaggerating, JAM PACKED and actually because of the sheer crowd density, we weren’t able to reach San Marco square, where the main event was taking place. A shame, but that’s what you get for arriving partied out/still jet-lagged, and in any case, I’m sure I will make the effort to see it in the future.
There is a point to my rambling. It was at this moment, as we were being swept through the crowds, that I took into consideration how tiny Venetian streets become. It’s like a labyrinth of charming windy streets, which gives reason as to why it’s often referred to as the tourist maze. However, in and around corners of said maze, you will find yourself at the entrance of a quaint open piazza, or a small bridge passing over a canal. And that’s one of the other things I love about Venice.
On this day in particular Dobby and I had achieved what I could not on Carnival day: we made it to our circle on the map. Making our way down the teeny tiny (yet oh so perfect and picturesque) streets and also making a few stops across big and small bridges (a couple of shameless selfies en-route), there we were.
Piazza di San Marco. Quite impressive. Understatement much.
“Oooh”
“I know”
“Well that’s just lovely isn’t it?”
“Let’s take a picture”
“Yes, let’s”
I know it sounds stupid, but I never really thought of Venice as an island, which it more or less is. As the train pulls into Santa Lucia, it’s basically a track from mainland to port. The city is practically surrounded by water, and this makes for remarkable views.
The basilica of San Marco stands proudly by the vast square, which gives off a kind of pristine air about the place: everything is white and the constrast of the blue water behind it provides a dramatic backdrop for the whole scene.
“It would be a delightful place to take lunch”
“Shall we?”
*Attempts cheeky and suggestive face which turns out to be more leary and terrifying*
Instead of ignoring my ghastly expression, Dobby embraces my enthusiasm for spontaneity and love of lunch (and all mealtimes, really), and in return throws me a funny face herself *N.B. this means lunch is ooOORN.
We amble towards some fancy-looking tables (red tablecloths and more than one set of cutlery laid out, you get me) which belonged to one of the restaurant terraces gracing the square.
BEFORE YOU SAY IT – I don’t know what we were thinking (and this was pre-bubbly wine). Rule No. 1 in tourist code: Restaurants located in the town square = approx 10x more £££ than others elsewhere in the city. This is just common sense, and it soon became apparent to the both of us, after perusing the leather-bound menu (Rule 1. section A in tourist code – avoid restaurants with flags on their menus; this usually means you’ll be handing over a few bob extra). Anything with an English translation I usually try to steer clear of – you’re there to enjoy the local food, be brave and ask for the special!
“So if I ordered calamari as a starter, how much would that make each squid? ”
“At least we’ve already paid for our return ticket LOL”
Okay let’s not do this.
Square selfie – smiling because we know next stop is lunch
We took it upon ourselves to do a little more exploring. Not for other places of interest though; more places of eatery. Food had been mentioned and our (rumbly) stomachs had heard us. We were on the look-out.
I couldn’t for the life of me remember the name of the restaurant we ended up in – actually it was a wine bar – how perfect?! But after doing a bit of research (20 mins studying Google Maps and reliving the walk in a ravenous haze) I found it – Vinevia all’Amarone. It was located down a small side street (Calle Sbanchesini) and away from all the madness, and extortionate prices…
As luck would have it (it’s still early on in the story) there was an offer on that we found hard to refuse (it involved a bottle of house prosecco in an ice bucket and I forget the rest. Basically sold itself.
“Well this is all rather fancy!”
Dobby exclaimed with glee. I looked around our dainty wooden table and the captivating setting which surrounded us.
“To being ladies that lunch wine”
*Both clink glasses enthusiastically and sip/gulp a lot of bubbly*
“I. Am. About. This life. Show me the menu and keep the vino flowing”
And that’s how we got to the third and final part of my story…
It might say Tranquillo on the bottle but that’s not how things went down…
