<<< More 'Opinionated Traveller' stories
Thursday, 24 Dec 1998 08:43:42
Rome is great. Loud, lively and invigorating. In fact its so invigorating I might go somewhere quieter for New Year's to have a bit of a rest.
I've been to the Colosseum, the Pantheon, St Peter's Basilica, the Trevi Fountain, the Spanish steps and a few of the less than famous landmarks in Rome. I've also sampled the world famous gelati from 'Giolitti' and drunk litres of excellent coffee (standing up - they charge you exactly three times the price if you want to sit down to drink it).
I arrived in Rome for Christmas and it was the first European city I had visited. As an introduction to exotic European culture, Rome was an eye-opener.
Some of us think of Europe as far more homogenous than it actually is. The concept of European Union was, I think, less of a shock to the rest of the world than it was to the countries of Europe. Visitors often think in terms of going to 'Europe' to see the 'Europeans'.
So most people, myself included, arrive on the shores of 'Europe' expecting to find a land full of people who, apart from the small and inconvenient fact that they speak different languages, all exhibit the same quirky little cultural traits that make them European. For most people, myself included, an education is not long in coming.
I stayed in Rome in a self catering apartment which I shared with a couple of people. There was Fabian the French traveller who was touring Europe as a kitchen hand, and Gabriel and Fiona who were language students from London.
Over some rough wine and a game of pool played on a table no bigger than a card table, Fabian taught me lethal French insults (guaranteed to get me assaulted in any French town) and Gabriel gave me his interesting insights into Italian culture. Being a keen observer of human nature and a student of Italian he was an authority on all things Italian (and for that matter on all things). When asked his opinion he would hold give it, at length. Occasionally he would break into boisterous and invective laden Italian which he delivered at three times his normal volume. His finest observation came when he noted that as Roman women get older, their skirts get shorter - as if "the number of inches in the skirt is proportional to the number of years they have left".
My only personal encounter with the women of Rome was somewhat different. It was a kind of near death experience.
The first major road I tried to cross in Rome nearly claimed my life. Coming from a well ordered society that believes in things like, the rule of law, traffic lights and the rights of pedestrians, I tried crossing against the lights. As I stepped from the curb I was driven back by horde of hairy armed Italian drivers bearing down on me in their Fiats and Alfas. The had murder in their eyes. Thoroughly shaken I limped back to the safety of the pavement and waited for the lights to change.
This time, I bounced off the pavement, confident I had the law on my side and was struck to the ground by a swarm of mopeds. They'd materialised from between the cars and taken the brief opportunity a red light presents to steal a march on their larger, road-hogging cousins.
As I lay in the gutter, bruised and battered, I could vaguely hear the stream of abuse that the retreating 'maidens' hurled in my direction. The traffic police looked on with small amused smiles and sniggered quietly to each other.
Rome in general was not good for my health.
Near St Peters I nearly suffered a nasty accident. As I sat down to contemplate the Piazza, a kindly looking old man sat down next to me. He gave me a brief, toothless grin, reached into his bag and pulled out a bread roll. He waved the roll in my general direction and then tossed it casually out across the piazza.
In seconds the sky was transformed into a boiling mass of grey feathered bodies, all vectored in on my position. Resisting the temptation to flee, I sat very still in case I was mistaken for something edible. The throng of pigeons surrounded the roll like a horde of locusts (only bigger and with feathers). After the panic subsided, I managed to retreat from the feeding frenzy and slip away. The old man grinned at me as I left.
St Peter's itself is magnificent and I think they may have cornered the market in impressive churches. After St Peter's all other churches pale into insignificance. I suspect you could tuck a less magnificent church (like London's St Paul's) into the naves of St Peter's and it would be some time before anyone noticed.
It was nearly enough to drive a man to religion... nearly. A friend of mine pointed out that despite the obvious opulence of the place they still had a collection box bolted to the wall in front of the door. It seemed like an affront, to have made the pilgrimage across the world to see the magnificent opulence of St Peter's and be confronted by a grasping hand in the name of good works.
Thursday, 31 Dec 1998 02:29:13 PST
I left Rome, heading south for Naples and Pompeii, on a 6.30am train from Rome's Statzione Central. The train to Naples took a little over two hours and I stopped briefly for breakfast before jumping on the local Circum Vesuvianii train to Pompeii, Villa dei Misteri.
Pompeii is a very atmospheric, very emotional place. The city of 10,000 people was buried under the ash of Vesuvius in 79AD and frozen in time. The buildings, shops and even brothel of the town are all preserved at the precise moment the cloud of ash descended upon the hapless townsfolk and smothered the city. The preservation of the city is just as astounding as history acclaims it to be, to the point where petrified loaves of bread have been found in some houses.
The impression Pompeii leaves is one of a city of dignified and civilised people. Their houses had hot and cold running water, their public baths had etched ceilings that drew the condensing steam away into gutters and one local merchant had an elaborate mosaic in his foyer that reads "Cave Canem", or "beware of the dog".
But it is the complete preservation of the city, coupled with small human touches, that makes Pompeii such a spooky place. Strolling down one of the rutted cobble-stone roads and coming across a couple sitting by the side of the road, reading their guide book in the dusky light, you might almost think you have come upon some long lost inhabitants of the city. Pompeii feels like a living city rather than an empty ruin.
The most emotive images however remain those of the preserved bodies of those who perished in the disaster. The plaster casts of these twisted, tortured figures, semaphore Pompeii's dying moments more succinctly than any historical text. Some of the figures have intact skeletons and some are so detailed you can see the folds of their clothes. All have a terrifying contorted aspect that needs no explanation to demonstrate their mortal agony.
In their lives, the Pompeiians were a hedonistic people who enjoyed all the pleasures of life. The major features of the city include the baths, the vintners and, most famously, the brothel. This building is the highlight for many of the tours and features an impressive mural of the twice endowed Priapus, patron saint of the brothel's customers.
By their absence, the Pompeiians have left us their city as a legacy that gives us a vivid insight into the lives they lived some two-thousand years ago.
We spent three or four hours in Pompeii, left at dusk and climbed aboard a very crowded train for Florence. The train emptied out somewhat after Rome and we reached Florence about 10.30 that night.
Only three blocks from the train station we found the very colourful "Ostello Archi Rossi" on the Via Faenza. The Ostello is modern and clean and decorated with murals done by the residents.
The main feature of Florence is the cathedral, the Duomo. Built by Bruneschelli out of pink, green and white marble, it dominates the centre of the city. A climb up the 364 steps to the top of the dome also offers an excellent views. In front of the Duomo you can find The Baptistery which features the Gates of Paradise, a set of doors that took the artist Giraldi 18 years to complete. The clients were so happy with his work they immediately commissioned another set, which took another fifteen years. Then he died.
The other major attraction in Florence is the Uffizi gallery which I found disappointing. The wait in the queue outside was excruciating and once inside I found a lot of the exhibits closed due to a terrorist attack in 1993. The remaining exhibits were largely emotionless religious portraits. In the end I think I spent longer in the queue than in the gallery.
New Year's Eve in Florence was fun, but traumatic. The Italians are fond of fireworks and not necessarily ones with pretty displays of light and sparks. Anything that goes bang is just fine with them. As you wander through the crowd, some local smart—arse will lob one at you and you will find yourself at the center of an expanding ring of people. Looking down you will note a sizzling incendiary between your legs, run for cover and, if you're lucky, probably escape with only perforated ear drums.
The next morning I got up with the sun and walked through the empty city with only the street sweepers for company. I wound my way up to the top of the Piazzale Michelangelo and sat watching the city, the Duomo, the Palazzio Vecchio and the snow capped mountains beyond.
Cinque Terre
Shortly after we boarded a train going north to La Spezia and the Cinque Terre. After a whistle stop in Pisa to take cliched photos in front of the leaning tower we arrived in Monterosso, largest of the Cinque Terre.
The Cinque Terre ("five towns") are five tiny villages on the North West coast of Italy. The weather was picture perfect, sunny and warm even in January. We spent out time drinking coffee and hiking between Monterosso and Varnazza the next town in the group of five.
It was also in Monteross where we had the best meal of our Italian trip. In the tiny Ristorante Pirata we ordered a 'Linguine Di Mare' for three people. It arrived in a vast clay pot which, coupled with a bottle of the local chianti and a superlative chocolate pudding desert was a truly memorable meal.
Tue, 5th Jan 1999 06:13:56 PST
I arrived in Venice on a dark and rainy day. The clouds made Venice gloomy, far removed from its image as the most romantic city in the world. It was cold and dark, and as I negotiated the narrow little passageways in search of our hotel, the city did not seem to hold much promise.
When the day dawned however things had changed. The sun broke through the clouds and Venice sparkled in the morning light like a newly minted coin. Crawling out of the hostel in a bedraggled state I made it fifty metres before collapsing, slug like, into a chair in front of a café on the border of a sun warmed piazza. I sat there with the heat beating down on my back and let the helpful owner ply me with endless supplies of treacle-like espresso.
As the caffeine and sunshine revived my benumbed brain I began to take in the scene. The view from my piazza-side table was very educational. Bewildered tourists bumbled back and forth across the square, mingling with the immaculately dressed Venetians taking there immaculately groomed pets for a stroll. Every so often, one of the immaculately dressed Venetians would encounter another and stop to exchange pleasantries. In a parody of their owners, the pets would exchange their own, slightly more intimate greetings.
After a little while a pair of immaculately dressed and geriatric Venetians detached themselves from the crowd and settled into the table beside us. The man peered uncertainly into the café and raised a wrinkled hand and waved vaguely at the owner within. Seconds later, the owner appeared clutching a bottle of champagne and a pair of crystal flutes. Presenting them with a flourish, he poured the sparkling wine, exchanged a few words with the couple and retired to the shadows of his café. The old man smiled gently at his wife, turned and raised his glass to us as if to say "Isn't it nice to be in Venice", and settled sat back to enjoy the sunshine.
I had to agree with him, it was lovely.
One of the attractions of Venice (particularly for an Italian city) is its total lack of automobiles. After the car-centric metropolii like Milan, Rome and Naples, it is a breath of fresh air, literally. The absence of noise too is a welcome relief. Walking can be done at your own leisurely pace and accompanied only by the distant cries of gondoliers shouting obscenities at each other.
Venice however harbours major peril for the camera equipped tourist. The town is so picturesque and so filled with photogenic flourishes that you can barely proceed five or ten metres without pausing to snap a picture. Hwoever, if you proceed like this, camera to your eye, you are liable to encounter one of those picturesque canals at first hand.
Scattered around the streets and canals of Venice are tiny masquerade shops. These shops are fronted by glass smudged by the noses of eager tourists and are lined with gold and silver masks used by the Venetians at carnival time. The walls of the shop are so bedecked with brightly colour and glittering trinkets that they resemble the inside of a kaleidoscope.
Its true, the romance of Venice has suffered from the depredations of time and the tourist trade. The gondolas and their faithful crew look sadly bedraggled, a shadow of their legendary image. The canals carry a whiff of the legendary scent of Venice and many of the buildings look shabby and dilapidated.
But for all that, Venice remains a city filled with breath taking romance. The Piazza San Marco for example is a stunning public space, described by Napolean as "the best drawing room in all of Europe".
Home to the ubiquitous European pigeon, the square is bordered by a series of colonnades which house some stupendously expensive restaurants and cafés. For the price of a small car in a developing country, you can sit and sip a cappuccino while watching the world go by.
I spent most of my last day in Venice in the Guggenheim Museum. The Museum and gallery house Peggy Guggenheim's collection of modern art which is truly stunning. Selected pieces from Kandinsky, Klee, Picasso, Braque and many others are all present and there's even a Dali tucked away in a corner.
From Venice I boarded a long series of trains to head across Italy and France and down into Spain. I shared the first train, an overnight from Venice to Nice, with a French man and an American woman travelling as a couple and finally doing their grand tour of Europe some twenty years after they first met in Italy. They seemed to be enjoying it.
