Paulitko Accounts

Arriving

“Italy is already fun”, was the first sentence written in a country entirely new to me.

Departing the airport mentally clutching my prepared and memorised phrase, I requested a bus to Venezia Mestre and was directed to a large white single decker on the left. I strolled over warily amidst a surprising abundance of people for a Tuesday evening in early February and listened to a lot of varying general confusion, noting most queries are in English by quite touristy-looking people lugging around gigantic suitcases. Further on, a trio of well-fed blokes in typical bus-driver white shirts and belted trousers stood lethargically under a shelter puffing on cigarettes and jabbering away, looking in no imminent hurry to leave.

Quickly growing antsy, I turned at some noise behind me and spotted a smaller bus in another lane with a queue (except not a queue, because it’s Italy) of less touristy-looking people, donned in big jackets to stave of the ‘cold’, chatting in Italian and hopping aboard fuss-free. Decision already made, I jogged over and asked the driver, “Per Dove?”.

“Treviso” is the reply, the namesake town to the airport. That’ll do, I was certain I’d seen there’d be a train from there.

4€ and 10 minutes later I was off at an island bus stop and working with a like-minded tourist as to how we could cross the busy 4-lane road with no pedestrian crossing or notable breaks in traffic, time ticking to make our respective trains. Standing there laughing nervously at our task, we were saved by an umbrella wielding local who strode onto the road without a word, with her husband in tow, smiling pityingly at us as the cars were forced to stop for the headstrong pedestrian. Running after her to take advantage of the strange custom (or crazy lady), I made my train and reached Mestre late in the evening, where I’d be sleeping for the duration of my stay.

Settling

I’d been forewarned of the common morning/evening fog in the area by Arnauv and Richard (see Berlin post) and it was fair warning. I seen so little of Mestre to form any first impressions on the 10 minute walk to the hostel, save from a number of tall hotels and small crowds hanging around on street corners. The hostel however, I was able to give plenty judgement.

The 7-storey building was far closer to being a hotel than what I was used to; a giant foyer connected to a bar, food served to order, tonnes of sitting space and games tables sprawled everywhere, the decor screaming “trendy” a little too loudly. The check-in process was fine, almost too nice and I briefly considered how few city hotels I’d actually stayed in, especially when taking the elevator to a top floor dorm. The room was spacious, two bunk beds followed by two more individual beds over by the window. I had a brief smile from an older man and nothing from the younger male by the window. A little dazed by the comparison to the hostel in Berlin, I unpacked a little, showered and then introduced myself to the two of them.

Both turned out to be pleasant people, the elder a Colombian who loved practising German with the girl from Stuttgart that came in later and the younger male from Portugal. Between us we used a mixture of Spanish and English to communicate, a fun game.

Hair still wet, shoeless, in shorts and an oversized long green base layer, I went down to the bar for a pint as my dinner. Once ordered, I got to talking with a contagiously energetic Norwegian gent, the bar staff previously held into conversation giving me a sympathetic look but in truth I found him an utter delight. An extremely well-travelled individual, he had no end of stories and valuable recommendations (I’d love to share them with you, but my journal is helpfully limited to “some amazing travel tips”), and we exchanged tales until, excusing myself, I went to sit and write with my second beer.

Vitalised from the enriching conversation, I sat at one of three bench tables, to the left from a girl hard at work on a laptop. I wrote away about the journey to Mestre, how my mood had lightened up since the morning in Berlin, whatever thoughts were rolling about my brain, translating emotions into words, the main aim of my personal writing. Feeling up to date, I turned on some football and invested in the enjoyment of that, or as much enjoyment that comes with losing 0-1 at home to Athletic Club in a Copa del Rey semi-final. It’s what I would’ve finished watching, until the girl at the next table puts away her laptop and starts watching the Afcon Semi-Final of Côte d’Ivoire vs DRC.

Intrigued, I kept a listen to both until after realising Atleti were just never going to get back into that match, I said hello and was invited to join her.

Ihssane is Moroccan from Casablanca, and one of the quite special people you can meet on a trip, your conversation feeling in complete comfort from minute one. I was engrossed in her unique way of articulating as she spoke, so detailed and descriptive in her 3^rd language no less, the depth exhibiting a mind truly in the moment wherever she went. Discussing travels, applying for visas, music, her decent sounding job; a wide array of topics across the scale from casual thoughts to graver issues. Despite this 3-hour conversation being the extent of our contact, the ease was as if talking to an old friend and I hoped to see her again before I left.

First Day

A horrible sleep, the same I’d have for all 3 nights in the hostel but while lying there looking to the morning fog, a beaming smile took hold of my face.

“I’m in Venice”.

What magical words. One of Europe’s most unique cities, the stuff of postcards, and I was about to walk amongst it all.

Although, as I’m not made of money, I was on the mainland and still required a 20-minute bus journey across the water to the island, my usual desire to walk not a practical option.

But then became quite staggered, until the smile disappeared altogether as I got to the busyness of the main streets, where the throng of people and number of chancers overwhelmed any free ability to enjoy where I was. Diving into a café for a break and paying 6.50€ for a Cappuccino only further exasperated my mood until having finally had enough, I veered off into some narrow side-streets. The sudden silence was almost unnerving as the high walls either side of the one person-wide path permitted almost no outside sound come within, my footsteps the only noise, checking every corner and doorway as I went.

Now, I’m in a new city I know nothing about and walking alone into dark alleys and derelict avenues would often seem a fairly dumb idea but if I’m to give any advice in this written piece: use them.

It’s the best way to navigate Venice bar none, and it’s what the locals seem to do. The main streets are simply too busy to spend any more than 20-30% of your time on, the cafes and shops are criminally overpriced and there are opportunists everywhere but walk 20 seconds down these streets and it’s enough to negate almost all the above and get back to the real magic of Venice.

Swapping packed bridges for quiet arches, rivers for canals, motorboats for gondolas? It was a no-brainer.

Furthermore, on the topic of navigating, the difference between my movements around Venice compared to Berlin couldn’t have been starker. As mentioned in the Berlin piece, I rely mostly on spontaneity in travel but even then, it was mixed amongst the purposeful walking between the sites I wanted to see. Here though, it was purely wander and wonder.

Google Maps was exclusively a compass, giving general direction to my movements and nothing more. I zig-zagged on and off the aforementioned main streets as my heart took me, diving into every church I found, reaching a zen state of peace amongst this movie brought to reality. Time passed like the smoothest of rivers, until many hours of walking later I reached a restaurant I liked the look of and settled in for some pasta and beer.

I remained there for an hour or so before meandering on down to join the Carnevale celebrations on St Mark’s Square, the area of the Doge Palace and main Basilica.

Happy although lethargic since the meal, I called time for one day on such poor sleep, bought my own mask from a leather-works shop and headed back on a seemingly endless journey of canals and bridges that made far less progress than effort put in. I tried to go for a water taxi but was faced with incessant signage telling me to download their shiny new app on my crappy phone signal. The inability to simply hand over a couple of quid to someone and hop aboard initiated my stubbornness and (much to my own leg’s disappointment) I walked the entire way back to the bus station.

On my return to the mainland (I didn’t pay), I showered and rested without ever really feeling comfortable, practising Spanish on Duolingo. I had some messages from my ex regarding cancelling our apartment lease and felt a pang of sadness again but being where I was, I honestly felt it an insult to Venice to dwell on it for too long so began writing, where I realised the slight caveat of my aimless wandering: I had no idea as to most of where I’d been to write much about it.

That done, I chilled out a little more relaxed but also a little bored, the impersonal vibe of the hostel not doing any favours, the few people here sprawled out across sofas with headphones in and eyes glued to phones. Ready to accept that not every night can be an evening of glorious socialisation, I retired to bed to try for an early night until Ihssane messaged, saying she’d just finished an opera show in the city, and would be on her way back to the mainland soon. Happy to have some company after all, I met her at the train station and my jaw kind of hit the floor.

Okay, so I haven’t written about it thus far as I hadn’t written about it at the time, but she is breathtakingly beautiful. Drop-dead beautiful. The heart skips a beat kind of beautiful, even in the slacks and casual top last night, just this time she was wearing a short faux jacket over a kind of 20’s light brown suit, hair done in frizzy afro, smart glasses, lips red and a general dress-code that was, in my eyes, well befitting of an opera house.

Delighted to see her, we walked right in the opposite direction from a jazz bar I’d planned to go to and let chance guide us to a half-empty run-down diner, the Asian couple running it lovely and friendly, clientele mostly construction workers and UberEats cyclists, décor… clean enough. In truth, I liked it, two overdressed young people in an underdressed old diner.

It would be the theme of the night, leaving it all to chance and just rolling with it where, sipping a bitter drink of sorts, we talked. And talked. And talked. I have to refer back to her articulation and just how damn captivating it was to listen to her. Her experiences were amazing enough but the way she described them, individual details she’d noticed, her perception on it all, I could sense the empathy and openness in her own travelling mindset matching my own (see Berlin piece) and she frequently answered my questions with her next sentence as they were forming in my head. It was an inspiration to listen to her and I told her as such. I aim to visit Uzbekistan purely from her account of the place.

Our topics varied across the wide range once more with plenty of light-hearted laughing next to serious, complex subjects where her astounding general knowledge shone through. I learned about her life with family in Morocco as the second of four daughters, the love/hate relationship with her cat, the fathers stereotypical move to pretend to not like the cat but end up loving it, her Nigerian manager meaning she’ll support them in the Afcon Final, her issues with a UK Visa (cheers Brexit), her plans to visit her friend in Milan the next day. I told her how I’d moved back into my family home a month prior, that I was the eldest of four sons, my do or die ambition to learn Spanish, about Scotland, and how I’ll got to Albania next for my birthday; this prompting the ever-wonderful conversation on how yes I’m only 23, yes I look older and yes I know you didn’t think I was still just a baby.

Despite me being conscious of her train the following morning, we stayed out until closing time at roughly 01:00. Both donning respective Carnevale masks, mines a black leather Zorro-esque edition to match my jacket and hers an enchanting red, white and gold piece that tragically broke whilst trying to tie, we walked out into the now admittedly cold Venetian night and back to the hostel.

Enjoying a bit more quiet in our company until the elevator, we hugged as she got off on her private room floor (I told you she has a good job), said we’d keep in touch (actually meaning it, again, read the Berlin piece), and wished good fortune for our next journeys, where I then carried on upwards to slum out another restless night in my furnace of a room.

Deciding the level of personal feeling I should admit in these writings is an ever-moving deliberation, but I feel I should offer it for, as those doors closed, I laughed out loud with elation and joy in my eyes. Heart beating and soul shimmering I felt entirely, thoroughly, 100% in love with my life and in awe of the simply magical experiences it can throw to you, while thankful and proud to myself for being open and mindful enough to embrace them.

I ended this particular writing book of mine on that night, a few pages left free at the back. Begun in the aftermath of my breakup, it had taken me just 1 month and 1 week to complete, the book itself a Christmas gift from my former partner. It felt like the right time to move to the next one, on the proof beyond doubt that I can still truly be in love with life, that this unique feeling is exclusive to me personally and not attached to a relationship or living situation but within me. I could understand this seeming like an odd worry, but it meant a lot to me and felt an important thing to conclude, so it was here I signed off the book.

Inwardly cringing at the late-night entry disturbing my unfortunate roommates, I tossed and turned through another futile effort at a sound sleep, until awakening to the morning fog once more.

Second Day

I woke up late, every task feeling so lethargic and taking longer than it should. Once back on the island (I didn’t pay), I slowly eased into the tranquillity of the day before and continued my meandering, moving through some of the Jewish Quarter. I offered some loose directions to an elderly American couple navigating by paper map before heading south to visit the church from Indiana Jones, converted into a Leonardo da Vinci display, one of various church to artist conversions across the city. Unfortunately because of this I was unable to see that X marks the spot, so carried on eastwards on the south coast under advice that the view onto St Marks Square from across the water was worthwhile. On the edge of the pier, I facetimed my mother to exhibit some of the city, a chat in which I felt I could convey a lot of the reasons to my love of migrating around and the unique happiness it brings me, showing her the streets and canals and having the chaps in the exuberant old Italian sailor dress-code say hi over the phone.  

The short winter day had darkness fall by the time I started returning (I didn’t pay), following the sounds of the night through the mist, a band playing a wonderful jazz/swing mix with trumpets, fast drums, saxophone, and oboe, a juggler on an orange stage, the Carnevale professionals on their way in to party.

I finally had my early night, nicely relaxed in the dorm this time, fully fed on pizza and octopus (separate meals, obviously), plenty water, some sweet snacks. Well-deserved rest.

I considered my time here and debated three questions in particular.

Was my approach the way to do Venice?

That although the meandering and wandering generated a most liberating feeling and a complete peace, I had missed out on some key landmarks and areas that ideally one would want to tick off. Was the trade worth it; tranquillity > tourism?

Have I ever been to a more enchanting place?

It was simply mesmerising to be there, an honour to be part of a city of such exclusivity and individualism, where almost anyone with any faint interest or knowledge in the world outside their homes could view a photo and recognise it is Venice. Such a name and image, somewhat involved in my childhood life through its uniqueness; present in books of the world I read, in shows I’d watch, movies I’d see.

The preservation of the former trading empire; how it survived both World Wars including Operation Bowler on its course to liberation, its historical trading strength at the head of the Adriatic lost to modern times, its logically impractical functions like sinking buildings and susceptibility to storm damage. In spite of all, it continues to be rebuilt and maintained in face of the ever-volatile subject of the Italian economy. So why?

How has Venice stayed intact?

Love.

And the tourism income, which in 2019 alone generated in the ballpark of 3€ billion for the fiscal year. The influx of worldwide visitors happy to pay the high prices goes one hell of a way in the persuasion to pour money into infrastructure.

History is another reason, that one of Italy’s best known historical landmarks has to be maintained for the prestige of the country, an indicator it is still capable and holds status by preserving its rich past, along with the obvious need to not displace 250,000 people.

But love. It has to be considered, that this place is something that humans should want to keep alive. Not everything has to be about practicality and usefulness and power, some things have to come from the heart instead of the mind and Venice felt like one these places to me, being there a balance of wanting to ruefully chuckle and happily cry all at once.

Leaving

3 for 3 on the bad sleep count, I grudgingly packed up, not fully awake nor in the moment whatsoever. I threw on a laundry in the hostel services and went to get a bite to eat nearby, where when calculating out my timing for the airport, I realised I was accounting for an hour that I really just didn’t have, so rushed back out to the hostel and withdrew my clean but wet clothes, folded them at the top of my rucksack so they could air out a little easier, power walked to the railway and made it with roughly 40 seconds to spare following a brief and then aborted wait to access the ticket machine. Remembering the world we live in, I bought a mobile ticket while cornered in the connection between two carriages by six affluent backpackers who despite their freshly ironed designer clothes and spotless boots, clearly hadn’t remembered to pack a stick of deodorant between them and the bodily stench was horrific.

Arriving back to Treviso, the generally untidy course of the day carried on, when the cash-only 4€ bus ticket wasn’t met by my remaining 3.60€ in coins, and the transport industry of Italy took their revenge on my exploitation over the last couple of days by refusing to waive the 40cent difference.

Pulling 20€ from the nearest ATM and getting the next one, an American man ahead of me began suffering from the same cashless fate but naturally, the traveller’s union united and I of course paid for his ticket too. His name was Alan, a super friendly and super qualified anatomy professor on his way to a convention in Helsinki. We chatted bucket-loads enroute to the airport, right through security until my flights last call was ordered and we said farewell. A lovely guy, adding some positivity to an undignified exit.

Standing in the queue, it crept up on me that tomorrow was my birthday, and that I hadn’t really thought about it an awful lot. It certainly felt a bit less cool; I sort of enjoyed saying I’m 23 when I knew I looked a little older. On the whole though, I was excited to be spending it in a foreign country, something different and memorable in comparison to the usual caper I’d get up to, and as it had been when leaving Berlin for Venice, I was eager to be leaving the last few days behind and starting afresh once more.

Two new countries ticked off, number three on its way.