My pics at rome

Italy Travel Tale - The Long Journey

A glass of chilled white wine. The sound of laughter and catches of Italian conversation fill the air. A gentle breeze blows the sweetly scented bougainvillea flowers around. Couples of all ages walk hand in hand up the cobbled streets. Young people sit on the jetty, playing scopa in the moonlight and smoking cigarettes. It is well past midnight, but the main street in Riomaggiore, in La Cinque Terre, Italy is alive with Italians and tourists alike. We are so glad we are here...but one hour ago we were not so sure.
After one euphoric week spent on the relatively untouched Island of Sardinia, it was time for us to head off to the next port of call; La Cinque Terre. Everything was planned. We had tickets for the only ferry leaving that day and accommodation at our destination was sorted. The sun was shining and with excitement we boarded the ferry. It appeared that all other passengers had arrived hours ago, as there was not an empty deck chair, bench or indoors seat available. Not to let this dampen our spirits we sat on the floor, using our backpacks as support.

Within minutes the ferry set sail, and within minutes the weather turned. The previously non-existent wind had risen to gale force proportions. We were tossed from side to side. An automated voice over the loud speaker advised us that, due to the wind, all people were requested to sit inside for their own safety.

What was meant to be a four-hour journey took six. It was then it occurred to us that we should ring Roberto regarding our accommodation in Riomaggiore. We should advise him that we would not make the 6pm check in. We made the call, and it was arranged we would be there at 8pm. We were sternly told not a moment later. No worries, we thought. We were on the main land of Italy by now and only had to get one train...easy.

After disembarking the ferry and managing to find a bus to take us to the train station, we looked at the time. It was nearing 7pm. Another call was made to Roberto to advise that, due to circumstances beyond our control, we would be there around 10pm. He sounded angry. He was stern on the phone and grunted that we were not to arrive a moment after 10pm.

Slightly baffled as abruptness, we purchased a train ticket and soon boarded our train. The train was going to Genoa, and we were to disembark at La Cinque Terre...or so we thought.

The train ride was a picturesque journey along the Italian coastline. We passed La Spezia, which sounded familiar from the guidebooks, but we could not remember why. Soon we saw the first of La Cinque Terre - the five lands- and the train kept going. Then the next town. And the train kept going. It was then we realised we why La Spezia sounded familiar. We should have changed trains at there for a local connection to La Cinque Terre. It was then we realised it was 10 minutes past 10pm.

Should we call Roberto, shouldn't we? We decided that we would not call him. We would get there a little late. What could he do - refuse us accommodation? There is a warning here - never tempt fate.

Just before the stroke of midnight we arrived at Riomaggiore. There was no time to admire the beauty of this exquisite Italian town. We hurried up the steep, cobbled street, with 20kgs strapped to our backs while dodging flocks of people. The town was alive this time of the night. With sweat pouring from our brows - it was the height of summer - we reached our accommodation and rang the bell. No answer. We saw an after hours number and called. Ring, ring. No answer. Ring, ring again. No answer. Ring, ring a third time and a surly man picked up - Roberto. It was to late, he screamed down the phone. He is eating with his family now. He cannot come. He will not come. Bang. He hung up the phone.

An old man and his dog by this stage have come to see what was going on. Should we laugh or cry? We explain what Roberto had done. The old man is not surprised. Apparently Roberto does this all the time.

It was now after 12am. We were two girls, alone, with nowhere to stay. Worry had not set in, just yet. We must have looked angry, upset, scared or some other type of extreme emotion. It was then our knight in shining armor came. A handsome man at the bar saw us, walked over and said he would help us find somewhere to stay. He knew Roberto. he had helped people in our situation before. He worked at La Dolce Vita, another 'room finding company' but they were full.

He opened the door to his office. Within two minutes we were being escorted down a cobbled path by a lovely, middle-aged couple. They had not only a room to spare, but a spare apartment. And for a cheaper price then what Roberto was to charge.

Tempted to track down Roberto and give him a piece of our minds was an enticing thought. But the thought of a glass of chilled white wine, in the bar with our handsome savior proved too good to pass. "Due biccherie di vino bianco, grazie." Cheers to a happy ending.

Backpacker in Rome, budget travels around Italy

Katherine's text suggesting ‘a mini break of culture and alcohol', as she had so succinctly put it, came at just the right time so we got out a map of Europe (our geography is, at best, sketchy) and searched for countries to fly to. The list, which included, amongst others, Geneva (because it seemed vaguely political), Amsterdam (the red light district seemed oddly appealing) and Dublin (no new language needed).

The range was quickly cut down by the price of flights as we opted for the cheapest and ended up being a toss up between Rome and anywhere in France. We went for the former as the latter, after endless school trips, was not somewhere we wanted to venture in a hurry.

So Rome it was. We quickly booked super cheap flights, meaning of course we had to depart at a shockingly early hour, and questionably inexpensive accommodation, which conjured up all images from horror hostel films. The following week we set off for Rome, guide book in hand, carrying an obscene amount of luggage for a three day trip. One set of footwear was simply not enough and the idea of taking fewer than six outfits for a three-day trip was non negotiable.

Arriving at Newcastle airport we wandered through duty free mocking the fake tan of the assistants in the perfume department before embarking on what proved to be quite a mission of blagging a good seat on the flight. You see when you fly with easyjet no one is allocated seating. Instead, as we are the plebs of the travelling world, we were given a ticket with either A, B or C scrawled on it and when your letter is called the idea is that you make a mad dash to the front. This may be all well and good if you live in certain European countries where pushing does not compromise etiquette but this is Britain. So we found ourselves edging, rather than shoving, to the front and eyeing up any possible opposition. It really is an all time low when one finds oneself thinking it permissible to knock over the wheelchair-bound, those with small children or small children themselves.

Luckily, thanks to our strategic manoeuvres, we got the seat we'd hoped for, right at the front, lots of leg room. Only down side is that should the plane crash we were most likely to die and, worse still, in the event of an emergency we were responsible for the nearest exit. Still, we were finally on board and enjoying our pain au chocolat not, of course, provided by easyjet, but by Katherine's mother. I then decided to forego my rather unrealistic plan of learning Italian and soon dozed off. When I next opened my eyes we were landing in Rome. Hurrah.

Arriving in Rome on a Sunday morning was marvellous. We had come just in time to have breakfast in one of the best cities in Europe. And so we did, in a small quiet café away from the hoards of tourists and gaggles of street vendors. I would like to think this came about because Katherine and I were street savvy enough to find an undiscovered off-the-cuff spot but in truth it was due to us being lost. We then decided our best bet was to waste a lot of money by getting into a taxi, always extortionate in Rome, and gesturing in the general direction we thought the hostel might be. Safe to say we eventually got there but found out later that we had, naturally, been taken the very long, and very expensive, route. The blow was sweetened, however, by knowing we'd beaten the fat American couple to the taxi.

Aware that we had but two whole days in Rome we quickly dropped our stuff at the hostel and headed into the centre, taking with us our guide book and factor 45. I'm a firm believer that one of the best ways to get to know a city is to wander as though you lived there and sample cafes as a local would. In theory this is sounds reasonable but when wandering takes you around the entire walls of Vatican City it is time to grudgingly refer to Lonely Planet for help. Though our misdirection had been adventurous we thought it best to stay right in the city and it was here, late afternoon, we found ourselves in a small bar observing the most questionable male fashion I have ever set eyes upon.

Katherine and I had unwittingly ordered drinks in what seemed to be poser central and it was here that the two things I love about Italy collide- cheap wine and a hilarious interpretation of gentlemen's grooming. Here men care as much, if not more so, about their appearance as women and this translates into a love for hair gel, tight clothing in luminous shades and sunglasses indoors. The young Italian male then accessorises with either a Vespa or a convertible, orders beer and drinks it leaning against his vehicle of choice.

The following day we accidentally ended up at the Spanish steps, perusing the surrounding shops and it was here we saw Italian fashion at its best. Gone was the atrocious spandex in favour of crisp suits which, being red blooded females, we found alluring despite the remaining hair gel. Instead of a scooter these fine specimens accessorised with a leggy blonde stick thin woman in frighteningly high heels, teetering from store to store, clutching a small pedigree dog. It was here Katherine and I observed and envied the Italian concept of a lunch break. Sitting in a café as tourists we had all the time in the world do sip a glass of wine and have a good gossip. So too, it seemed, did the native workers. Rather than flitting from the office in a mad dash to grab a quick sandwich before a working lunch commenced, the café goers of Rome take lengthy time out to really enjoy good food in good company. The only similarity between London and Italian businessmen is that both spend a large quantity of time barking into a mobile but even here there is a difference- while Londoners bark orders to colleagues in overseas offices, the men of Rome jabber away in the way they tend to day to day. Though Rome is busy, even hectic, throughout the day the pace of life is markedly slower and this worthwhile attitude to life is evidently applied to their careers. Experiencing this I vowed to take a more Continental approach to any further employment I might embark on once summer came to sorry end.

Throughout my mini break I found myself repeatedly wishing certain areas of British culture emulated the Italian way of doing things and I'm not alone in this fantasy. Friends and family alike long for a more European experience of cafes, restaurants and bars, especially when it comes to the loathsome British tradition of binge drinking. On visiting Roman bars it wasn't just the beer that was refreshing, the whole social environment tasted sweet too. The presence of people of all ages, including families with small children, transforms a potentially drink oriented atmosphere into one of genuine socialising and good chatter where getting drunk is a possibility rather than a necessity.

Thanks to our new appreciation of alcohol we awoke without a hangover though, still, unfortunately in the hostel which resembled an NHS ward rather than shelter for travellers. But I suppose given the extreme cheap price of a night we could hardly expect much luxury and anyway the whole point of going away is supposed to be about who you meet and where you go rather than what the sheets in your bed are like. With this in mind we happily trotted off in the direction of St. Peter's accompanied by our new found friend, an Australian girl we'd met at breakfast.

Edging nearer and nearer the Swiss guards we joined the queue which was thankfully in the shade. I'd been to St. Peter's before but it was when I was seven and I think then I was more concerned about the teddy bear I'd left at home. But second time around we were both really rather excited. Katherine and I are Catholics and as we entered St. Peter's we both felt a faint flutter of pride. Pride for our religious heritage was somewhat dampened by the queue jumping nuns who proved a threat to our orderly line, even more so than the mantilla-clad old women. Though they did offer us some entertainment as the day crept towards a baking noon time- we played ‘spot the religious order'.

I am always strangely impressed and yet appalled by the opulence inside so many religious buildings. Standing inside St Peter's one is conscious that a large amount of gold is perhaps appropriate in giving glory to God, and, by association, the patron but one can't help but wonder whether the Almighty really is a fan of art that so closely verges on kitsch. Within this spirit of reverence and wonder we said a quick prayer as we past whichever pope lay in the glass case, who Katherine noted ‘was dead short'. I found the whole thing rather creepy and also somewhat spoilt by the Japanese who thought it the perfect Kodak, or, rather, Leica, moment. After unintentionally losing the Australian girl we continued our journey of kitsch by heading for the Vatican shop and buying a John Paul fridge magnet and a calendar of Benedict XIV (lovingly referred to by Katherine as ‘Ratzy'). Overall we were quite happy with a tourist jaunt this morning though I was disappointed that there were no Pope snowstorms to purchase. I suppose for the best kitsch I'll have to go back to Lourdes.

The baking heat had done nothing to diminish our appetites as I heard it was supposed to. We wandered past a café and decided it was ice cream and sit down time. You can't go to Italy without gorging on ice cream but on this occasion I opted for a small, but extremely rich, chocolate one which, considering what was on offer, I thought rather restrained. Being English we then commented on the weather (‘rather hot') and applied a liberal serving of sun lotion. Ready to brace the sun once more, we wandered through the plethora of shopping areas in quite a daze. After traipsing around shops ranging from small boutiques to European chains we became quite tired. Not wanting the trip to be a waste I bought a very pretty set of underwear and a pair of shoes, the latter from which I have suffered buyer's remorse ever since.

By the end of our second day we were knackered from what seemed like endless walking so quickly changed at the hostel and went to a little restaurant in a side street. This proved to be one of the highlights of the holiday as we had great food at low cost and good wine to match. To top it off the night ended with a slurred conversation involving extensive speculation (and, what I thought at the time to be, wisdom) from me about who Katherine might end up getting hitched to. Wonderful.

Looking back I'm thankful we had a great night as the next day was crap. We were flying home what morning and this involved us rising at stupid o'clock and attempting to carry our luggage and religious souvenirs back to the airport. This already stressful journey was not aided by the arrival of a London girl who had asked us for directions and who we had been unable to shake off. So there we were, in a cramped bus, sweating horribly and making small talk to an extra from Eastenders.

My body then thought it a good time to develop menstrual cramp at a time when I had no painkillers. Bloody marvellous. This uncomfortable and irritating situation led me to discover the first, and only, bad experience of Rome- the price of medication. Extortionate. Though I suppose it gave me the chance to use up all the change before heading back home to the green fields and awful weather of home. The rest of the journey became quite a blur and jumbled together into various memories of waiting for transport, getting on transport, leaving transport. The only time I was truly awake was to brace myself for the easyjet battle of the plane seats. We won again.