I was in a state of bliss in the back of the taxi for several reasons. There was joy when I realised a litre of drinkable wine could be had at a respectable restaurant in Peschiera for a few quid. There was the joy from the drinking of the wine. I was so intently trying to make these points to my companion that I failed to let her point out the women touting for business at the side of the road back to our apartment.
It was much later that Monica managed to interupt long enough to tell me of the ladies of the night – and she filled in my hooker-blindness with descriptions of the white fishnets, leather mini-skirts and general spray on-clothes they had (unsuccessfully in my case) been using to attract the attention of drunk men in passing cars. We estimated prices – I bet it was 80 Euros for half an hour, Monica priced the services slightly cheaper. We resolved to find out, and then promptly forgot all about it.
On my last night in Peschiera, I went for a run along the lake at night. I went back to the room with the ominous task of finishing the remaining vodka, and from there proceeded alone to the respectable restaurant with the litres of wine, Monica having gone home to the South of Italy earlier in the day. It occured to me that we had not resolved our bet and set off into the night to get some competitive quotes.
On the outskirts of town, I found the pink neon sign indicating the Viper ‘disco’ bar, which Monica had described as the general area of her red light observations. I reasoned that there was probably some law against writing ‘brothel’ in six foot high letters on brothels in Italy, and went in to investigate. I got an expensive drink I didn’t want from the lady at the bar while some rather unpleasant Italian vocals punished my ears. Not a brothel – Vipers was in fact a karaoke bar. I drank and left disappointed, no further in my quest.
Weaving as I walked back into town, it was not long before the ladies of the night swam into view. Minding my price check mission, I approached the second nearest, so as to appear as a punter feigning a selection process. She wore white knee high platform boots, a white leather miniskirt matching the description that I had been given, and a skimpy blouse.
Foruitously, some days before I had been flicking through an Italian copy of Charles Bukowski’s ‘Women‘, which had afforded me the chance to learn a vocabulary appropriate to such circumstances. I asked for the price of ‘un pompino’, and learnt that 30 Euros was the going rate. Or perhaps the coming rate. Realising that this was a goal-based billing scheme as opposed to a clock-based one, I searched for other goals to get the prices for. My new Ghanian friend realised I was English, and then explained that ‘ficky ficky’ would set an eager punter back 50 Euros. I asked where such lewd acts took place, and she took my hand and led me to some roadworks, and indicated that un pompino would take place by the large mound of gravel. Before I could ask about ‘ficky ficky’, my eyes were distracted by a couple jiggling away as they stood on the other side of the gravel mound. I had no need to ask. I walked off into the night, thinking that I had lost the price bet.
As I got right to the outskirts of Peschiera del Garda, I noticed more short skirts and decided to do a bit of comparison shopping. The slightly more modestly dressed ladies sported an English speaker. Six cars had pulled up and departed by the time I had enquired about the services on offer. This pricing model was different – 100 Euros for twenty minutes, 200 Euros for an hour. On of her colleagues asked to listen to my headphones and I obliged her request as I asked the English speaker about the location of the acts. My guide explained that five minutes away was a house we could use, and then admonished me for having spoken to the cheaper ladies down the road, explaining that she had seen me from a car she had been working from. She asked if I had a car, and I pointed to my rather grubby running (and drinking) shoes. As an Italian, she held strong opinions on stylish footwear, and pulled a face at my shoes. At her request, I let her get back to work as I stumbled back to my hotel, thinking that I had in some ways guessed closest to the price and won the bet.