Italian Escapades
Part 1 of 3: Getting there is half the adventure

Story and photos by KAREN SCHERER

At the end of my semester abroad in the United Kingdom, I decided to embark on a weeklong Italian adventure with my two friends, Erika and Naomi. We organized all the major aspects of the trip before leaving our home away from home, but, as I had come to learn from previous adventures, things don’t always go as planned.

In the interest of traveling cheap, we booked a budget flight out of London’s Stansted Airport at the ass-crack of dawn. Sleep is such a minor sacrifice in the grand scheme of travel—the real hassle is the hour-and-forty-five-minute bus ride it takes to get to the airport from central London. We checked the timetables in advance and knew we had to catch the 3 a.m. bus from Victoria Station to ensure a timely check-in for our flight; and despite our groggy, early-morning dispositions, strolled up to Victoria with plenty of time to find the bus stop labeled ‘Stansted Airport,’ and confirm with the people waiting there that we were, in fact, in the right spot.

Our trip was off to a smooth start—or so we thought.

In retrospect, we made two major mistakes at this early hour: 1. Assuming the ‘Stansted Airport’ sign marked the pick-up point for the 24-hour airport shuttle. Although I’m still not sure what the sign was for, it clearly wasn’t where we needed to be. 2. Assuming the random people we met at the bus stop knew more than we did.

An hour later we realized the actual bus stop was not outside Victoria, but a block away in a separate station, and it would be another 40 minutes before the next bus left. With the stress of our rapidly deteriorating situation starting to take its toll, the driver promised he would get us there on time—and damned if he didn’t try! He waited ‘til his scheduled departure time and then sped through London, flying past bus stops while frantic travelers waived their arms and ran after, dragging luggage behind them. He stopped for the more persistent ones. Unfortunately, we arrived at the airport five minutes before our flight took off, which was about 55 minutes too late. We missed the flight and spent the next eight hours on airport benches, curled around our backpacks, trying to catch up on sleep.

Our smooth start had hit turbulence, but that bus driver still rocks my socks off.

Eventually we boarded our newly arranged flight and landed safely at Venice Treviso Airport. It was nearing dusk already, so when the waterbus driver said he would take British pounds, we didn’t bother exchanging any currency into Euros before hopping on the boat.

Venice travel tip #1: Whatever currency you plan on using to pay the waterbus driver, make sure you have it in bills, because they don’t take coins. While this isn’t much of a problem with American dollars, it’s an issue with euros and pounds since their coinage comes in much higher denominations. Without using coins, we didn’t have enough money to pay the fare, and found ourselves becoming ‘those annoying travelers’ who cause a hassle for everyone around them. The driver had to make a special stop for us at an ATM, which extended the length of our ride, as well as the fare we needed to pay. Feeling defeated by the Venetian waterways, we declined the fare ride back to the Rialto Bridge, and took our chances on foot.

Venetian travel tip #2: The narrow, winding Venetian walkways are far less daunting than they appear. The lack of what most Americans deem ‘major roads’ may scare you away from navigating the city by foot. But, seriously, a map and a logical sense of direction is all you need to take on this town. The locals are friendly and willing to point you in the right direction, as long as you have an address for your final destination. Plus, you get to enjoy all the charm of Venetian window-shopping—something you miss while floating down the waterways. Of course, if you have the money for a gondola ride down the Grand Canal, spend it!

Venetian travel tip #3: Don’t stay at the B&B Rota. After wandering the walkways, lit up with brilliant white Christmas lights and teaming with holiday shoppers, we rounded the corner onto the street where our hostel was supposedly located. That was the real low point—in every sense; the moment I saw that building, with its rotting façade and boarded-up windows, my shoulders slumped, my stomach sank, my jaw dropped and the optimism I’d held onto thus far was flushed down the toilet.

After the initial shock wore off, I pulled myself together and asked the woman in the corner pastry shop if we were on the right street. With a nod, she confirmed my fear: we were on the right street, but she had never heard of the B&B Rota. It wasn’t that I was concerned about the late hour or lack of shelter, but I had booked the hostel online, and that meant my credit card information was now floating around cyberspace. This realization initiated a string of profane language the likes of which rival most Quentin Tarantino movies.

Erika and Naomi mentally retraced our journey from the waterbus, trying to recall any hotels or hostels we’d passed along the way, while I desperately tried to convince myself this was still going to work out. Referring back to my printed-out directions, I read over the description again: “We are located at 1699 calle dei Boteri, next to Waterworld. Ring the bell for B&B Rota when you arrive.” I looked up again, and saw it. Hanging on the building directly in front of me was a faded, maroon sign that said, “WATERWORLD.” My eyes wandered timidly to the building on the right, stopping on what appeared to be a doorbell. I was so distracted by the dilapidated structure that I hadn’t even noticed it before. I walked up to the door and stood staring in disbelief; the buzzer in front of me was labeled B&B Rota. Before pushing the buzzer, I found myself trying to decide which was worse: booking a hostel that didn’t exist, or one that looked like this.

The girls were urging me to give it up. “Karen, let’s …” but before Naomi could finish her sentence, the lock clicked and the door popped open. For the second time that night, our jaws hit the floor.

It was like a scene from Scooby Doo—one at a time we poked our heads through the crack in the door. Cement blocks and bags of who knows what were stacked on the ground floor, and a rickety stairway lead up to a door on the second level where a middle-aged Italian man was looking down at us.

Yes, the B&B Rota does exist, and the guy that runs it is actually quite nice, but there is no hot water or heat, the beds are wafer thin and the whole place looked like it was about to collapse. This is, of course, after you get past the frightening exterior.

Venetian travel tip #4: Don’t rush through. Even though I’ve technically been to Venice, I don’t feel like I really experienced it. Granted, we lost an entire day with the flight fiasco, but even if we’d made the sunrise departure I don’t think it would have been enough. The biggest mistake most travelers make is underestimating the time it takes to get to and around a city. I’m just as guilty as the next person. Sadly, Venice wasn’t the first, or the last time I left a city feeling like I’d missed too much, and would have to come back. But first, it was off to Florence...

To be continued.