I woke up with what can only be described as a mammoth hangover. The rehydration powder and paracetamol were doing little to shift it. To add further insult to injury the 10am lockout cropped up, so I was forced to walk the streets of Venice in a horrible state.
I decided to head for the train station and reserve a seat on the train to Milan in advance, as apparently all trains in Italy need reservations, even with an interrail pass, which is utterly ludicrous. Even worse, when I asked the woman for the reservation, she asked to see my interrail pass, which was back in the hostel. Why do you need to see my pass? The reservation is no good to me without a ticket, it's not like I'm trying to bump them out of anything. I gave her an earful, and she decided to give me the reservation anyway. Damn right she did.
After this I still had an hour and a half before I could go back to the hostel, so took the bus boat type thing outside the station right down the bottom of the grand canal, and then back up again. At least this way I was still doing something, but could sit down and die peacefully at the same time. The palaces alongside the canal were incredible, but I was in no shape to appreciate them fully.
By the time I got back, I was allowed back into the hostel, so I went back to bed for a couple of hours to see if that would help. It did not. Infact somehow it had made me feel even worse than I did before. I decided to stay put in the hostel today, I'd seen most of Venice already so I wouldn't be missing much anyway.
By tea time I was feeling a bit better, so went for a wander to the supermarket to get some bread for tea (I couldn't stomach pasta). Some radge was shouting in Italian at the woman behind the counter, from what I could gather he was saying she short changed him. She was taking none of his pish though, and got a security guard to chuck him out. Telt.
The americans I had met in the pub last night were trying to get me to go out again, to which I was not receptive in the slightest.
I stayed in while the others went out, and read a bit about the London riots, which I will now address. My good friend Daniel informed me of something which had occurred, and it shook me to my very core. They burned down a footlocker shop. How dare they. Think of all the lovely Adidas stuff going up in flames. It's enough to bring a tear to your eye. Someone needs to call John Smeaton, if there's anyone we can trust at a time like this it's him.
So that's it for my last night in Venice, off to Milan tomorrow!
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