I shan't say much of New Year's Eve, other than to mention that when I finally fell asleep, over 24 hours after I'd woken on Olympus, I had done my part to usher in 2007. Exhausted delirium played a far greater role in my hijinks than alcohol did and, though I wasn't up to my usual manic standard, I did christen the dance floor and thus truly got the party started.
I must say that I began to regret it when the overweight, drunk American girls climbed on to the sorely aggrieved table and started dancing. The legs began to splay as if the table might impersonate Bambi on ice, but the girls, dressed in the height of tranny hooker fashion, paid no notice and took pictures of themselves.
I'd had to sleep in the mezzanine above the hostel bar/lounge, so when they cranked on the radio the next morning, early, I decided it was a sign from God to move on. As money has become a bit (HUGE) issue after the ticket, I figured it was best to travel. I don't spend money on trains. I decided to head back to the port of Patras; there, if I could catch a ferry to Ithaca, home of the great contender Odysseus, I would do so, biding my time on the sleepy, inexpensive island until it was time for the great trip north. On the way to Patras I succumbed to the narcolepsy I'd acquired after eleven hours sleep in the past three days.
Unfortunately, no ferry was going to Ithaca til the next day. I hopped on a ferry to Ancona instead. I don't spend money on trains, but I do on ferries (I'm so glad that I didn't have a Freudian slip just now and type 'fairies'. That would have been embarrassing. Waitaminute...). When trapped for nineteen hours with no food but from the overpriced restaurant on board, I had but little choice.
The ferry was late arriving so I missed my intended train; however, not too much later I caught one to Milan. All of Italy must have thought January 2nd was a good day for a trip to Milan as I stood in the compartment before the main compartment, where the bathroom is located, along with a dozen or so of the great unwashed. Sadly, or gladly I suppose, that was the most action I have gotten on the trip, as everyone in the compartment jostled against me, pressing me against the door to the world speeding by, in their attempts to finagle an extra micron of space.
A little girl thought it was great fun to wander amongst the forest of adults' legs while her mother screamed for her to return; when she did get back to her mama, the five year old mouthed her mother's clothed breast. The woman swatted away the daughter with no more concern than if she were a fly. That portion of the ride was understandably idyllic. At Bologna, enough of the herd departed that I was able to get a seat. The remaining two hours to Milan were much more comfortable if far less uncomfortably entertaining.
Alas, catching the later train had thrown off all my plans, as all the overnight trains out of the country had been booked solid, and so I had ended up in the one scenario I didn't want: being forced to spend significant time in the most expensive city in Italy. I considered finding a park to sleep in, but after I finally made my way out of the cavernous train station, so large it dwarfs many parliaments, I discovered that the streets were awash in graffitti and roving bands of unsavory, impoverished hoodlums. Damn. I had to find a place to stay.
I shall ever be eternally thankful that I managed to find a cheap hotel nearby without being stabbed in the process. The hotels are required by law to be rated by stars. I think I found the only one star in town. Regardless of its rating, I expected the height of opulence for the 40€ ($50) I forked over, and I was not overly disappointed when I entered the room.
The room was a tad cramped and Spartan (Hooray!), but it was warm and the bed was large. I was surprised to discover the bathroom had a bidet. Opulence indeed...but then I was a bit astounded that there was not a shower. No matter. The accomodations would suffice. For the first time on the trip, I would be able to sleep alone, with not even my dear, sweet, departed gearshift to intrude.
I've had intermittent sleeping problems for years and I've been particularly beleaguered with a fever of sorts on this trip, so I was greatly looking forward to the pleasant slumber which I'd paid so dearly to attain. I soon discovered that something was amiss in the land of Denmark, as it were. The walls in an American motel are an amusing nuisance at best; here, where the floors are all tiled, it counts as a veritable curse from the Almighty.
As this is the least expensive hotel in the city, I can't be sure if the incessant percussion came from prostitutes in stillettos dragging along their boot-wearing johns, or perhaps from a herd of tap-shod goats. At least the monotonous trampling was broken up throughout the night by yelling and door slamming.
Those who suffer greatly are greatly rewarded, and so I was when I pleasantly discovered there was in fact a shower in the bathroom. Ordinarily, misplacing one is difficult to do, but in my defense I was looking for a shower stall, not simply the head and two knobs sticking out of the wall next to the toilet.
Sorely in need of a wash to pull me from my sleepless trance, I took one. I finally experienced the opulence I so greatly desired and deserved. There was a giddy pleasure to be had as water caromed off me and splattered the walls, the sink, the mirror, the toilet, and the bidet; I soaked the roll of toilet paper, and gladly. At first I must admit I was a tad hesitant and embarrassed, but then, since it was obviously expected of me, I let myself go and enjoyed the experience, much like when I've made water when swimming at the beach. It was one hell of a 40€ shower.
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