Read Online Mesmerized: Spellbound (Book One) by Trinity Night - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Trinity Night
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toward me, standing in the foreign airport, I suddenly hoped I knew what the essentials actually were.
I lugged my backpack over my shoulder and walked out of the airport toward the bus termin al. The day was warm and the sudden sunlight stung my eyes. At the terminal, I waited for a bus to take me to downtown Venice. When it finally arrived, I was in a jet lag-caffeine coma I hoped never to relive. I pulled my way onto the bus and collapsed in a big comfy seat next to a hot looking Italian guy with slicked-back, black hair and aviator sunglasses. He looked up from his Smart Phone and smiled. I suddenly remembered how gross and stinky I was, and wished I’d chosen to sit next to the elderly grandmother a few rows back. He tried to talk to me, but spoke only Italian. I smiled; my translator gadget was in my backpack, and I was too tired to dig it out to listen to digitized flirting.
The bus dropped me off right near the youth hostel, and I walked the longest half a block of my life to enter the front lobby. The girl at the counter spoke perfect English, and I was really happy. Digging out my translator do-dad would have been nearly impossible for how tired I felt. She took my money for three days and directed me to a shared women-only room. I pulled out some clothes and a towel from my backpack, and locked it up in a footlockers under the bunk bed.
Down the hall was a big bathroom with a s hower. I locked the door and peeled out of my sweaty, gross sweat suit and stepped into the streaming warm water. My long dark-blonde hair streamed wet down my back, over my slender-toned frame. I always kept fit. Exercise was a way to close down my brain while I compromised my dreams. I hoped to eat lots of meat and pasta and come home a size fatter. However, on my budget, that was highly doubtful.
After the much needed shower, I collapsed on my bed and slept until the next morning. That was one day gone in Venice. I woke up, showered again, and changed into khaki capris, a black T-shirt and gray converse with pink laces. My inner heart was a rebel, but my outer shell was a staunch conformist. It came across in my nondescript-hipster fashion sense.
I dug through my backpack and pulled out my day pack and filled it with my travel sized art supplies, my translator do-dad, camera, water, a power bar, wallet, cell phone, iPod, and sunscreen. I’m a Seattle girl; we rarely see the kind of sun that beams down on the Mediterranean. Even Northern Italy is freaking hot.
At the hostel ’s breakfast buffet, I scooped up some eggs, toast, bacon, and a cup of coffee. I’d need a lot more of that. Fortunately, the food was good, and filling. I wouldn’t have to find food again for most of the day.
Venice is one of those places where you always dream about traveling, but when you actually get there, you realize that the whole place is an open sewer. It pretty much stunk.
I walked down the narrow streets around the canals looking for a gondola ride. It was on my list of to-do experiences before I left the mass tourist destinations for the back allies of Europe. The gondola driver I found was handsome in that swarthy, dark Italian way. He smiled at me as I approached but regarded me strangely when I spoke English and hopped in the gondola by myself. Apparently, it wasn’t just my parents who disapproved of me traveling alone.
The ride was beautiful— traveling past scenes that reminded me of a Shakespearian play. I took out my camera and clicked pictures to paint later, and then leaned back against the pillowed chair. This was something I wanted to remember forever, so I paid attention. A flock of pigeons flew up from behind The Palazzo Dario, and I imagined what it must have been like for Monet to paint it. I asked the gondola driver to drop me off on the opposite side of the canal, so I could paint it too. I hopped out and paid him. It wasn’t cheap.
I found a curb and took out my watercolors. The sky was hazy yellow, and the water was a
I lugged my backpack over my shoulder and walked out of the airport toward the bus termin al. The day was warm and the sudden sunlight stung my eyes. At the terminal, I waited for a bus to take me to downtown Venice. When it finally arrived, I was in a jet lag-caffeine coma I hoped never to relive. I pulled my way onto the bus and collapsed in a big comfy seat next to a hot looking Italian guy with slicked-back, black hair and aviator sunglasses. He looked up from his Smart Phone and smiled. I suddenly remembered how gross and stinky I was, and wished I’d chosen to sit next to the elderly grandmother a few rows back. He tried to talk to me, but spoke only Italian. I smiled; my translator gadget was in my backpack, and I was too tired to dig it out to listen to digitized flirting.
The bus dropped me off right near the youth hostel, and I walked the longest half a block of my life to enter the front lobby. The girl at the counter spoke perfect English, and I was really happy. Digging out my translator do-dad would have been nearly impossible for how tired I felt. She took my money for three days and directed me to a shared women-only room. I pulled out some clothes and a towel from my backpack, and locked it up in a footlockers under the bunk bed.
Down the hall was a big bathroom with a s hower. I locked the door and peeled out of my sweaty, gross sweat suit and stepped into the streaming warm water. My long dark-blonde hair streamed wet down my back, over my slender-toned frame. I always kept fit. Exercise was a way to close down my brain while I compromised my dreams. I hoped to eat lots of meat and pasta and come home a size fatter. However, on my budget, that was highly doubtful.
After the much needed shower, I collapsed on my bed and slept until the next morning. That was one day gone in Venice. I woke up, showered again, and changed into khaki capris, a black T-shirt and gray converse with pink laces. My inner heart was a rebel, but my outer shell was a staunch conformist. It came across in my nondescript-hipster fashion sense.
I dug through my backpack and pulled out my day pack and filled it with my travel sized art supplies, my translator do-dad, camera, water, a power bar, wallet, cell phone, iPod, and sunscreen. I’m a Seattle girl; we rarely see the kind of sun that beams down on the Mediterranean. Even Northern Italy is freaking hot.
At the hostel ’s breakfast buffet, I scooped up some eggs, toast, bacon, and a cup of coffee. I’d need a lot more of that. Fortunately, the food was good, and filling. I wouldn’t have to find food again for most of the day.
Venice is one of those places where you always dream about traveling, but when you actually get there, you realize that the whole place is an open sewer. It pretty much stunk.
I walked down the narrow streets around the canals looking for a gondola ride. It was on my list of to-do experiences before I left the mass tourist destinations for the back allies of Europe. The gondola driver I found was handsome in that swarthy, dark Italian way. He smiled at me as I approached but regarded me strangely when I spoke English and hopped in the gondola by myself. Apparently, it wasn’t just my parents who disapproved of me traveling alone.
The ride was beautiful— traveling past scenes that reminded me of a Shakespearian play. I took out my camera and clicked pictures to paint later, and then leaned back against the pillowed chair. This was something I wanted to remember forever, so I paid attention. A flock of pigeons flew up from behind The Palazzo Dario, and I imagined what it must have been like for Monet to paint it. I asked the gondola driver to drop me off on the opposite side of the canal, so I could paint it too. I hopped out and paid him. It wasn’t cheap.
I found a curb and took out my watercolors. The sky was hazy yellow, and the water was a
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