8:00 p.m.
True Story: The Worst Trip to Milan Ever
We started the day by taking a trip to Verona, and stealing lots of breadsticks from the restaurant where we had lunch so that we'd have food to eat later on. After seeing La Casa di Guilietta (Juliet's house), a great big ol' statue of Dante Alighieri, and lots of Roman ruins, we ran to catch a train to Milan (and we literally had to run).
Several hours later, we were in Milan, and not really sure where we were going. Having been in fair Italy for all of a week (maybe two), our Italian wasn't that great, so when we asked a man who didn't speak English for directions to the hostel we planned to stay in, it was inevitable that we'd get completely lost.
We did. Lost, miserable, hungry, and, spoiled by Venice's lack of cars, we had a couple of near-misses with oncoming traffic, because we'd already forgotten how to cross the street. After finally getting directions, we found the hostel, only to almost be refused service because a couple of people had left their passports back in their apartment in Venice. Fortunately, one of our friends, Melissa, doesn't know how to take no for an answer, and she talked our way into a room.
Three bunk beds. Really loud springs that filled the entire room with noise anytime anyone dared to do anything more than take a shallow breath. Sleep was impossible for hours, but finally, tiredness won.
Left in the morning, tired and still kind of hungry (the place did provide tea and rolls -- you know, continental). Decided we wanted to see two things -- the cathedral (pictured here) and Da Vinci's Last Supper. Found out, when we got to the church where the Last Supper is housed that you have to get on a waiting list. But charming the doorman wasn't that hard, so we managed to get on the list for 1:00.
Wandered the city, saw the cathedral, got hot and tired and argumentative, Melissa bought some Versace sunglasses, we saw The Last Supper (definitely worthwhile), and then, after getting into some kind of bitchfest argument outside of Benetton, we went to the train station to go home.
Couldn't find a seat on the train to save our lives. Ended up sitting in the dining car. Got home and bought a pizza and ate it, ripping it apart with our bare hands because we were seriously hungry, and there's no point standing on ceremony. I got the bright idea that I knew a better way home than everybody else, and for some dumb reason, they all followed me. Venice is the easiest city in the world to get lost in before you learn the tricks of following the signs to major landmarks and navigating your way from there. Everybody got mad at me. The girls who lived in the apartment behind l'Accademia museum got home, and Emily (yes, my wife Emily) and I started our sojourn back to our apartment on Via Garibaldi.
It was late. It was pouring rain. The vaporetto stopped running one stop before it got to ours. Said "fuck it" and started walking home in the downpour. We'd bought this huge, cheap bottle of wine that tasted what I imagine gasoline must taste like, and we passed it back and forth as we trudged to our apartment.
When we finally got home, we were wet, tired, and rather miserable, but after changing into dry clothes and finishing off the bottle of wine, we were sure we'd had a really, really good weekend.
We started the day by taking a trip to Verona, and stealing lots of breadsticks from the restaurant where we had lunch so that we'd have food to eat later on. After seeing La Casa di Guilietta (Juliet's house), a great big ol' statue of Dante Alighieri, and lots of Roman ruins, we ran to catch a train to Milan (and we literally had to run).
Several hours later, we were in Milan, and not really sure where we were going. Having been in fair Italy for all of a week (maybe two), our Italian wasn't that great, so when we asked a man who didn't speak English for directions to the hostel we planned to stay in, it was inevitable that we'd get completely lost.
We did. Lost, miserable, hungry, and, spoiled by Venice's lack of cars, we had a couple of near-misses with oncoming traffic, because we'd already forgotten how to cross the street. After finally getting directions, we found the hostel, only to almost be refused service because a couple of people had left their passports back in their apartment in Venice. Fortunately, one of our friends, Melissa, doesn't know how to take no for an answer, and she talked our way into a room.
Three bunk beds. Really loud springs that filled the entire room with noise anytime anyone dared to do anything more than take a shallow breath. Sleep was impossible for hours, but finally, tiredness won.
Left in the morning, tired and still kind of hungry (the place did provide tea and rolls -- you know, continental). Decided we wanted to see two things -- the cathedral (pictured here) and Da Vinci's Last Supper. Found out, when we got to the church where the Last Supper is housed that you have to get on a waiting list. But charming the doorman wasn't that hard, so we managed to get on the list for 1:00.
Wandered the city, saw the cathedral, got hot and tired and argumentative, Melissa bought some Versace sunglasses, we saw The Last Supper (definitely worthwhile), and then, after getting into some kind of bitchfest argument outside of Benetton, we went to the train station to go home.
Couldn't find a seat on the train to save our lives. Ended up sitting in the dining car. Got home and bought a pizza and ate it, ripping it apart with our bare hands because we were seriously hungry, and there's no point standing on ceremony. I got the bright idea that I knew a better way home than everybody else, and for some dumb reason, they all followed me. Venice is the easiest city in the world to get lost in before you learn the tricks of following the signs to major landmarks and navigating your way from there. Everybody got mad at me. The girls who lived in the apartment behind l'Accademia museum got home, and Emily (yes, my wife Emily) and I started our sojourn back to our apartment on Via Garibaldi.
It was late. It was pouring rain. The vaporetto stopped running one stop before it got to ours. Said "fuck it" and started walking home in the downpour. We'd bought this huge, cheap bottle of wine that tasted what I imagine gasoline must taste like, and we passed it back and forth as we trudged to our apartment.
When we finally got home, we were wet, tired, and rather miserable, but after changing into dry clothes and finishing off the bottle of wine, we were sure we'd had a really, really good weekend.
