I am an ugly American. I’ve traveled to a foreign land and have such a pitiful understanding of the language. At least I’m not raising my voice constantly under the misguided impression that English spoken at a higher volume is instantly translated and understood, the universal translator as chronicled by amplification.
My basic knowledge of Italian comes from Olive Garden commercials and Robert Benigni Oscar award acceptance speeches.
I’ve landed in Venice and it’s amusing to me how such things taken for granted when in one’s comfort zone/home base take on the stuff of Herculean legend. Simply navigating out of the airport to the bus stop seemed like a victory worthy of at least a few lines from Homer. As is seemingly typical of European countries, the public transport is quite good… although it’s a bit confusing and overwhelming BECAUSE it’s so prevalent. There are seemingly various disparate companies that run different lines and services and although I prepaid for a 7-day travel card, I quickly discovered it’s only for a certain company. Sure, sure… they seemingly offer a variety of modes of transport and routes all over, but I still got yelled out in Italian and dismissively motioned to another bench to wait for ACTV versus whatever company this gentleman was with. The bench by the way was three feet away.
Riding the bus from the Aeroporto to Mestre Train Station supposedly involved 27 stops along the way… or so Google Maps told me. The process brought back memories of the time I convinced Mom to take TheBus in Hawaii out to the Dole Pineapple Plantation. It was a two-hour trip with about a bazillion stops and each one announced by a passenger pressing a button prompting an automated sing-songy voice intoning, “Stop Requested.” You hear “Stop Requested” a bazillion times and you may never fully recover. I hear that voice in my nightmares sometimes.
But there is something perhaps worse than hearing “Stop Requested.” And that’s no indications of when and where stops are happening save for the slow roll of a bus and the occasionally “Whoosh” of the hydraulic doors opening and closing. I thankfully had an offline screengrab of the GoogleMaps route information and so could occasionally puzzle out where I was. A quick glance at a street sign and a check of the 27 stops listing, coupled with the ETA of a 26 minute ride to my stop meant I could run the numbers and sorta see where I was on the list. But I had no idea how to request a stop – the bus didn’t stop unless someone outside flag it down or someone inside, I don’t know, stood up and waved to the driver? I couldn’t puzzle how the driver knew someone onboard wanted off.
I would scan the road signs for indications of which direction “Mestre” was and I noted the bus kept taking the turn offs indicated so I was confident I was on the right track. And Mestre is one of the chief transport hubs so I figured the bus would HAVE to stop… but there was still a nagging sensation in the back of my head, like, “Huh… I could be like that guy in the Kingston Trio song about the MTA – I may never return.”
Twice I thought I might be at Mestre but it was sort of a feint. The station was 5.5 miles from the airport so I could conceivably walked/run there were it not for my overly bulging and therefore overly burdensome bags. I’m also still struggling with the SpaceRock Trail Half Marathon tumble I took. Of course, contorting one’s body into an aircraft seat for hours on end probably didn’t do me any favors. Perhaps a good night’s sleep will help.
The good news is I did find Mestre and from there I did discover how to get to the other side. I’m apparently staying on the wrong side of the tracks… not that the area is any worse than others, just that the bus dropped me off on one side and I couldn’t see how to get across. Eventually I found an underground pedestrian/bike tunnel that featured enough graffiti and smells that it would’ve ben right at home in early 1980s New York City.
I dropped my bag at the Hotel Mondial for a 1 euro charge awaiting my 3 pm checkin and I grabbed what was supposed to be a light lunch… turns out my plan for the fast lunch 10 euro special proved anything but. The salmon was good and I even dug the tiramisu but it was way more food than I needed. I’ve got two hours to kill – I may just wander the neighborhood around here rather than trying to get in some sightseeing in Venice proper. I’m awfully jetlagged and tired and bedraggled.
***
I’m clearly staying in the wrong part of Venice. Having walked in ever expanding concentric circles for the last few hours trying to kill time before check-in, I have yet to see a single canal. Maybe tomorrow when I travel into the heart of the city but as of now, Venice is apparently a lot of industrial park areas and alleys with squat apartment buildings. My hotel, billing itself as conveniently located for the business traveler or tourist, is accurate… if one is in the industrial park game or if one loves seeing urban development commingled with urban housing.
***
I have every confidence I’ll see canals tomorrow but for now, it’s an early, light-ish dinner and an even earlier night. I grabbed two-plus hours of fitful napping to try and restore some lost time but I feel a little worse after waking up. So now I’m an ugly American through and through – I already was having a bad hair month post non-Shaman barber cut, but post-transcontinental and transatlantic flight, flophouse bedhead – well, it’s the stuff of legends all right. Medusa wouldn’t be able to face me… so, success?
And so as the sun sets here in Venice… or I guess I should say Mestre… I voyage into the land of dreams….
Incidentally, this is how the day started oh so many hours ago…
