The Runaway Cook

Note to all travelers staying in hostels. It is no longer the flirtatious smile and innocent giggle that can save you money at your next point of rest. Rather it is bringing lost travelers to your host who end up staying where you were that please him enough to take 23 Euro off your bill. That's right folks. I happened to meet four young travelers on the train from Verona to Venice in the wee hours of the morning and told them about the superb location and bathrooms of my hostel. They needed a place to stay and I brought them back with me. After a short conversation with the owner he decided to knock off a night from my bill. YES!

So what have we learned my friend. That even at 4am it is vital to talk to the traveler next to you, they just might get you where you need to go or save you a few bucks!

To the left are the steps of the station and that bridge is the one we crossed to get to the hostel

Walk to far from the steps of the strain station and you fall right in. Shimmering and sloshing in its winding path, the Grand Canal more than grand. It's magnificent and surreal. Walking over these bridges every few feet and skipping along the seams of water and stones, I feel like I'm merely floating on the pearly green water.

My hostel happens to be just across from the train station, which means crossing a very tall bridge over the canal. I'm perfectly fine with a small hike up and down, but at this point my feet are half-dead, torn, and worn out more than my shoes. That, and the fact that this very large suitcase of gifts and belongings is as heavy as a middle schooler are going to mean trouble for me.

Luckily I am meeting my new friend from Norway who goes by "Peter" (an easier version of the norwegian counterpart)  has been patiently waiting for my train to arrive. I think I was more happy to see him standing there with is silly hat and dark shades than I was to eat my dinner that evening. I admit that one of my dreams is to have someone actually waiting for me at an airport or train station. Believe it or not, with all this traveling and even flying back and forth to school I rarely see someone waiting at the edge of the steps. So this occaision was more than a relief. To top that, this strapping man took my load of stuff and carried it over the Grand Canal and up the stairs to our hostel. What a peach!

At this point, I have officially entered heaven as he continues to tell me his "plan" for us. He explains he has scouted out Venice and the attractions a bit and states, "Tonight, we see the city and tomorrow we go to the beach."

I am floored at how prepared my buddy is. All signs of exhaustion have left me as well as my plan of a long shower and early bedtime. I mean who wouldn't want to take a late afternoon walk on the water?


Photos from other sources: http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1308/917931481_56bc104728.jpg
thewalkerhomeplace.com

"No, don't tell us!"  He almost shrieked from across the train table with an almost cocky twinkle in his eye.

"Yeah, let us guess." Chimed in the man to my right

"Ok, fine" I blushed with a sigh.

They grinned together with a suspicious low hum of a "hmmmm" and eyebrows raised. Names soon flew out of their mouths in an attempt to discover mine. Some were flattering and that you'd expect a mysterious woman to own up to as hers, while others were silly what I'm hoping were just ridiculous jokes. Alas, neither of the men could guess my name.  The decision was made to narrow down the selection of possible names by guessing my heritage and going from there. Again "alas," as they too sucked at guessing that. I eventually had to clue them in on my mainly Norwegian and German blood.

"Helga? Olga? . . . No, I've got it! INGA!"

"Really? Inga?" I raised my eyebrow and took a swig of milk.

"Oh Yeah!"

The gentleman across from me then explained that Inga was a name for only gorgeous women and I should be in want for such a name. I laughed and I tried my best to work on journaling that was past due. But their playful interrogations continued. I think it was shortly after they found out my name was Elizabeth, that yellow button-up to my right went back to what I assume had something to do with a business. However, the smarmy man sitting opposite me gave himself up as James Biss a Canadian magician. (I'm not lying. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried!)

After revealing his name and occupation, the interrogations swapped. I begged him to tell me some sort of illusion. I insisted that revealing his secrets to me couldn't hurt. I mean who was I going to tell. And I had some questions about an illusion I had seen/been part of last fall.

"Only if you promise not to tell a single soul!"
"Ok, hahaha I won't"
"Repeat after me. I promise . . ."
"I promise"
"Not to reveal the secret"

A photo from that day I received from Magic Man

"Not to reveal the secret"
"Of what I'm 'a-boot' to learn"
"Of what I'm about to learn"
"Even if I am tortured"
"Even if I am tortured"
"Tickled"
"Tickled"
"Or given treats"
"Whahahahatttt? Hehehehehehehe . . . .(he glared) . .eh-hem ok, or given treats"

What was that secret you wonder? Well, you'll just have to keep wondering.

 I haven't told a single soul and I'm not about to reveal the mysterious ways of a seasoned, and if I might add, dishy, Canadian magician I met on the train to Bologna.

photo from http://www.destination360.com/europe/italy/images/s/italy-trains.jpg

Snap! Whoa, oh shoot, you nearly fell asleep again. Ok so what was that sound? Snap! ohhhhh-hoo-ho, it's paint. Look at the ceiling over there, it's covered in the curling dandruff of old off-white-colored paint that seems to be randomly falling to the ground. Wow that last piece was pretty big, and it happened to land right next to that also "pretty big" bug in pacing in the crease where the clammy wall meets the dirty floor.