“Come, sit down! You try our strawberry wine. My brother make it himself.” If the Maître d' of a restaurant is willing to hunt people down on the streets with promises of free wine, a person should expect a surcharge somewhere. If a man approaches a person on the street claiming to have the cheapest boat fares, a person should expect a less than subtle request for a tip. If a vendor sees a person staring too long at his or her Versace and Burberry knockoffs, a person should expect to be nearly accosted unremittingly for what seems like hours. This, in short, is the essence of Venice, Italy. No traveler should set foot in the city without the expectation of losing his or her shirt.
And as horrible as that description sounds, it is what I loved most about the city by the sea. The constant presence of swindlers and gypsies provide the city with a sort of endearing, “I have your money; you have a story” quality. Yes, you just paid thirty dollars for a glass of wine and spaghetti…yes, you just paid twenty-five dollars to ride in a glorified canoe…yes, that person is going to follow you back to your hostel…” but, if you can make it through with a Euro still in your pocket, you have a story. And that, in my opinion, is the essence of why a person desires to travel.
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