Shrink wrapped chocolate Croissants - IN ITALY!!

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Like a stepping stone on our way home, Italy has not figured in our reading or planning. As we set sail on an 8 hour ferry from Dubrovnik to Bari, it’s hard not to think of home. Molly is desperately staring to miss her Mum and friends; Facebook cannot fill the chasm. Lauren is starting to determine the daily routine and that does not involve sightseeing. Frances is clinging to the thought that the adventure could continue forever and home is not a desirable option. Bernard’s mind is naughtily trying to solve a long festering predicament at work and dallies at trip planning.

As a result, we decide once again to wing it for bed and transport. Bari, renowned as a busy port and grimy industrial city in Puglia, part of Italy’s “poor and rough south” appears on the horizon at 7.00 pm. It’s 8.30 pm before we are finally free of the vehicle deck as we get stuck behind a cast bus that has blocked the cargo door. We start to choke, watching pandemonium erupt around as exhaust fumes fill the deck, a car driver leaves his car to roll away unattended and the crew seem unable to deal with the panic. Visions of the MS Estonia rush around in my head, as we realise the desperation of being stuck inside a cargo hold. Eventually we exit, staggering under the loads of packs that seem to be growing by the day.

The “information” desk is manned by a non-English speaker, but a drawn circle on our map and aggressive nods to the “pensions” question sets Bernard up to resume confident guide status. The mono lingual traffic policeman nods happily when I ask “pension?” and point at the area of the map. A few minutes of walking through the soothing yellow flat night lights of the old town have us stared at as objects of fascination. We find the square and a group of old women shooting the breeze with gossip and curiosity. “B &B” they understand, even if there is a distinct lack of any sign of a commercial bed in sight. No-one speaks a word of English, kids are summoned, arms are waved, fingers pointed. We walk a little more, interrupted every 20 metres by another helpful local resident. If pensions exist here, they hide themselves well. Time passes, frustration increases and eventually the oldest and most immobile widow of all accompanies Bernard and The Shadow to a backpacker lodge manned by an Indian with a one way English dialogue. Frances and Lauren are left, abandoned among some Roman ruins, some curious locals and a bunch of kids playing at 9.15 pm on the lanes of Old Bari.
45 minutes later we are reunited and part with $215 to ascend a fireman’s staircase and wedge ourselves into a newly renovated room with 2 bunks and a bathroom. Austerity takes on a new level here. Here are 4 tiny rooms, vertically stacked, with a spiral staircase to connect them all. Rented as “B & B” it would make an Englishman shudder. The pillows are cushions, the polar fleece sheet doubles as a blanket, towels the size of a bath mats, the aircon remote arbitrarily removed after 15 Sept each year, the TV unable to be viewed other than from the top of one bunk and soap replaced with a pump bottle of froth. The room downstairs serves as a breakfast/lounge room for the 3 groups of inmates and a spare shower/toilet. There is no hot water downstairs anywhere, the washing machine (placed slap bang in the centre of the “lounge”) announces, “It is strictly forbidden for inmates to use the WM. If used, management will charge $100 on ALL guests credit cards who stayed this night”. Other signs remind us of the poor translation “strictly forbidden” makes and Molly and Bernard have to hold back from providing some editing to the endless signs.
There appear to be 7 guests. By the fridge are 7 packaged chocolate croissants, a litre of milk, a jar of cornflakes, 4 spoons, 4 plates and 4 cups. There is no knife, fork, sink plug, hot water, clean up facility, dish cloth or tea bags; just a sink and a draining rack. Just as we are ready to ascend to the room after our “breakfast”, our Indian man arrives with 4 early Lithuanian arrivals. Bernard has 30 minutes of pure entertainment as a farce develops over how much is owed for the room and what time they can have it. The explanation gets even more complicated as our host explains “It is strictly forbidden to remain at the hostel / B & B from 1000 hrs to 1700 hrs each day due to cleaning.” On and on the argument goes, all in pigeon English. Oh how I have to restrain myself. But it’s pure Monty Python and in the end, calmness reigns as a ceasefire ensues. I clamber upstairs, knowing our room will be their home and not accessible to the poor newly arrived souls until after 5.00 PM. We leave at 0959 hrs. We dare not ask if we can leave our luggage here for a few more hours, so struggle to the train station and pay $50 to store bags for 4 hours.
Alberobello, a short train ride from Bari, holds our attention for a day, as we explore its streets with their somewhat unusual conical shaped houses, known as “Trulli”. We spend a fortune on one for two nights, but by now, budget does not matter. If you can do China for $150 per day, we know $600 will not go far here in Italy.

We race north on a 7 hour bus ride across a fertile and abundant land. The land is heavily farmed, squeezing production up to the last cm of soil along the fence line. Table grapes hang pregnant under a mass of bird netting, corn, broccoli, and all manner of crops provide a heavy contrast to the lands of Turkey and Croatia. Roma eventually slides into view, a brown and relatively low rise suburban sprawl. We are tipped out into a seething bus station, no guide book, no map, no information office and no idea what to do. Another bus to the train station and Bernard leaves the girls atop our bags and sets off to find value for money in Rome! He fails at this, so shifts the objectives to quality, quiet, safety and comfort. Ahaa, how to turn failure into success! $350 a night later we are ready to savour our final nights away.

Spanish Steps, Trevi Fountain, Santa Maria Maggiore, Piazza Venezia, Vatican City Museums, Colosseo, The Forum, Sistene Chapel, St Peter’s Basilica, St Peter’s in Chains. Here is a city that generates millions of tourist visits a year. And how awe inspiring it all is and the stories and history astound. We set out one day to do St Peters. We are accosted on arrival to do a tour. Shelling out $200 seems extreme, but we enrol for 2.5 hours, hoping the speed will allay boredom with the girls and keep us moving. The tour was everything it should not have been. A huge group, slow queues, the audio gear was crap and the hordes inside the Vatican Museums are indescribable. But our guide was something else, an actor and a professional. All is forgiven of the touts outside, as we embark on a 4 ½ hour history tour of Papal Rome and its fabulous art. He had us in his hand like putty, weaving fabulous insights into anything we looked at. Waving an unlit cigarette until he finished a chapter, he would then light up and continue with hardly a pause. His battered backpack, rumpty beard and ill fitting clothes, belied the amazing repository of understanding and ability to unravel the marvels of religious art. At 1430 hrs, we fall out of the Vatican, the girls having held together, but now hungry and tired. We stop at the first food stall, and are rewarded with the trips worst fast food. The Panini was almost inedible. I head back and complain. “Where you from” the Indian man asks me? “NZ” I answer. He sneers, frowns, and hands over another Panini. Clearly I am not the only Kiwi to have come back and complained!!

We tick the list in this fabulous city, but there is something missing. For a tourist, Rome is the epitome of the bubble that exists, wherever there is a tourist industry. So often on this second half of the trip, we find ourselves in “a place”. We experience it, we enjoy it, we do the sights, but only as you leave, do you get a sense of escaping the bubble. Ancient Rome is a bubble. Outside this amazing repository of the world’s history, life is still evolving. The Gypsies’ camps are being razed at the rate of 2 a week, the volatile immigrant cultures explode in a frenzy of graffiti and crime, the preservation of the environment is a problem for someone else, rubbish stifles the growth of grasses and weeds, steel shutters hide a business frontage for 12 hours a day, the reality of long commutes and snarling traffic is etched onto the faces of tired and worn out residents and the pleasures of the Roman empire are a million miles away.

Lunch on Saturday is booked with Valentina and Andrea (from our gullet trip in Turkey). We meet in Piazza Navona at 1300 hrs. Within minutes we escape the replica cafes that line the square and wriggle around some narrow and suddenly more working class streets. Rome in autumn is delicious and the weather still and sunny. But every other Roman has beaten us here, so we settle for an indoor table. It’s such a pleasure to sit back and let our new friends take over the banter and negotiations. We thrive as all travellers do when given the chance to delve into the minds of a local a little more. We have lovely food, great company and Lauren is so thrilled to see her newest best friend again. The conversation takes its normal path as we understand the frustrations and needs of people the world over remain the same. But most useful to us, sitting as we are in one of the world’s most desirable and image evoking cities, the cold hard reality hits. New Zealand is a desirable and image invoking destination for these Europeans. They love our image, they hear only good, and yes, they would love to live there. It’s comforting to go through the process so close to departure time, having a neutral party remind us that home is pretty damn good and that, as much as we love Rome, we only experience the unreal tourist bubble.

It is this twin exposure that epitomises the traveller’s experiences. There are no rights and wrong, black can be white, and white can be black. One man’s thrill is another’s nightmare. What we see is determined by our eyes and our state of mind, not by the physical buildings and facilities. Taking experiences and education away, rates higher than photographs and immersion. Rome is a fabulous city at its heart, but what makes it enjoyable, is the travellers state of mind.

It is time to leave. Eleven hours to Kuala Lumpur follow. We don’t sleep, and we feel flat and feeble on arrival. Bernard has committed to a day shopping, Frances wants sleep. We bus into town, and are confronted with awful or full hotels. We flag the sleep, and head to Mid Valley shopping centre. Lunch improves the physical feeling, but the state of mind is still poor. Another $4.00 taxi, and its back to China Town for one final fling. Molly is set loose, with cash, a list, and the skills to negotiate tough and long. Frances finally spends a bit on herself, and Bernard plans dinner. He makes a challenging decision, to retrace steps from July. Pushing aside all the rules and intuition, it’s Chinese for dinner. North along Petaling St, right at the arch, walk 40 metres, right into a tiny and narrow service lane. Past the Indian and other stainless steel mobile kitchens. Over the broken drain covers. Around the night stall holders and handcarts reappearing from the cracks and crevices off the lanes. There are 12 white plastic tables, lopsided and messy on the side of the lane. Red plastic stools arranged around each table. A canvas awning strung over the lane, waits for a tropical downpour. Hanging from the awning, a dozen or more yellow and red paper pineapple lanterns from some long forgotten festival. Bernard is ahead of the others, sniffing the breeze, eager to eat and choking on the chilli paste burning in the wok. We sit. Our waitress approaches, and a huge smile breaks out. “Ahhh you come back again.” I am staggered, 74 days and she remembers us. Within moments the chef and another server smile like crazy at us. She organises the order for me, based on our last meal. Ginger beef, eggplant with prawns, sweet and sour pork, stir fried vegetables, 2 rice and 1 large beer. Its $35 and phenomenally good. The wash area is an outside tub next to us within splashing range, the stools wobble, I hesitate to find a spot where I can place the backpack on the ground, the feet feel sweaty and dusty at the same time, the clouds of burning chilli choke, the wok explodes in a ball of fire every few minutes, ready to melt inexperience or an innocent passer bye. Before the beer is sunk, a feast appears, one of hundreds every day served from this place of life, not business. You cannot get this in NZ, Rome it is not, Asia it most certainly is. The energy and state of mind are restored from this morning’s onset of flatness. The spirits are not only restored, but the uplift is wonderful. The thought of tonight’s flight home is now appealing and attractive.

We set out on an adventure, not a holiday. We set out to break a few comfort zones, push some relationships a bit further and to find a few stumbles along the way. And we wanted to remind ourselves how life is for living the moment and how much we have to appreciate that. There is no measure of success or failure. At times, travelling as a tight four for six continuous months has been hugely challenging and frustrating. Sure we have not exactly ticked off “the world’s most dangerous bus, ferry, plane and train rides” but we have had a hell of a lot of fun. Not a threat to our safety, not a lost bag or child, not a worry in the world.

The travel has not been about the destinations. Really, we could have picked any number of destinations for 6 months of activity. It’s all been about perception and about the state of our minds as travellers and observers of other people and culture. Thanks for sharing a few snippets.

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Photos

Trulli
These conical stone buildings are a feature of the region of Puglia.

The Shadow in Puglia
Alberobello was cute and relaxing to prepare for Roma.

Waiting for the bus
0650 hrs in Alberobello, ready for our last big trip

Moses
Sculptured by Michelangelo when he was only 24 years old. This set him up for a life of fame and servitude to the Popes. He did the Sistine under sufferance!!

Colosseum
Little Lauren, and there is no trick photography going on here

Pizza in Rome
Pronounced as the best on the trip! And boy, did she try a few pizza en-route

Coffee anyone
All this queue, for half a mouthful of pretty average coffee. Atomic here I come

Trevi Fountain
One coin, you will return to Rome. Obviously I threw a 1 lira coin last time, it took 26 years to return!

Pantheon - Rome
Built as a Roman temple, then converted to a church. This concrete dome, was an amazing piece of Roman technology. Soon afterwards the world lost the instructions to build this way in concrete, until well into the middle ages.

Piazza Navona
A Euro a photo. With about 20 performers, this constituted a large expense for 2 hours entertainment.

St Peters Basilica
Desite it's size and reputation, it looks a bit pedestrian from the outside. And its new, circa 17th century.

Vatican Museums
The popularity of the Sistine Chapel, means that almost all visitors miss the magnificence of the whole museum. Here's a tip guys. Forget the Chapel, and just marvel at the incomprehensibly amazing display of other art works

Our Vatican guide
Managed to turn a 2.5 hour tour into 4.5 hours. What a star. What knowledge, what style, I swear he was ready to light up a fag in the Sistine Chapel if given half a chance.

Inside St Peters
While the outside is dull, the inside is staggering. Absolutely staggering