Venice is quite an expensive place to stay. After drinking a few bottles of Tennants Super (which appears to be some special beer in Venice – at the expensive end of the station bar menu) I did the decent thing and passed out on a bench in the sun. On regaining dehydrated sun-baked consciousness, I toyed with the idea of spending the night in a park to conserve funds, but thought better of it on seeing the number of over-epauletted police patrolling the area.
After a series of phonecalls, I managed to track down the cheapest available bed in Venice. Shouldering my pack in the blazing sun, I laboured through the maze-like streets, sweating treacle-like Scottish lager through every pore onto my t-shirt. The t-shirt emblazoned with the label “Crap”, my face unshaved in five days, and the pungent aroma of toxicity. A shambling mess by all accounts, I arrived at the Instituto Canossiano. Which turned out to be some sort of nunnery. Indeed I was greeted in Italian by a shrivelled old lady in a white habit. Feeling a little out of place would be putting it mildly. Trying to touch my genitals discretely to ward off bad luck, I rummaged through my dirty pants to find my passport, as a softly spoken English speaker arrived to help me register. I must have looked like some kind of anti-pope, come to desecrate their temple of god. They were charitable and let me stay – a dishevelled tramp. Possibly due to my frequent genital prodding (for luck) I survived the experience, and escaped back to Blighty. Maybe it’s not time for me to discover religion yet.