I woke up after a SOLID night of sleep (I’m talking 7-8 hours for the first time all week) thanks to another guest in my AirBnb giving me some magnesium to help knock me out. Boy, did that stuff work. She said it was called “Calm” or something like that. Can find it at Trader Joe’s. I’m going to need to get some of that. It was a white powder, activated with hot water. Honestly, it looked like drugs, but hey. I needed sleep.

I get to the train station and this time, there was no ridiculous delay in my train…I checked before leaving. There are so many helpful travel apps to use while abroad; maybe I’ll make a separate post about those.
Hop on my train a little after 10AM and find that there is no working wifi, unlike the first train. 2 hours without wifi isn’t terrible, but it does make writing these blogs a bit more difficult. Enter: notepad for HP. The crappiest application for formatting, but it gets the job done.

We roll through the country side of Tuscany and it really was lovely to watch through the window. I think I’ve fallen in love with transit by trains. It’s so much more relaxing than trying to drive anywhere. Plus, there are cappuccinos on board. 🙂

We get to the island of Venice, crossing a bridge low over the water. I missed water. I always forget just how much I love the ocean until I see it, again. It’s 12:30PM and time to find my AirBnb. Lucky for me, this one was a mere 5 minute walk and 3-turns from the station. Halleulujah! I entered the code into the lockbox and surprise…there are no keys. Okay. So, I buzz the appropriate room and thankfully, the gate unlocks and I follow the rest of the instructions to the building. I open a heavy door and an older lady greets me in heavy Italian at the top of the staircase. Ah…3 flights of stairs and no elevator. This is actually the norm in the older Italian buildings. So, if you’re traveling here, travel LIGHT. I can comfortably carry my luggage and backpack up the stairs. I “check-in” with the lady and try to understand her broken English. I pay the tourist tax and settle into my room. I needed to change and get ready to explore. I do wonder what I’m supposed to do about keys, though, when I hear another couple checking in. The lady was asking them where the keys were and they were trying to explain that they didn’t have any keys aside from the room key they were just given. It sounded tense because the pair were having a hard time communicating through the language barrier.

The lady turns down the hall and I whip out my google translate app and type:
“I also need keys to the apartment.” English to Italian, please.
She reads the Italian translation and tells me to just buzz the room and she’ll let me up.

I mention the app to the guy walking down the hall who had just had the encounter and tell him it really helps when you’re unable to communicate. He thanked me heavily and immediately told his girlfriend about getting it.

Now to explore!

I grab a nice big slice of pizza, ricotta and spinach, to start. I attempt to order in Italian at the little bar and he tells me it’s pretty good! Also encourages me to try and say how much it costs in Italian. I follow through and he smiles. Italians REALLY appreciate when you attempt their language. Don’t be that American that refuses to learn common courtesies and conversational phrases. Embrace the unknown and ask how to say things if you can!

I spent the next few hours just walking, crossing bridges over small canals, and turning down alleyways away from the crowds of people. There are a lot of little shops and markets trying to sell souvenirs to tourists. I tend to walk past them and not get talked to, which I’m okay with. While turning down all the little streets, I eventually find myself at the Rialto Bridge! A very well known bridge, as it was one of the first built to cross the Grand Canal in Venice. It is lined with shops, similar to Ponte Vecchio, and I know better this time. I walk on the exterior to cross it, stopping to ask yet another fellow tourist for a few pictures.

After walking an hour, finishing my pizza, and letting it settle, I aim to find a place to try my first Aperol Spritz. I’ve read they’re “a thing” in Italy and I needed to at least try one.

Eh. Not my favorite.

It has a pretty color but a strange, almost citrus(?) aftertaste. For 5.50 euros, I was a little disappointed, but hey. I can say I’ve tried it.

I now set out to find Libreria Acqua Alta, the library on the canal that regularly floods. The owner keeps the important books elevated in bath tubs, old gondolas, and the like to keep them safe! It really was such a charming store, lined end to end with books, posters, and more. Immediately upon walking up, I find a post card and a print that I like. I head to the back of the store for a couple classically tourist pictures on the large stacks of books they’ve placed for photo ops.

(when did I get so many visible tattoos?)

I also run into a few of the cats that run the place. This is Tiger.

Next, onto the World Heritage Site: St. Mark’s Square. I wasn’t planning on going into the Basilica, as it was already past 5PM. The square was busy with tourists, some of which were (illegally) feeding the pigeons. I quieted the Environmental Educator in me and just enjoyed watching them freak out a bit when the pigeon would get through the gelato cone and start pecking at their bare hands.

I passed by more little market carts and eyed a shirt that I liked. One cart listed it for 20 euros. Another for 15. I walk past a third cart and see it without a price tag. I look at it and the owner tells me to pull it off the cart to get a better look, and that an XS would probably fit. I ask the price. 10 euros. Sold. We talk for a moment. His name is Matteo. A local from Venice. He tells me that there are only 50,000 pure Venetians living on the island and he was proud to be one. After a few minutes, he invites me to come back around to the square in about an hour and that he’d be closing up and would love to buy some wine and talk about my travels/Venice. Maybe, I say. We say our goodbyes and I get back to walking along the water.

I end up walking down a ways and watching the gondolas row up and down the canals. For 80 euros a boat, it wasn’t feasible to enjoy a ride. Next time, I’m taking someone with me to Venice and we can split it. I watch the sun set and the colors paint the sky. I sit to relax and enjoy it all.
I think I’m in love.

I walk back towards the square. What’s the harm in drinking some wine and getting to know a local? We’d be in a public space and he was super polite and non-threatening. I walk towards his cart. He sees me and exclaims, “you came back! I’ll close up now.” He grabs me a glass of wine from a nearby restaurant that he says his cousin works in and I sit and sip while we talk and he packs away all of his merchandise. He has bags and hooks and bungees and it really is an ordeal. I ask him how long he works every day, how he gets all of his stuff around, etc. 8 or 9AM until 6. He says, “you have a car? I have a boat!” I ask him about his job and if he enjoys it. He tells me that he studied for 5 years to be an electrician, and that this was just a side income, the family side of business. He hopes to supplement with it but aims to work more with electrican jobs, especially in the quiet of winter. He told me that he learned English (he spoke it fairly well, with an Italian accent) in school, but that he also spoke Portuguese and Spanish. A little German. Enough to sell things. He apologizes for “wasting my time” as he is stopped by tourists while closing as they inquire about pieces. I tell him I don’t mind. I don’t have plans to be anywhere.

He finally closes and rolls his 300 kg (what’s that in lbs?) cart over to another restaurant. Goes inside and comes back out with more wine. The waiter offers us potatoes? I’m confused. He brings over chips. Ah, yes. It’s aperitivo, or happy hour, in Italy. A drink comes with some kind of snack food. At this point, I’m pretty hungry. We chat about politics (we both detest Trump, so that’s good) and how the government in Italy compares to America. I eat a lot of chips to offset the second glass of white wine. We finish and he says that he needs to roll his cart over to a storage space and then we could find dinner. GOOD — I’m starving. He squeezes his cart through small alleyways, asking for people to watch out so that he doesn’t run over any feet. Opens up a door and there are a solid 4-5 other carts inside. I ask more questions about if they all work together or compete, or how the market carts work. He says that they’re usually run by families, uncles, cousins, etc. But everyone keeps their own money. He also asked if I wanted to see some paperwork or identification (he already showed me his ID with his face and name on it, earlier)…oops. Haha. I’m just curious!

We stop into a restaurant next door and the food looks goooood. The people behind the bar know him and I can tell that they comment on his company. We grab more wine and he orders us some food. I mentioned earlier that I was mainly vegetarian but that I do eat locally caught fish. He tells me that the fish in Venice is some of the best. We head upstairs, sit down with our wine, and talk some more. We talk about agriculture and farming in Italy after I tell him about my meat ordering oops from Florence. He eventually goes downstairs to grab us antipasti (appetizer) because the pasta was probably going to be a bit. He comes back with two small slices of pizza and moments later…the pasta arrives. It was joined by some olive oil, salt, and pepper. Octopus, clams, and some other mussel. It was all VERY good and I was glad to have let him order. We end up talking about relationships as he mentions that he just ended a 6-year one. I relay my recent ending one of 3.5 years. We talk about what was good and bad in them. It’s at this point that he starts to really compliment me and I divert, bringing the conversation back to general topics. We finish food and head back to unplug his cash register from the wall in the unit. It was here that things got a bit tense.

I asked where all of the merchandise was from. “You don’t wanna know…….China.” I laughed. I figured as much. He wasn’t proud. We were about finished in the little unit. He goes to ask for a hug and I didn’t feel uncomfortable with it because I had just spent the last 2.5 hours or so with him and he hadn’t made me uncomfortable.

Until he moved my hair when I went to hug him and kissed my neck.

Woah. No. No, thank you. I pull away and I tell him that I wasn’t interested in that and I was happy for the friendship and conversation. He replies with things about how attractive he found me and that it was just kissing. Nope. Wasn’t having it. He tried once more and I stood my ground. I paid him for half of what dinner cost and told him that if he wanted to be friends, we could do that. But I wasn’t interested in anything else.

This was a terrifying moment for me. I’m in a foreign country, 110 lbs soaking wet, with a man I didn’t know who was almost double my size. We were in a quiet alcove off the street with the door mostly closed. I had no idea what his reaction was going to be and it could’ve been very, very dangerous for me.

I was incredibly fortunate that he was just disappointed. He apologized, gave me his number for if I had other questions about Venice, and we walked out of the unit. He smoked his cigarette and I told him that although I was glad for the evening, I didn’t mean to give him any other impressions. He looked sad, told me that he guessed he was going to walk to his boat and go home. I say my goodbye and turn down another road to head back across the island. 30 minutes to my AirBnB.

The entire walk home, I was on edge. I kind of felt like I wanted to scrub my neck. Was it my fault? Did I encourage it through spending the time talking and drinking with him? Should I have spent any time with him at all in the first place? My mind was racing, it was dark, and I was alone through small alleyways.

No. I ended the rampage of thoughts of the “my fault” bullshit and told myself that it wasn’t MY fault that he overstepped my personal comfort and did something without asking. No matter what the situation or where we were, it was never an invitation for that behavior. It wasn’t my fault. And I was going to be okay.

I finally make it back to my AirBnb. I go through all 4 of the gates/doors until finally locking mine behind me and laying in bed. I call Omar and tell him about my day, including what had just happened. He’s supportive and comforting and I’m really very thankful. He helped calm my mind a bit and I got ready for bed.

Disclaimer: it’s never your fault if something happens to you and it’s because of someone else’s actions. Never. Don’t think twice. No one is entitled to do what they want to you or with you without your consent. Don’t you forget it.

I’m choosing to still look back on my first night in Venice as a good one. I get that power.