I needed almost a week to recover from my day trip to Bratislava (or rather, from the night of drinking on either side of it), because I was ill and alternated between working and sleeping for a few days. Then I went to the cinema to see the King's Speech (for the third time) and was forced to spend an entire day talking about it with my classes - you can only imagine how difficult I found that. (Anyone who didn't notice the sarcasm there should refer to the part where I said that it was the third time I saw the film). And then it was time to leave the country again!
This time, the destination was Venice, a city I will have to resist the temptation to wax lyrical about because it is one of my favourite cities in thes world. So first, I will talk about the train ride. I was already prepared for the joys of overnight trains by my experiences in Russia, and scanned my compartment (full of strangers, as I was still a sad lonely girl with virtually no friends at this point) for my future companions Man Who Snores Like A Trucker and Drunk Guy Who Just Wants To Share His Cigarettes. (And if you don't recognise this characters, then you should have been paying closer attention to my Vologda entry. Or you could just go on an overnight train journey yourself. Trust me, you'll meet them.) However, before these characters could put in an appearance, I had to sample the delights of the party wagon. Yes, that's right, a party wagon. The ESN (Erasmus Student Network) had obviously been feeling guilty for charging us 120 euros for our tickets, because they decided to have a disco car with free drinks for everybody all night. The result was essentially Klute on wheels, and the one thing I can say for it was that at least the stickiness of the floor kept us from falling over as the train jolted from side to side. The alcohol also helped everyone sleep on the uncomfortable train beds, everyone who wasn't still up at 6am singing 'Duck Sauce', that is.
Venice, where we arrived at 8am the next morning, was carnage. For Carnevale (which, if you haven't already made the connection, is Italian for 'carnival') thousands of tourists descend on the city and wander through the already maze-like streets, making it all the more easy to get lost (which I did, on the way back to the station at the end of the day, thanks to some crazy Argentinian students who I decided to take directions from). And then there was the actual carnival part. Masked figures, lots and lots of masked figures. They appeared at random out of the crowds, mingled, posed for photos, climbed lampposts (and no, none of this is a lie). By the evening they were joined by drunken tourists, some of whom had their own costumes, among them a frighteningly realistic Jigsaw lookalike and a troupe of Mexicans in giant sombreros. These aforementioned drunks gave St. Mark's Square a slightly different atmosphere as they capered around madly, serenaded by a buxom opera singer of dubious sexuality and/or gender. Had I been drinking I might have been sorry to leave the scene, but as it was I was only too happy to return to the station, and collapse exhausted on my couchette. And ten hours later I was back in Vienna, significantly more alive than those who had gone to bed only an hour before arriving, but still more than ready to take a power nap in my lovely double bed. Couchettes are all very well, but when your legs are as impossibly long as mine, you'll find it hard to get a decent night's sleep on one.
Venice, where we arrived at 8am the next morning, was carnage. For Carnevale (which, if you haven't already made the connection, is Italian for 'carnival') thousands of tourists descend on the city and wander through the already maze-like streets, making it all the more easy to get lost (which I did, on the way back to the station at the end of the day, thanks to some crazy Argentinian students who I decided to take directions from). And then there was the actual carnival part. Masked figures, lots and lots of masked figures. They appeared at random out of the crowds, mingled, posed for photos, climbed lampposts (and no, none of this is a lie). By the evening they were joined by drunken tourists, some of whom had their own costumes, among them a frighteningly realistic Jigsaw lookalike and a troupe of Mexicans in giant sombreros. These aforementioned drunks gave St. Mark's Square a slightly different atmosphere as they capered around madly, serenaded by a buxom opera singer of dubious sexuality and/or gender. Had I been drinking I might have been sorry to leave the scene, but as it was I was only too happy to return to the station, and collapse exhausted on my couchette. And ten hours later I was back in Vienna, significantly more alive than those who had gone to bed only an hour before arriving, but still more than ready to take a power nap in my lovely double bed. Couchettes are all very well, but when your legs are as impossibly long as mine, you'll find it hard to get a decent night's sleep on one.
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