Traffic flows on the Autostrada surprisingly quickly throughout northern Italy when you’re not stopped at a station having to pay those exorbitant prices to do so. However, I like to think of it as purchasing the right to cruise along a highway at 100 mph without the fear of getting busted.

Driving across the entire country, I finally see signs describing the outskirts all my previous tolls and toils, Venice. My record for a single payment at a toll booth stood firm at 80,500 Lira. Just that number - 80,500 – the kind of number that without knowing the exchange rate you feel that you’ve just purchased a house or something. And even after converting the rate, about 2,000 to 1, you find that you’ve still dropped $40 for the journey and that coupled with the price of gas being about four bucks a gallon makes you pretty picky about what you want to see.

With the road signs signaling the city of Venice adequately displayed in English there was really no excuse for what was about to happen next. Blame it on the excitement of finally arriving. The thrill of approaching one of the true, great world-class cities was understandably overwhelming.

The final exit before the main bridge connecting the city of Venice to the Italian mainland flew past and I found myself temporarily right smack in the city staring at a dead end. On top of that, I was forced to wait in order to turn around and drive back several miles because there are no cars are allowed in the city proper.

Shit, shit, shit.

After that initial reaction and after further consideration I guess I can respect that.

I normally walk for hours when I’m on vacation anyway, and now in front of me there’s finally a city that forces everybody to do it my way. But I realize the magnitude of the situation as I’m retreating and see it’s probably six or seven miles just to get back to the center before the fun begins.

Venice is not merely an island in the midst of northeastern Italy, it’s 118 islands, all of them connected by four hundred or so walking bridges. The unscheduled turnaround wastes almost an hour and creates an unwelcome sense of urgency as I finally squeeze into a place to park about eight miles away from my destination.

As my mind sifts through this realization, it may as well have been eight hundred.

For some reason reaching the old town of Venice had become the pot at the end of the rainbow of my Italian holiday. My age-old nemesis - my impatience - begins to take hold of the situation and I look for any means to get into the city. And that always spells trouble.

How things had changed since Verona the day before. What a gem out of nowhere Verona was. The best Roman Arena in all of Italy, which invariably means the best in the world. The thing is immaculate. Never mind that they are refurbishing it and not hiding the modern-day concrete in repairing the seats and steps, they’re holding modern-day concerts every summer here. Just traipsing aimlessly around this thing was inspiring.

Later on a market in the old town square and I buy another load of stuff just because the atmosphere pulls me to buy, something, anything. A giant cathedral, a clean hotel and it’s time to eat. I get lucky; I go into a seafood restaurant and have the best pasta accompanied with a dozen types of shellfish on the planet. What a day, choosing this stopover awaiting Venice. Verona, a home run.

And today this shit, already eight miles away and heading in the opposite direction.

But alas, I don’t have to do anything.

At the common landing point for turnaround victims, they see me coming.

A young, friendly Italian gentleman with perfect white teeth and an equally perfect bushy mustache speaking ninety miles an hour appears from nowhere to save the day. He’s here to help. He’ll take me right smack to the inner part of the city and if that’s not enough, provide me with my first night’s hotel all for the equivalent of a hundred twenty dollars American.

Or so I thought.

But at the time, I say, let’s go.

I soon find out I’ve hired a water taxi cab when I see a water bus actually speed by us carrying about forty tourists with all their luggage. Shit, shit. I glance up and see the looks from them, some probably think I’m some rich guy that can afford the first-class fare, most realize at once I’m just a stupid putz.

The ratio that I’ve been charged of taxi fare versus bus fare hasn’t yet dawned on me. That’s because I resemble the aforementioned stupid putz.

We slowly crawl along for half an hour on this Gondola, I’m actually thinking how lucky I am, ignoring the smirks of people standing on bridges looking down at me as I pass them by. Not knowing the price of transportation or the price for room and board in Venice I’m convinced that the deal I’ve struck is not really that bad.

I mean, I’ve convinced myself until I realize I didn’t strike a deal at all - this guy came up and asked me if he could rob me blind - and I said to please proceed, at once.

It’d temporarily eluded me that a water taxi is still a taxi, and the one common denominator of all the great hustles of Europe are taxi drivers: they are the bastard sons of whores scum of the earth - Polish, Italian, French - whatever. (All right, back in New York City too). But let the buyer beware, God will eventually get even with the European cabbie. But even He has to wait until they die.

Half an hour later we dock beside a small, obscure hotel. The water taxi hustle is humorously apparent to everyone around me, except of course myself, and has almost reached its climax. The gentleman follows me up a couple flights of stairs and as I am signing in for the night he collects his fee and leaves.

No problem. Still dazed in my stupidity I’m actually thinking, no problem.

I hand over my passport to check in and find I’m being charged (an additional) $100 for this less than one-star hotel. But of course.

Duh. So that’s the way to play the game.

My suave, mustached bastard of a gentleman is long gone - of course. I spend less than ten seconds arguing knowing how futile that would be, knowing I’m the thousandth American in this very situation and what a brilliant sting I’ve allowed them to accomplish.

Ok, maybe not a brilliant sting, maybe I’m just a dumb shit.

Not wanting to give them one ounce of satisfaction from throwing a tirade and certainly not about to give them a hundred of my ever dwindling American dollars, the best I can think of is to take back my passport and walk out of the place and find another hotel. I exit proudly despite deep assurances that this is the last room available in all of Venice. I prod out carrying what is left of my dignity. A light load.

The city itself rescues me: a mere fifty meters down the road there’s a two-star hotel for just under seventy bucks.

Under the silky, dark Venetian sky I check in for the night and all is alright again with the world. Savaged, but then salvaged, once again.

The next morning the city exacts payment for it’s previous night’s gift: it’s raining, as it would my entire stay at Venice. Not ever a heavy rain but this steady, incessant drizzle. Undaunted, I set out to explore her offerings. The city is absolutely magical. The countless number of small islands, connected by those wonderful walking bridges, some of arched stone crumbling here and there, some of wrought iron, some crowded, picturesque, but all have in common the fact that they evoke magic.

Venice is a photographer or painter’s dream. God, if I only had a single ounce of talent as a photographer or painter.

Occasionally during my walks I run into beautiful narrow streets and walkways, many of them too cramped for even two people to walk side by side which adds to deepen the sensation and mystery that shrouds this great city.

Restaurants beckon everywhere, from the casual to the extreme in formality and taste and expense. Despite my initial taxi faux pax, I decide to unabashedly splurge on a meal.

If I’m one thing, I’m resilient when I get screwed.

Consolation for being such a good sport.

I walk along and find a superb restaurant and sit down prepared to try everything in my path. The waiter appears and the game begins: a prawn salad and a half-bottle of white wine. Prawns looking like lobsters, huge things definitely spelled with a capital P. Artichoke risotto laced with heavy cream and cheese. Risotto means rice – and I don’t even like rice, but all that’s changed now. Heavy cream and cheese sauce - no need to say more.

Now I’m warmed up and ready for the main dishes. That’s the cool thing about Italian dinners, we’ve only just begun. Braised veal follows, cooked in wine and tomatoes. Before I can even finish the entree I have to finally stop. I lounge contentedly and order another of those adorable half-bottles, spot a couple at a nearby table sharing and relishing an egg and marsala creamed-cheese desert, and despite my being ready to burst, relent. Relentlessly relent and dig in.

The meal: perfection. It wasn’t really a meal but an experience. The kill the second half-bottle and finally take the time to look around. The restaurant is very, very Italian: ancient frescos painted on every wall with hundreds of wine bottles stacked in wooden racks separating different sections with massive overhanging olive oil bottles and pasta posters to further break up the lines of sight of the restaurant.

And what would Italian ambiance be without that thick Italian cigarette smoke hanging in the air everywhere. Smells like shit, but I don’t smoke anyway so maybe I’m no judge.

Well, yes I am - and it smells like shit.

Everywhere, another new plate of food appears without a moment’s hesitation. Italian meals are always in multiple courses. The appetizer, antipasto, bread and butter, always wine, wine, wine, the salad, the entree, the desert, that wonderful espresso, finally an after-dinner digestive. Italians glory in their food with unbridled adoration – and indeed it is the greatest in the world.

And yes, by God, I am the judge.

I pull out my credit card and pay, not bothering to convert the damage to American dollars and spoil the meal quite yet. The next day I see the fare: $80 American, more than the price of the room. So that’s the price of perfection.

Ok, so that’s the price of gluttony.

The day passes into night. I drift lazily back to the hotel and find after what has to be ten miles of walking and sightseeing that I’ve enough energy left only for a hot bath. I lounge around not even bothering to turn on the television, not caring; the day in itself was enough. I sleep soundly, content in that I’ve only just scratched the surface of the great city thus far.

Morning, shops by the hundreds line the pedestrian walkways. User-friendly shops, the kind you just want to go inside and browse time away in. Occasionally, wider streets open up into piazzas, main squares, where tables shaded by colorful (and now valuable) umbrellas abound and a few locals enjoy an Espresso between drizzles.

Espresso, now there’s a concept for an American. A double-concentrated shot of coffee in a half-sized shot glass that costs a buck and a half. Dilute it with milk so you can drink it without scrunching your face and making an ass of yourself and you’ve got Cappuccino. Pour in a couple of sugars to ensure you can keep it down - and you’re now about 2% Italian.

I select another of the quaint half-sized bottles of wine and pull out Ayn Rand’s phenomenal book, ‘Atlas Shrugged’. The book’s attempt to personify good and evil in early twentieth-century industrial America is still unparalleled. This is probably the sixth or seventh time I’ve read ‘Atlas Shrugged’. The first time as a youngster I thought Ayn Rand and her self-proclaimed philosophy, Egoism was the cat’s ass, now I just enjoy the book more for its fictional attributes that its rhetoric.

A hundred pages down, two of those collector’s item half-bottles shot and I decide there’s nothing better to do than just randomly walk. Traveling by foot, indiscriminately, haphazard routes have always proved to be the most satisfying, and in Venice the journey becomes almost exotic. Maps in Venice are virtually useless: streets never run in straight lines, and even when you happen to stumble into and notice a name, it’ll change without warning and then disappear completely if they feel you’ve got some kind of system figured out to prevent getting lost.

However, there’s good news. In Venice, no destination is the best destination.

Finally, I wander into a piazza where Saint Mark’s cathedral is located.

There are four unmistakable Christian architectural works of genius in the world of truly great proportion. One in France, Notre Dame, one in England, Westminster Abbey, and two in Italy, Saint Peter’s Cathedral in Rome and the fourth right here in front of me, Saint Marks.

Despite its immensity, Saint Marks suddenly appears from the small winding streets and into view through the mist and fog and drizzle like an apparition. I’d just found a comfortable pace traversing the streets and bam, Batman; I look up and see this wondrous, beautiful cathedral out of nowhere. Inside, surrounded by Byzantine mosaics I snap so many photos I quickly run out of film. Only when I notice those scornful eyes upon me (you piss-ant American tourist) as my camera’s motor rewinds do I exit the sacred church and reload to come back again to finish. Outside, the entire city has been basked in fog all day, which only serves to subtly mellow the edges of each building. Picture taking in Venice is enhanced from the fog and mist, rewarding my average eye and mediocre ability with expert-like photographs. Boy, that’s another thing I love about Venice.

Finally, the steady rain forces me to realize the journey has to end.

I stand up straight, shoulders squared, head-jutted outwards – proud - all in knowing I can take the water-bus back and save mega-bucks.

All the way back I look around for any unsuspecting idiots approaching in a taxi in order to cast a haughty scorn at in order to redeem a fraction of my lost ego, kind of like a game of tag, but alas, there are none.