Kate Hennessy : Freelance Writer

October 16, 2008: Train

From the cheesy heart of Italy’s most romantic city, straight into the belly of the Eastern European beast. Train from Venice to Budapest, via Vienna. 8AM departure from Venice, 10PM arrival in Budapest. With peeps of alps along the way!

The train from Venice to Vienna was a dream. Comfortable, scenic and smooth with smatterings of perfect, yellow, Austrian houses ensconsed in perfect, grassy-green Austrian villages. Amusement came in the form of the refreshments cart, manned by a young guy so tall he had to practically fold himself around the trolley in order to inch it down the aisle. The English translations on the menu were begging to be parodied aloud in a thick Austrian accent. I knew it was bad form to find the superficialities of other cultures funny but I was only there for a day and couldn’t be bothered thinking too much about it. Stereotypes would do.

The underwhelming settlement of BRUCK.

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October 15, 2008

Whilst searching for the Italian word for breakfast in my phrase book I kept stumbling on a chapter called ‘Making Friends’. Alas, most of these phrases would make even the blandest of tourists seem utterly deranged. Atop the list was the statement “What weather!”, or “Che tempo!” (presumably applicable to weather both foul and favourable.)

Ah, it made me laugh … the image of me strolling across the Venisian canals, declaring to all and sundry “Che tempo, my friends, che tempo!” Somehow I doubt I would make friends as the phrase book promised. I would likely end up at the bottom of a canal.

October 14, 2008

There was no clock in my Milan hotel room. By the time I hauled myelf out of bed, determined to take advantage of my free breakfast and hightail it to Venice, it was late morning. That much I could tell from the sun but I didn´t know how late. When I burst into the dining room downstairs the waitress spun around and began chastising me in rapid-fire Italian.

“What do you want?” asked the desk concierge from behind me.

“Um, Breakfast.” I replied in English, red-faced.

“It is 11:30,” he said coldly, actually looking me up and down. “Checkout is in half an hour,” he also thought it necessary to add. Needless to say, I didn´t tell him I had frittered away a precious 30 minutes upstairs in my room, searching for the Italian word for breakfast in my phrase book. I was only in Italy for 2 days, so hadn´t bothered learning Italian but for some reason it seemed important not to completely mangle my first conversation here. “Dove (insert Italian word for breakfast) per favore?” would be a brilliant way to start. Alas, I couldn´t find it anywhere in the book so hunger overcame the plan. Hunger prevailed as I returned un-fed to my room to pack for Venice.