Sometimes I just want to ride in a carriage because it makes me feel like a pretty, pretty princess. It doesn’t matter that the man driving my carriage may be an ex-con, or that the smell of feces feels like it's slowly cutting off my oxygen. This is Vienna, dammit. I’m Mozart, or Mozart’s saucy lady friend. I’ve got an imagination, and it’s given me a pink powdered wig. That was 50 euro well spent.
Hi, my name is Kara, and I love cheesy tourist attractions. Glad that’s off my chest.
I’m serious. And you know what? I think a lot of you secretly agree with me, because the line to get a carriage is exceptionally long, as is the line for all romantic carriage rides from New York City to St. Petersburg. The ghost tours are always full. Anything involving a photo op with a man in a Renaissance costume creates a crowd. The Venice canals are the same color as the water in a flooded dive bar bathroom, and yet the people still pay $140 (!!!) to float along and sing. Why? Because it’s Venice, and when you are in Venice, you let a foreign man in a striped shirt, straw hat, and suggestively tight trousers sing to you. That’s what you do.