If strike one was the fiasco at the supermarket, then strike two is what happened at the pharmacy. Or, more precisely, just outside the pharmacy at the vending machine.

There are no 24-hour drugstores in Italy (or at least in Venice). Apparently they rotate shifts throughout the day to ensure at least one is always open somewhere, but this means that each store keeps a very uneven schedule. So many pharmacies have always-open vending machines outside their doors, which primarily contain a truly astonishing array of condoms, lubricants, and other intimate items. (In romantic Venice, love will always find a way!)

We were looking for something much more mundane: nail-clippers. And Maureen had spotted a set way down at the bottom of one of the vending machines, right under the glow-in-the dark, flavored prophylactics. I had just been to the ATM and had a sheaf of crisp Euro bills–mostly €50 notes–burning a hole in my pocket. I needed change, and the graphic under the slot for cash showed the machine accepted everything from €5 to €50, so I carefully inserted one of my large bills as Maureen keyed in the item code for the nail-clippers. A little elevator inside the machine moved up to the appropriate row, the mechanism spat our package onto a tray, and the elevator descended to allow us to retrieve what we’d purchased.

That’s when we learned a new Italian word: resto. It means “change”–as in “maximum change for your order is eight euros.” And we had just bought €5 nail-clippers with a €50 note. Four 2 euro coins rattled into the change box, and the machine began counting down from the one minute we were allowed to add additional items to our purchase. Who needs stress like that on vacation?

We scrambled to find other things we needed. (Feeling frustrated by yet another shopping snafu, it never even occurred to us to purchase something from the wide selection of items that might help us relieve some of that stress back in the privacy of our apartment!) Maureen scanned the merchandise and called out numbers and letters as I frantically entered them on the tiny keyboard, all while the timer continued its relentless countdown.

That’s how we wound up with the sorry array of items pictured above. Toothpaste and dental floss. Band-aids. Razors. Two kinds of moisturizing lotion. None of it even remotely necessary, since we already had most items in our toiletry kits.

Oh, and that little white pouch in the center of the photo? That’s the sleeve the nail-clippers were supposed to come in. We got the very last package in the machine–and it was empty.