But Nary a Drop to Drink
One of the more adventurous aspects of our trip was the weekend we spent in Padova.
Not because we stayed next to the train station which was pretty sketchy at night (even though that is exactly where we stayed) or because Padova was especially full of gypsies and other shady characters (which it was, actually), but because people in Padova apparently don't eat.
I'm convinced this is where the Breatharian movement must have started.
Granted, yes, it was a weekend, and yes, it's a smaller town, but with any tourist trade at all you have to give people some kind of option. Even the grocery stores and corner stores were closed.
It had been bad enough on Saturday, but Sunday, we spent a better part of the afternoon (after asking St. Anthony for help with Oana's achy feet — if I'd known better I would have asked for help with my empty stomach) wandering the town in search of food.
There had been a handful of places open around lunchtime, but starting around 2pm, they all closed so the owners could spend time with their families, and the few which were open for Sunday dinner didn't open up until around 7:30pm. It was 5pm, and we were already famished.
Finally, we ran across a little crepe restaurant, run by a Chinese family who didn't seem to be observing the afternoon siesta tradition. "Here's our chance," we said, hungrily eyeing over the crepe menu for our selection. We ordered two coffees. We started to order two . . . well, that's where we were stopped.
"You want crepes?" the man behind the counter asked, in English. "We're not open for dinner until 7:30."
"But you just served us coffee!"
"Open for coffee, not for crepes. 7:30." And at this point, the man and his two other coworkers resumed standing around and chatting, never venturing more than a metre or so from the fully-capable-of-making-us-dinner crepe griddle (there was even a bowl of batter and a basket of eggs right next to it).
"What are you doing?!?" Oana asked me, after we found a seat in the upstairs loft area.
"Eating a cookie," I said.
"You can't eat cookies here, it's a restaurant," she insisted. "What if they see us?"
"If they see us, maybe they'll feel sorry for me and sell me something to eat, then." Made sense to me, at any rate. . . .
Not because we stayed next to the train station which was pretty sketchy at night (even though that is exactly where we stayed) or because Padova was especially full of gypsies and other shady characters (which it was, actually), but because people in Padova apparently don't eat.
I'm convinced this is where the Breatharian movement must have started.
Granted, yes, it was a weekend, and yes, it's a smaller town, but with any tourist trade at all you have to give people some kind of option. Even the grocery stores and corner stores were closed.
It had been bad enough on Saturday, but Sunday, we spent a better part of the afternoon (after asking St. Anthony for help with Oana's achy feet — if I'd known better I would have asked for help with my empty stomach) wandering the town in search of food.
There had been a handful of places open around lunchtime, but starting around 2pm, they all closed so the owners could spend time with their families, and the few which were open for Sunday dinner didn't open up until around 7:30pm. It was 5pm, and we were already famished.
Finally, we ran across a little crepe restaurant, run by a Chinese family who didn't seem to be observing the afternoon siesta tradition. "Here's our chance," we said, hungrily eyeing over the crepe menu for our selection. We ordered two coffees. We started to order two . . . well, that's where we were stopped.
"You want crepes?" the man behind the counter asked, in English. "We're not open for dinner until 7:30."
"But you just served us coffee!"
"Open for coffee, not for crepes. 7:30." And at this point, the man and his two other coworkers resumed standing around and chatting, never venturing more than a metre or so from the fully-capable-of-making-us-dinner crepe griddle (there was even a bowl of batter and a basket of eggs right next to it).
"What are you doing?!?" Oana asked me, after we found a seat in the upstairs loft area.
"Eating a cookie," I said.
"You can't eat cookies here, it's a restaurant," she insisted. "What if they see us?"
"If they see us, maybe they'll feel sorry for me and sell me something to eat, then." Made sense to me, at any rate. . . .