Venice Viaggio a Venezia da Praga

Walking through frozen half-melted snow, I finally arrive at Prague railway station before seven o’clock. As I enter the station I hear those four wonderful chords from “Ma Vlast’ which herald each mundane announcement. You cannot get more ‘pro patria’ than that; in a railway station, that is. So unusually, I begin my diary entry with two pieces of music from ‘Ma Vlast’ where these chords can be heard most clearly at the end of each piece. The first video still gets to me. The film ‘Kolya’, showing, among other things, how ‘non believers’ were treated by the Bolshevik setup, shows a returned Kubelik walking around the Czech Phil asking, “Do you remember me?” So here he is conducting that orchestra shortly after he crossed back across the border from Bavaria. It’s ‘Moldau’ or ‘Vltava’ as we normally call it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LlLPLO90fSk
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k0lPLOeBzyA&feature=related
You hear the four chords a number of times at the end of ‘Moldau” but in ‘Blanik’, they are more disguised but still at the end. Here’s ‘Blanik’.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tMz9mXR9zIA
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qPTU0WSUF-k&feature=related
But “dulcius pro patria vivere, et dulcissimum pro patria bibere. Ergo, bibamus pro salute patriae” so Pilsner Urquell to the rescue!!!!!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y8QhaBQ7Dbg

Enough of that, you might say. But the name of the train I am catching is ‘Smetana’!!!! And the only beer, or anything else for that matter, the train ‘bistro’ carries is draught Pilsner Urquell which costs one euro a large glass!! (We’re still in the Czech Republic!!)

You cannot get on this train without booking a ticket and, in true Russian tradition I suppose, we are all seated next to each other in just one coach. All the others are empty. I move and pretend to misunderstand when the conductor asks me for my reservation ticket. I show him my fare ticket and he shrugs. Then he goes on his way.

I take all my remaining Czech money to the train ‘bistro’ and present it to the ladies in charge. They count it and confer. They work out that, if I buy a large bottle of wine and a small bottle, it will come to exactly one crown less than the amount I have. Embarressed, I present the one crown (four cents) to the lady running the bar and she thanks me for it!!!

The ‘Smetana’ is similar to an Italian Eurostar train but it appears to run more smoothly. The countryside snow is already clearing so it looks as though Spring cannot be far away. After four hours of countryside and a few cities, we enter the suburbs of Vienna and stop at Simmering, where the U3 underground line starts. This is because of the chaos caused by the rebuilding of one of the main stations. I get off at the next stop which is Miedling.

I’ve managed to book tickets as far as Villach but was unable to get tickets from Villach on to Venice. I approach a ticket office lady and she hands me a sheet full of official atamps and signatures. All the computers of Austrian Railways have broken down”, she says. “I cannot sell anybody any tickets and I am very bored!! But I have been told to give these sheets out.” I presume that the sheet will protect anybody getting on a train without a ticket, a serious offence in Europe normally.

So I return to the platform and await the arrival of another hotshot train which looks pretty normal to me. But it’s a more exciting journey up into the mountains. In fact, where the train rides along the valley side extremely high up, it is positively scary, but always beautiful. After another four hours we ride alongside an enormous lake before drawing into Villach, almost on the border with Italy.

Unfortunately I have to spend the night here as there is no onward transport until about midnight and I’m not up for that. So I book into a very boring hotel and walk around the town and take a few photos. I do a little shopping in the local BILLA and have a protein supper in my room enjoying Italian and Austrian television programmes.

Next morning, I peek out of the window and see a road completely covered in snow. This does not daunt me so I take a snowy morning walk as is my wont. Snow ploughs are out and shop keepers are busy clearing the snow as is their wont. My bus does not go until almost eleven o’clock so I have plenty of time to enjoy this fairly small town. I am not tempted to hop on the ski shuttle as it looks like a white-out on the mountain.

I return to my boring hotel and walk across the road to the bus station to catch my two-decker Austrian Railways postbus to Venice. A lot of the smaller buses have chains on their wheels so it must be fairly awful higher up. But we are heading down a beautiful and spectacular moterway through many tunnels and across many bridges down to Udine (pronounced almost but not exactly like the escapologist). On the way down, it was impossible to see any high mountains because of the steep valley sides but, as we leave them behind, we can see the lower slopes of some rather spectacular ranges. After Udine, it is a fast run all the way to Venice.

As we approach Venice, the snow begins to fall very thickly with large flakes. Going across to the island, which is Venice, it is rather weird because we know there is water either side of us but we can see nothing. Arriving in Piazzale Roma presents some problems because I have to find my way to my small cheap hotel (with WI-Fi of course!!).

If you book through an agency, or even if you don’t, they will give you an online map with all their hotels marked on it. I find hotel names are the best way to navigate through areas I do not know because hotels will always display their names whereas sometimes street names, or path names in Venice. are not always displayed where you need them.

So I wander around in the mist and falling snow looking for any hotel names. And I find one!!! I then look for the for a hotel whose name I recognise from the map. I find one! Then I see the next one and so on until I arrive at my hotel.

The hotel I have booked makes me think I have encountered a time warp in all that snow. (In those films where that sort thing happens, there is always some sort of atmospherical disturbance or other before the hero enters a restaurant in the middle of nowhere and finds out eventually that he’s dead?) It’s a very thin hotel but goes back a long way from the path. On either side of the room are two exactly similar reception desks. The left hand desk is where the manager runs the place. The right hand desk is where reception and internet duties are performed. But there is only one wizened man who looks awfully nineteenth century to me. This man spends his time in the left hand desk then nips across to the other desk when I turn up.

“You are room 25”, he tells me and hands me one of those keys with a dongle which must weigh about a kilo. It’s a beautful object cast in bronze descorated around the side with a huge “25” embossed into a gold centrepiece. It weighs this much to stop people walking out of the hotel with it in their pockets. If they did, I’m sure their pockets wouldn’t last long.

“When does breakfast start and stop?” I ask. “Breakfast is at eight o’clock”, he replies. He makes it clear that is when we all eat breakfast and that’s all there is to it. He then hands me a sheet with an incredibly long random username and an even longer random password. “That is your internet for four days for twenty four hours. Look after your password.” I am a bit puzzled. “But Wi-Fi is free, isn’t it?” “Yes, but you must come here for a new set of username and password after each twenty four hours … for four days.” I think I get it so I take the sheet and play it by ear.

The room is tiny but everything a human needs is somehow squeezed in. There is an exquisite mirror with the glass engraved and surrounded with moulded glass decorations. The furniture and panelling have flower paintings and the whole room is almost historic. All the fittings are gold surfaced and the bathroom is very high standard except that it is all so close together that you can hardly get in.

Next day, I walk to the Rialto, the centre of town, in an attempt to contact a local agent who may have long-let apartments. I walk over the Rialto bridge and beyond to a small square. I ask a couple of local ladies where St Lio church is and they direct through a tunnel going north. Eventually I reach the church and see a pub which tells me that I am on the right track. Then I go on to a bridge and reach the cake shop also mentioned in my instructions. I ring the bell of what appears to be a large palace with a water entrance, essential for any prince who needs canal cred.

A lady called Liviana appears and tells me she will show me two apartments with rents lower than Florence or Prague and half the cost of Vienna. They are both just off St Mark’s Square. They are both nice apartments for a week or two. The first has a wonderful kitchen but one of those corner showers within which I have difficulty washing . The second has an OK bathroom but does not have a decent kitchen. Liviana is immediately sympathetic with my need to cook and wash properly so she offers to show me an apartment normally rented to Venetians. It’s in the best part of town; her part it turns out! We go back to the Rialto and continue along the path parallel to the Grand Canal. We go down an alleyway and turn right. “This is a real Venetian apartment”, she tells me as we ascend the stairs.

The apartment is huge!! A vacation agent would probably describe it as an apartment for sixteen rather than for little me! It has marble floors and the appliances seem to be a little old but there is fairly large LCD television and everything needed for a fairly civilised life. The trouble is I am looking for a studio apartment – one room, and this has four rooms plus large kitchen and large bathroom.

I ask about the television and the owner appears to explain it to me. She speaks with a Venetian accent; quite different from the Florentines. She was born in this apartment but doesn’t seem to mind the fact that I am a straniero. I know that the place is far to big for me but, because the rent is within my budget, I agree to have it for three months. The owner says, “Have it for a year!!” and I reply, “I might just do that!”

Liviana explains that the best market for fresh produce is just down the road. “That’s great!”, I say, “but I buy most of my other stuff in BILLA.” She smiles and says, “So do I”. The alleyway next to ‘mine’ leads down to a landing stage. “That is where you can catch a gondola to the Rialto for 50 cents”, “50 cents!!!” I am amazed. “It’s for the locals but you can use it!” I ask, “Is it rowed by a gondelier?” She replies, “Of course!! No motors!!”. Things are looking up?