Rome & Venice

Ok kiddiewinks (which I have just discovered is an approved word in Microsoft Word’s spellchecker), the blog is back after much demand. Well, ok, Greg said he was a bit bored and could do with something to read, but that’s pretty much the same thing as huge demand.

Now, to whet your appetites before hurling straight into my current Italian adventure, I’m actually providing you, dear reader, with my New Year’s European Mini-Break Extravaganza. I’m writing up the notes directly from my journal, so, this is not only a testament to my travels but also to how bored I am right now. And possibly self-indulgent.

Okies, chaps, here goes:

Friday 9th January 2009, 13.47 (GMT)

I’m currently at 39,000 feet, travelling at around 460mph and my thoughts are to write? What’s wrong with me?

So, today was an early start, up for 06.50, a hideous idea, however thankfully that lovely mother of mine gave me a lift to Axminster. Armed with a backpack (13.8kg), my satchel, wrapped up warm and looking slightly like an Curban Guerrilla (that’s an urban Cuban guerrilla, dur), or at least I like to think. I made Mum take a photo anyway, to capture the innocent lamb leaving the fold, or something like that.

We departed in the dear old Clio, whose lights decided to pack in, which wasn’t in anyway terrifying, whatsoever, and from the temperature dial (oddly futuristic looking in a less than futuristic car) it was -4oC, which I don’t need to tell you is frankly absurd. Apparently it was -12 in Cologne yesterday. I’m glad that have manly and rugged boots. Oh yes.

Upon arrival at Axminster I purchased my ticket to Bristol Temple Meads, bid adieu to mother-dearest and the car of death and hopped on the 07.37 to Exeter St. Davids. There I was set into a flurry of panic as my connection to Bristol TM was delayed by half an hour, but fear not, dear readers, I had planned with my normal level of paranoia (that is I accounted for nuclear strikes and dinosaurs rising from the ground and time for myself, Daniel Craig and Clive Owen to fight off the reptilian bastards, and knock in a quick martini afterwards) and made more than enough allowances for mishaps.

At Bristol TM I caught the bus link to the airport, where check-in was shockingly painless, which after a summer of working in one of the horrid things was quite pleasant to see was possible. I did get stopped in security for making their machines go BEEP, but after removing my shoes and scanning me with a good buzzy thing, they quite rightly deemed me harmless.

Even now I can’t quite believe I’m doing this - the idea of just going to Rome seems so far-fetched from my everyday life - as it is. It’s been funny hearing announcements on the plane in Italian (so far I’ve only picked up “we’re going down”, “engine-failure” and “ring your loved ones, mobile interference won’t matter when we’re all going to die anyway”). What a queer fish I am.

Hmm, where was I? Ah, yes, after being deemed secure I had to wait 2h20m to check in. Egadzooks. When we did the lining up to board, I found it hilarious how worked up everyone seems to get about queue-jumping (not that I committed such a heinous crime, I mean, I am British after all) and the wait to board. The plane still leaves at the same time! I’m not quite sure what particular paradise they were expecting beyond the gate, but it didn’t half remind me of being a rep...

The plane is an Airbus, typical EasyJet, because of my patience and lack of pushing I was actually the last to get on ,which didn’t bother me in any way whatsoever, although I would have preferred a window seat over an aisle one, but not enough to scramble. Meh - Rome from the air is no doubt beautiful but I get to play in the city itself, which will be far more fun.

This is a very different adventure to my Corsica/Venezia one, at least it feels it. I’m surrounded by people reading guidebooks (yes, I suppose it’s allowed, but surely only behind closed doors! Don’t these people have their own personal libraries? Good gosh...), and there doesn’t appear to be a single Italian on board. The biggest difference is that in all honesty I don’t feel as BoHo (god, what a pretentious little oik I am) - mostly because I have a plan - I know where I’m going. Don’t get me wrong, ti’s not a detailed plan - it extends to ‘Hostel’, but things are booked, which they weren’t April last year.
I still can’t wait.
Monty*

*I don’t sign my journal entries Monty, but for the blogs that’s who I am, blah blah blah.


19.12 (GMT+1)

I am now sat on my standard-issue prison cell bunk-bed (bottom tier) in the exceptionally dingy MJ Place Hostel, right in the centre of Rome. It’s fucking awesome! The best thing about this places is that is a mere €10/night. Bargain!

So, I landed at around 16.25 local time and the difference in temperature was noticeable - in Bristol -4, here +12. Hmm...
What is odd is how 12 degrees in Jesolo was absolutely freezing, in the last couple of weeks, but your body acclimatises. I was loving 12 degrees today.

I flew to Ciampino Airport, and a glorious view of Rome manifested itself from the plane. I actually began to understand why people I had played a mini-game of rugby to get on the plane. I spotted the Vatican, walled away in its splendour, and the Coliseum, iconic as it has been for millennia.

So, how did I see these things, I hear you ask, without a window seat? Well, thankfully Mr & Mrs Yukky, next to me, were complexly uninterested in the approach to Rome and as result were sat back and thus I could see for myself. I must ask, why in God’s name did these people sit by the window in the first place? They were asleep as we passed over Paris, Geneva and the Alps, blocking the view. Mrs Yukky even had the impertinence, impudence (damn-her-eyes) and cheek to give me a funny look as we were landing, which gave a “How dare you look out the window through my airspace!”. Fair enough.
Enough of the Yukky’s. Let me not worry myself with these trivial types. So, I had the joyous and novel experience of my backpack being the within the first three items onto the baggage carousel. Feeling very pleased with myself I then proceeded to find out where to buy my ticket for the bus to Termini (the train station, €6). Of course, the Italian authorities only threw a cursory glance at my passport and the very idea of stamping it for my edification would probably have got me a sound, and no-doubt well-deserved beating.

I purchased my ticket and then made my way to the waiting bus. So far, so good. The bus journey to Termini took approximately an hour, the traffic was utterly horrendous, but that didn’t bother me. I enjoyed passing The Latin-American Circus, where I saw a lion padding around in its cage (I shit ye not), the ancient ruins of an aqueduct and some more bricky things (typing this up, I realise that wasn’t the best use of adjectives, I think I meant some ruins), before passing the urban detritus of the suburbs and finally getting into the Centro Storico. Bloody good, what?

The bust stopped outside of Termini, on Via Marsala, which was lucky because that was exactly where I wanted to be. One street off we have Via Solferino and at No. 9 we have the MJ Place. I found it as easily as that, and tentatively made my way up the steps to the 1ma Piano, where reception is and checked in. This was helped by the lovely Lara and hindered by my mediocre Italian. I sort of made up a word (well, more said ‘reservation’ with an Italian accent, as opposed to the correct ‘prenotazione’), but Lara came to the rescue speaking English and unintentionally making me feel like a prize fool. Passport copied, bill paid, breakfast ordered for Sunday morning. Sorted.

I’m on the 3rd floor, room 115, 8 beds, 2 are vacant, including myself, 5 are taken. No-one was in the room, so I made my bed with the basic linen provided (all that’s need, really), dumped my bag and then went out to explore. This involved a few walks around the block, some pizza and then a sweaty return to the hostel to not only write up, but to get changed and ‘freshen up’ a little bit. (Writing this up, I am struck by the camp-ness of my journal writing. Then again, what kind of numpty writes a journal in this day and age?)

I met one of the people in the room very briefly, by which I mean I said “Hi” and they said “Hi” in return. I’ve never been to a hostel before, so I’m not sure of the etiquette. Always work your way from the outside in, that works with cutlery, do you think that will work with everything else? Hmm...
Anyhow, I have removed my (rugged and manly) boots and socks, which is freaking blissful, and I ‘m contemplating my next move. I’m probably going to have a nap and then attack Rome a bit. I’m not quite sure if bars are a good idea or not.*
That’s all for today,

Monty.
*Editor’s note: When this was written I was nearly a month into my 5 month abstinence of alcohol (well, except one minor glitch when Greg came to visit me in February, but that’s another story).

Saturday 10th January 2009, 12.58 (+1)

As I write this particular entry I am sat on the marble steps of a very official building in Piazza dei Popolo (what a fantastic place name, say it...it just rolls off the tongue). Upon consultation of my guide book (which I kept hidden on the plane, and am using only as reference book, cough cough) it is either the Chiesa di Santa Maria dei Miracoi or Chiesa di Santa Maria in Montesanto. There are two identical churches parallel to each other. It’s definitely one of them though. Opposite me I have Benini’s massive Porta dei Popolo. It’s a tad ostentatious, but utterly enthralling.
So, this morning I walked around an entire country, as you do. Yes, it was the Vatican, but it still counts and is an achievement, so there. I also posted 4 postcards, although I am curious to see if they will get to their destinations (They did. Ed) - they were a mite blasphemous, in a tongue-in-cheek way. Well, ok, one might have been a picture of the Pope looking a bit odd, and I might have written on the back that if he looked paranoid, he’d probably just blame it on the Gays and the Jews.
Anyhow, more on that later, my legs are rested and my arse is already going numb, so time to go down the Via dei Corso. Laters.

Monty

Saturday, 17.04 (+1)

I am thoroughly exhausted. I will start, as is best, from the beginning.
I had a peculiar night’s sleep - I don’t think I’ve ever slept in a room with 7 other people before and certainly not with ones I didn’t know. Combine this with the mild claustrophobia of being on the bottom bunk, it wasn’t easy getting to sleep. I was in a peculiar mood anyway - I had failed to find any Regazzi )(Italian: young people, anyone under 30) at all - Friday night in Rome was dead - which I found absolutely baffling, so I wearily returned to the hostel, where I ended up talking to Ralph (US) and Fiona (AUS), which was pleasant.

The three Hong-Kong-ians didn’t return until late, which did confuse me, waking me up, thus causing me to sit bolt upright, which had the knock-on effect (please excuse the awful pun) of me smacking my head in the upper bunk and yelping. The plus side is I think I scared those cheeky chaps more than they scared me. Nonetheless, I did get some sleep and in a snoozy haze was none-too-impressed at everyone getting up and leaving at 8am. I was tired and had planned for my day to start at 9am, and damn right it did! Hmph.

At 9 I did get up, flattened my hair with some water (I’m a classy bird, me), as the Sonic look was a little last-decade and then decided that the best way to get to the Vatican was via the Metro.

Now Ralphie told me it was quite a walk, which it really, really wasn’t. Anyhow, it was exceptional value at €4 for a day travelcard, which took me to the Cipro stop form Termini, where it was a five minute walk to the Vatican(hardly “quite a walk”, really Ralphie, do come on). The 5 minute walk actually took 7 minutes, it took me two minutes to a pop a text to Rickers to say happy birthday, having monumentally cocked up a week earlier and rang him to wish him happy birthday, when it was in fact Gem’s birthday, his girlfriend. Goddam.

It was actually lucky that I decided to do the Vatican first and not last, which was my original plan - I chose this purely on a guess that it would work out easier - which it certainly did as the Sistine Chapel was closing at 12.30 that day [ Which as I later found out was because Will Smith was visiting the Vatican, whilst he was in Rome to promote his latest film, Seven Pounds (or Sette Anima in Italian, which translates as Seven Souls). So, there, now you know that religion can be stopped, but only by Hollywood’s A-List. Ed.]. I got there for around 10ish - found the Metro gloriously efficient, although they did make one mistake: you’re given two choices Linea A or Linea B, but until you commit to one or the other there’s no way of knowing which way they go, nor can you lay your hands on a subway map, like in the UK. Then again, in comparison, the Rome Metro is a Hornby playset to the Tube.

My main aim was to do the Sistine Chapel, as that was the part that I missed out last time I was in Rome (the only other time, August 2003) and the part that I wanted to see the most. How it works is that you buy a ticket (€14) for the Musei Vaticano, including the Sistine and go round the museum finally finishing up in the Chapel and then out.

The Vatican is glorious, really, full of glory. They seem to have a perverse penchant for ceilings and making them obscenely beautiful and thus causing neck-ache - but I guess that’s a status symbol (“Oh yes, your Holiness, I’ve not been able to look down for 3 days!”).
Honestly, they are too much - it’s too much beauty for one place. The density of beauty is unmanageable - there’s a very real danger of it creating an ugly black-hole. If beauty was radioactive that place would make Chernobyl look clean. The downside of this is that a panel in a ceiling that an artist, undoubtedly a master craftsman, has grafted hard for, worked night and day to complete, becomes simply a tile in a mosaic - one of thousands.

In that sense I found the Sistine incredibly impressive, but somewhat disappointing. For some reason I had it in my mind that God/Adam (the famous bit, y’know, divine spark and all) was massive and covered a dome. No idea where that came from, the truth is it’s a panel that looks about the size of a tea-towel in a mass of other astonishingly accomplished frescoes and paintings.

There was a fantastic art-exhibition too, including a couple of Dali’s, which was a pleasant surprise. One of the many incredible corridors (another perverse papal penchant - there are so many I think it may have been designed [with incredible papal prescience] with filming the Catholic equivalent of the West Wing in mind) was dedicated to papal booty (which, incidentally would make an excellent Christian Rap title) - or Stuff What The Pope Has Nicked Over The Ages. Now, admittedly some of the architects were “gifts”...pfff...that did include two hideously garish swans from the diocese of New York in the 70’s. Yuk. What did catch my attention were the frescoes of maps of the Holy Roman Empire, etc., which were grand - also there were a couple of incredibly old globes - 300-400 years old. I naturally looked at Britain and giggled when I saw the 3 place names they had deemed worthy at the time: London (duh), Bristol (ok, an important port) and...? Cornwall. Yep. Cornwall. Made me chuckle and think of Greg. And pasties. Mmm.

After my Geiger-counter exploded from the beauty I walked round the rest of the walls to St Peter’s Square, which was just as visually impressive as the first time I had seen it 5 and half years ago.
Now something I do consider odd, however, is that all of the Christmas decorations are up still, not only in the Vatican - I was under the impression that the correct day to take them down was Epiphany (06/01) and it was bad luck to have them up any longer. Then again, I have been known to be wrong before. Once. Maybe twice. Anyhow, who am I to argue with the entire Catholic Church? You won’t find me nailing notes to doors...(actually, that’s a lie, although they’re far less incendiary than Luther’s, mine go along the lines of ‘gone for lunch’ or ‘back in 10mins’. Gosh, what a firebrand I am...).

I some snapping in the square [that’s taking photos, not bone crunching. Ed] but refrained from going into the Basilica - for one, there was queue, two I had done it before and 3, it had had such an impact on me the first time I didn’t want to lessen or marginalise that any.

I purchased a couple of hoodies (clothing garments, not pesky youths) just outside the City, one as gift for Kate Duncan, one for me (teehee), then caught the Metro at Ottavario down to Spagna, where I alighted and did the Spanish Steps, yet again something I had missed out on the first time. I climbed to the top where I was rewarded with a beautiful view and then... and then... and then I got fleeced for €10 by a bastard called Carlo and my own stupidity. He started talking to me in English, I replied in Italian, partly as the natural show-off that I am, and partly because I had spoken sod all Italian since arriving, so I let myself get flattered.
“Hold out your finger,” he said.
“How much is this going to cost me?” I asked warily. “Oh, nothing, nothing, hold out your finger!”
He produced a couple of strands of wool, and the naive fool that I am thought that maybe there was going to be a magic trick. I made sure my satchel was in front of me against the wall and my wallet was deep inside my pocket which was also on the part of me leaning against the wall, just in case.
Carlo then proceeded to braid this dainty little bracelet, which I am wearing now [and still now, although slightly grubbier. Ed.], and gave me some bull about how one loop was for good luck and the other for good work or something similar.
As he finished he said: “You are my friend, I don’t name a price, you tell me what you want to pay. Normally I charge €10, but not for you...”
Well, fair enough, I though, he’s entertained me, I’ve spoken some Italian and I figured it’d cost me something, and I quite liked the little urchin (ok, he was about 10 years older than me, but I never get to use the word urchin).
“5 Euros.” I said, quite generously. It didn’t really bother me.
“Ah, that’s very kind.” I handed over €5, to which he looked rather perturbed. “Where’s the other €5?”
“The other €5?” He then proceeded to explain that the bracelet was made of two loops and that I was offering to pay for both loops, for a total of €10. At that point his big scary friend appeared behind me. So €10 it was. THAT IS TEN POUNDS FOR APIECE OF WOOL!!! DAMN MY STUPIDITY!!!
I paid the rapscallion, and trudged down the steps fuming, my rage only being further incensed as when I was half way down he shouted out: “Ciao amico, you are my friend, you have a good time in Rome!”.
‘I bloody will, you bastard,’ I thought, ‘only €10 freaking shorter!’.

Miffed, I made my way to the Via dei Corso , the main street of Rome, where I ended up in the gorgeous Piazza Popolo (see previous entry). Something I found hilarious was a phenomenon that clearly crosses countries - Goths On Steps. On this beautiful Roman church, next to me, the Boho explorer (I like to think), was a group of little Goths, smoking and looking utterly miserable, apart from one who kept laughing, and as a result kept getting glared at by the other, more serious, ones.
I never did determine which church steps I was sat on - on the left as you come from Via dei Corso.

Having fully appreciated my surroundings and nursed my sore legs I returned along Via dei Corso and visited the Pantheon via Piazza Columna, which took my breath away. I kept going to the end of Corso and was promptly rewarded with Piazza Venezia and the astounding Palazzo di Emanuelle Vitorrio II, sometimes known as ‘the typewriter’ for it’s distinctive shape. I then made my way up the steps (which seem to be up there with ceilings and corridors - they’re everywhere in Rome. I’ve just realised how inane that statement seems - I mean they’re everywhere without any necessity), passed the Unknown Soldier, who has a permanent guard, but I didn’t know them either, past the Eternal Flame (who’d have though the Bangles would have such a profound inspiration) to the top. The view was wonderful, I could see the Forum, the Coliseum, Palatine Hill - absolutely gorgeous.

I then proceeded to do the museum which basically went over Italy’s history (bear in mind that is only 150 years, roughly), including a fair bit on Garibaldi, who I can definitively say form seeing his clothing and photos, was a midget. My favourite fact also derives from this place: the statue of Emanuelle Vittorio II is said the be the largest statue in Europe, with his moustache measuring at 3m long. Put that in your pipe and smoke it!

I had exhausted the possibilities of Pza Venezia, so I then, perhaps a little foolishly, decided I would make my own route to the Coliseum, via the Forum without consulting my map or guidebook. Hmm. After an hour of wondering that got me into the Jewish Ghetto I conceded defeat and followed the river until I knew roughly where I was. I made it back to Pza Venezia where I consulted my books, realised the Forum is no longer free (grr!) and that there was a much easier route to the bottom that when I took more than 2 seconds to look could see very easily from where I had been.

‘Well, bugger that for a game of soldiers,’ I thought, ‘no-one’s making me pay for history!’.
I was, as it turns out, wrong (so that’s three times now). I was apprehended climbing over a fence by a nice young man in the Municipal Police, who looked very amused at the English ass attempting to scale a very low fence and making an absolutely cock-up of it.
“I’m sorry officer, I saw a very rare butterfly and was chasing it to identify it...”
Ok, I didn’t say that, but I wish I had. What I actually said was far more along the lines of “Dreadfully sorry...didn’t realise you had to pay...just on holiday...Rome is beautiful...gosh, I do love the police...”. He just laughed and told me to get on my way, which was damned decent of him and avoided much embarrassment.

I walked down from the top and as I was at the bottom I noticed I was standing right in front of the one place that I had decided to go to in advance, and in terms of current events, the Picasso Exhibition and the Complesso Vittoriano, which at €10 was a little overpriced (and the school-group needed shooting), but fascinating nonetheless.
Having done ‘being cultural and shit’ I then made my way to the Coliseum, very easily took a couple more photos (and declined to go in, I’d done that before and it’s not as good as my amphitheatre in Verona), before getting back hassle-free to Termini, and then the hostel. And now I’ve spent far too long writing this up - it has been a full day!

I’ve just had a chat with Fiona (Aus), we’re going out to grab some food, I’ll report back later.

Monty(nova)


Monday 12th January, 23.21 (+1)

I write to you from a bed in Jesolo Paese, in the 3rd floor of the Montino household, by the light of my travel-reader thingy.

It has been such an eventful couple of days that I have not even had time to write them up. I will do my best to relate them to you, but I might fall asleep!

So, I left off after just having asked the delightful (and beautiful) Fiona out for dinner, as I was going out to eat in a restaurant (I’d saved for this holiday, sometimes it’s ok to treat yourself) - why eat alone? She’s a lovely girl, about 5’10” (at a guess), blonde, athletic, from Melbourne and first time out of Australia, having a whale of a time.

Ralph, who I got to know a bit, really was a queer fish - he struck me as someone who perhaps had done too much acid in the 70’s - I guess he was around 55, born in NY, but lived in Alaska for the past 30 years, before deciding to travel around Italy for 6 months. Anyhoo, he wasn’t with us.
So, we cruised around the Termini district looking for somewhere to eat, but very much like Friday night, it was empty! We found a place, a traditional style restaurant, where we given Prosecco as an aperitif. I hade Braesola (cured beef), Parmesan and Rocket salad as a starter, the Spaghetti alla Carbonara, whilst Fiona had Polpette (meat balls).

She was fantastic company and really what I had expected (and otherwise failed to find) from the hostelling scene. It was great to have someone to talk to, and to some extent flirt with, but mostly just some company that was different.

The owner/manager of the restaurant had a good chat with me, although I found my Italian sub-par and insufficient, taking a real knock - part 4 month absence, part Roman dialect and part getting into being in Italy again.

Not being able to find a bar with people in it, we returned to the hostel where, exhausted, we chatted and then feel asleep. Separately. I know this is bad, but I must confess I had certain urges and not being able to act upon them, or even flirt properly as we were in a room with 5 other people was about as frustrating and infuriating as it gets. See, 10 years of journaling I still haven’t changed, I’m still a base little oik.

I slept much better that night - although I found out why I nearly froze to death the previous morning - because Ralph opens the window a couple of hours before dawn ‘because it kills the bed-bugs’. Ugh. Dear God, Hippy, you’ve smoked too much, and even so, I’d rather get bitten for a couple of nights than get hypothermia.

For once I had the common sense and prudence to buy my ticket on Saturday at Termini - for my journey to Venezia Mestre, so I actually had very little to do Sunday morning. I took breakfast in the hostel, but I was all packed and set - the breakfast was pisspoor, but only €2 (or a fifth of a tatty wool bracelet, as I like to look at it), so no real loss.

With nothing to do for couple of hours, I returned to my room in the hostel and read Captain Corelli’s Mandolin (not ‘Mandarin’ as I keep wanting to write, which is irritating) some more (which I’m enjoying thoroughly), then checked out of my room at 10.00am, said ‘ciao’ to Ralph and then realised I had left my backpack in the room (seriously), returned and left promptly and slightly red-faced at being such a crap traveller.

I did the 5min walk to Termini, was 44 minutes early for my train, went to the waiting room and read some more. Needing a pee, I found the toilets (80c - extortionate!), had the amusing inconvenience of peeing with a 15kg backpack on (I wasn’t going to put it down on that floor!). Anyhow, if you should find yourself in that situation, the key is to get the lean forward right to balance. It’s tricky, too far forward and you’ll fall in your own urine. Too far back and you’ll end up ‘tortoised’ - on your back and trapped, and no doubt peeing over yourself too. Ok, that’s quite enough filth for now.

Eventually my platform was called and then with a combination of idiocy and good fortune I got on the wrong carriage and was thankfully directed to the correct one. Honestly, I have no idea how I get through the world. Sometimes I think I’m proof that evolution doesn’t exist - I’m certainly not the fittest, yet I appear to be surviving.

So, I strolled along the carriage trying to find my compartment (yes, in Italy the trains are modern versions of 1960’s British trains, just without pipe-smoke and broadsheets), and thanked the Gods above when I saw 4 young women. Then I saw one of them had a child, but still, can’t argue, thems aren’t bad odds...

‘Right,’ I thought, ‘you’ve been in the country a couple of days, time to get the Italian working...’. Off I babbled and they understood me, started to reply and I had no bloody idea what they were saying at all. Well, that’s because they were a bunch of sisters from Naples and Neapolitan dialect is the Italian equivalent of Geordie, i.e. incomprehensible. As it turns out, they spoke English and were absolutely lovely and kept me entertained for the journey, especially the little girl, Celia, who was 5 years old and thus had that limitless energy and laughter. The girls were called Giusy, Maria, one whose name I’ve forgotten, and the last one was called Tiziana. Which is all well and good, until I found out what they call ‘Tiziana’s’ for short, and then had to stifle a tragically puerile giggle: Titty. Heheheh.

The journey was absolutely beautiful, there was even snow in Rovigo, but after a couple of hours I was on the same line as the journey I had taken from Florence to Venice in April the previous year, but nonetheless it was fabulous. Six hours and forty minutes later I arrived into Mestre absolutely exhausted but happy.

I’m going to have to finish this tomorrow, not only am I exhausted but I only have a few precious minutes of being 23 left.

Monty


Tuesday 13th January, 12.04 (+1)

Sono molto vecchio addesso - 24! Yes, indeed another year and I am still victorious, that despite battered and bruised, I am alive. Very much so.

Where am I currently? Why, on a boat just leaving Punta Sabbione for Venice, of course! Ma certo!

So last night I was a little unsuccessful in going to bed - I read until half four in the morning and until I had finished Captain Corelli’s Mandolin. It is actually now on a list of only two books that have made me cry, it was so beautifully well-written (and so much better than that God-awful film, which completely missed the point).

The sun is shining so brightly on the Adriatic at the moment, God bless it. Hmm, I’m getting distracted, I need to see where I had got up to yesterday. Ah, yes, Mestre.

Mestre is an enormous, sprawling labyrinth of platforms, people and pollution. I helped le donne pazze from the train, bid them a reserved and English farewell (shook their hands, none of this kissing nonsense and said ’piacere’ - nice to meet you) and promptly walked in completely the wrong direction in the subway, stopping only to help a lady, whom I did not understand, with her overly large and heavy bag, as every other bastard seemed to be ignoring her struggle.

Upon surfacing on the wrong side of the station, I backtracked, cursed the bitter cold and fading sunlight, before getting to the Bigllietteria and buying my bus ticket to Lido di Jesolo. I’ve got to interject at this point, if I’m honest this boat journey is weird without Janica talking over the tannoy and explaining the history of the lagoon, etc.

On the bus journey to Lido I felt in part a traitor - for using public transport that Thomsons had so vehemently denounced - but also partly emotional, the route went via Marco Polo airport and then returned to Jesolo along a route that I had been so many times before with a coach load of tourists - this time I wasn’t at the front with the microphone, pointing out the gleaming surface of the lagoon, reflecting a beautiful sepia-toned moon (ooh, that rhymes) to the masses. That doesn’t mean I didn’t do my welcome speech in my head, the fool that I am...

The only noteworthy incident on the bus, indeed the only thing that wasn’t drowned in my nostalgia was a crazy tramp man (a direct relative to La Rochelle Tramp Man, methinks) grabbing a lady by the lappelle’s , who calmly, but firmly said “No, Signore!”. Could you imagine an English lady being so polite in repelling a would-be attacker? “If you don’t mind, sir...”
The bizarre thing was that it worked.
Fuck me it’s cold on this boat - I miss my scarf! The sun may be shining, but January it still is...

Helen, Ale (husband) and the kids (Joshua, 4, and Tyrah, 8,) met me at Piazza Picchi in Lido and then we drove to Helen’s house - which felt like being on an episode of Cribs - it was practically a mansion!

I fear I must stop now, for there are things to photograph and my fingers are cold! *

Monty

*I really do write my journals like this. Dear God, I think I’m insane. [that makes sense. Ed.]


14.16 (+1)

This time I am in Campo S. Maurizio, listening to the pleasant music of Vivaldi - an exhibition which I will shortly be inspecting. That’s right, it’s free...

So upon arrival at Helen’s house the kids woke up and were incredibly entertaining, I think viewing me as a new toy to shout at and test, which if I’m honest I enjoyed. I like kids, they’re uncomplicated and often on a very similar wavelength to me. Then we had pizza, I had Pizza Carbonara, it was as wonderful as I had remembered! It is an undeniable fact that the Italians, as a generalisation, are incredibly hospitable and cannot make you feel more welcome. They almost make flipping amazing pizza.

I wasn’t in the mood for meeting Alice - I was exhausted - so after watching the football with Ale (Milan 2, Roma 2), I toodled off to bed - sleeping well, only to wake once, albeit in utter confusion without any idea at all where I was. That quickly subsided and back into peaceful slumber I willingly went.

The next morning my alarm went off at 9am, as planned, I showered and made myself clean and presentable, even if my beard is still very much at the bum-fluff stage [January was No-Shaving Month. Ed.]. Breakfast was a nice simple orange juice, coffee and brioche. After this Helen and I travelled to San Dona di Piave where we enquired, somewhat successfully a the Agenzia D’Entrate about a Codice Fiscale (NI number) and now all I need is an Italian address to be abel to get it - so April here we come.

For lunch we met Jen (worked for Cosmos last year) at Bar Eden and had a nice catch-up, then the three of us headed to Perla Nera for lunch proper. After this Helen had to go to a kids party with Joshua and Tyrah, whilst Jen had a meeting at EasyLanguage, her employers.

With time to spare I popped into the Hotel Marco Polo and said hello to Stefano, who over the summer had been in equal parts both my nemesis and ally. We had a cup of coffee and a good chat, his fiancée is expecting their baby in February, which is fantastic.

I then visited the Sand sculptures, but unlike the summer the theme wasn’t sport, it was the Nativity. They really are very impressive, although I’m still not quite sure what Mother Theresa was doing there. I’m sure she wasn’t there at the Nativity, but then again, like Christmas decorations, I may well be wrong...
I then sat on the glorious beach, resplendent with its umbrellas taken, a rose without thorns. I watched the cockle-pickers and took a typically arty-farty picture and cast my mind back to the summer, which ended only a mere 4 months ago.

One thought which I could not remove, no doubt not aided by here emails, was how incomplete so much of it felt without Janica - or the promise of seeing her. Good God, she truly put a spell on me.

Having finished her meeting, Jen and I grabbed a coffee and some ’Fritelle’ (read: donut balls), chatted about the summer, the other reps. We then walked to Piazza Mazzini, the home of so many of the debaucheries of the summer, before she left to meet her boyfriend and I was left alone.

Reflecting on the bizarre nature of the summer and finding myself back in Lido I decided to walk past my old apartment on Via Zara (home to so many great duvet days with J), as well as take a peak at the Ambasciatori, that old haunt of mine.

As it turns out Fabio was there, so we shared a couple of beers and some memories, news and such, before Helen gave me a call and then picked me up and myself and the family had the most delicious dinner of polpette (meatballs) and veg, followed by the children exhausting themselves and then the film ‘Hostage’, which was ok.

This was then followed by bed and then, here we are, we’re at today.

This morning I got up at half eight, not feeling older, certainly not having a proper beard yet, but still, importantly, here. I’ve actually chosen purposely to come away over my birthday this year, I wanted it to be a non-event, something that was for me only, which might be very selfish, but it’s what I wanted. Breakfast consisted of Panetone, Italian Christmas Cake, and beautiful, beautiful coffee. I then chatted with Helen for an hour or so before deciding to come to Venice today.

After once again betraying Thomsons’ teaching and I used ATVO and ACTV public transport to get to Piazza San Marco, where for the past 2 hours, less the time to write this drivel, I have been looking for mine and Janica’s bar, with absolute and complete failure.

And that, my friend, is why you find me lost and in the middle of Campo S. Maurizio, about to enter Vivaldi Musei to salvage some purpose from this trip - as well as confirming my somewhat opportunistic nature.

‘viderci, Monty


15.36 (+1)

The good news is that I found it - not far from where I first looked (but of course!). IT was closed, but I took a photo, which not only had the name of the bar, but the street name too.

The Vivaldi thingy was just that - a thingy - an exhibition of ancient violas, which, except for the die-hard enthusiast gets a little tedious. Nice music though. See, I am ‘cultural and shit’.

Now I’m at San Zacchario, waiting to depart, feeling seasick, the first time this birthday.

Yours, 24-ly,
Monty

P.S. - If each year were a clock, I’ve just struck midnight, which is pretty cool.


Wednesday 14th January, 11.01 (+1)

Where am I this time? (Why is it I have to start every entry like this? I’m finding it irritating, and I’m the one writing it!) I’m in a bar - yes it is rather early - at Piazza Picchi - hiding form the foul weather outside, waiting 45 minutes for a bus to Treviso.

Allora, I’m jumping ahead, let’s return to the boat at S. Zacchario. That departed on time and I dipped in and out of consciousness, my head swirling with thoughts of the summer, of Janica, of Chrissy, of Heather - well of everything really...but surprisingly not really Venice. I think the problem is that it has become too normal for me, despite a superb ability to get lost, I know it too well and the awe is still there but the shock has gone. Also, I find the tourists a damn irritation. Yes, I can see the hypocrisy...

Upon returning to Punta Sabbione I promptly walked in completely the wrong direction to the buses (that’s me -how in God’s name will I survive when I do some real travelling?) before realising uncharacteristically quickly that the case (even genius here worked out that when I was the only person out of a thousand walking in my direction that I might not be 100% correct). I boarded the trusty #5 just in time and made my way back to Jesolo. I just about remembered to call Helen and tell her my ETA at Picchi and daydreamt about Janica all the way back, the idiot that I am.

By the time I got to Picchi it was ball-droppingly freezing (actually, should probably say ball-raisingly freezing) - I couldn’t tolerate such impudence by the weather, so I sat and jiggled my legs until Helen arrived about 45 minutes late. I couldn’t complain - she was doing me a favour and her car has heated seats, which made my arse feel like it had travelled to the future.

I’ve just nipped up to grab a cappuccino from the bar and looked down at the last line I wrote - there really is no hope for me. Now the coffee, oh my God, I’ve missed the coffee. Now where was I..oh yeah...my arse.

We got back to Casa Montino, where I had a cup of Earl Grey (you can’t completely de-Anglicise me) and then I checked my emails where I was rewarded iwth many messages of birthday good luck, which was pleasant.

I kept Joshua company - I do worry at how I relate to kids - my Peter Pan syndrome needs to stop - being part of other people’s families isn’t healthy, maybe, I don’t know. Anyhow, Giulietta, Alessandro’s mother arrived; to look after the kid, then Helen, Ale and myself headed out to Casablanca for dinner. That’s the name of the restaurant, I’m not quite that cosmopolitan. Yet.

I had a Club Sandwich with Prawns, which may sound a bit odd for dinner, but the place is very rightly famous for its club sandwiches, and it really hit the sopt, then I had Tiramisu, where Helen got them to put a (pink) candle in the cake. I honestly can’t remember the last time I had cake and candles (in a completely non-ungrateful way).

After this we went to my favourite haunt of the summer, Gasoline, which, bugger me pink and call me Gina, was CLEAN. Dear God, of all the places that should never be clean, one of them is Gasoline (ooh, that rhymes too!). Gasoline clean was just plain odd, I’m not sure if I can reconcile it with my memories, of late-night drunkenness, fumbled kisses with Janica when no-one was looking, terrible pool playing (in fairness, the table is wonky), those horrendous toilets and the pretty barmaid who depending on how nice I was would give me free drinks. Somtimes.

We met with Alice and her friend, Erica, where we had a round of drinks, after which Ale and Helen left to get back for the kids. I then tried to improve my Italian and probably failed immeasurably, at which point Jen turned up with her friend Martha. Martha is moving to London on Monday, no job, nowhere to live. Sound familiar?

It was great to be out and in Italian company again, but I was exhausted and thankfully Alice (my lift) was tired too, so we went home, where I checked my emails and indeed had one from the person I most wanted to receive one from - Janica.

The whole time in Gasoline I was willing her to appear through those doors, so I could see the intense eyes again, make her smile, or cry, or just give her that kiss with 5 months accumulated interest. I wish to God that I had no feeling for her, but it’s simply not true. If she rang me now, I have no idea what I would do.

Anyhow, I’ve got to go outside and catch a bus to Treviso now.

A dopo,
Monty


16.01 (+1)

I didn’t quite make it to Treviso, in fact it would be more accurate to say that I categorically failed to make it to there and am in fact now in Marco Polo airport and have been since 1pm.

Why?

Well, unsurprisingly, quite a lot of this is down to my own stupidity, as hard as it may be for you to imagine. At 11.30 I left the café/bar, with 15 minutes to spare before my bus to Treviso was due to leave - I figured it might be waiting, yet alas, no such luck, just a #5 to Pta. Sabbione or a bus to San Dona. I sat in the bus-shelter hidden and protected from the vile weather and watched the busses leave, puzzled as 11.45 flew past and why my bus had not appeared.

Then, at 12.15, when the next one was due, yet another San Dona Bus turned up, along with one for Mestre Fe. As the San Dona bus left I had had enough and checked the timetable sheet and only then noticed “Coincidenza a S. Dona”. That’s right - change at S. Dona for Treviso. Well, fudge that! I had watched two opportunities go past, I wasn’t prepared to wait for another one.

So, adding up times in my head I decided Treviso can wait until April - if there was a delay at San Dona or Treviso itself and I was delayed in getting to the airport, the next flight to Cologne isn’t until 19.30 tomorrow. Bugger that! Also, it was pissing down with rain and I have spent far more money than I had intended to on this leg of the journey. So, i got a ticket for the Mestre Bus, as it went via Marco Polo airport and hopped on. It was almost smooth - if the punching machine that validates the tickets hadn’t given me grief. In fairness, as usual, this was my fault, as in the 20 seconds I had had the ticket I had managed to scrumple it.

45 minutes later I had completed the journey I had done so many times in uniform for Thomsons, and for the last time for 3 months, and was in the airport where, to stop my bladder bursting, I once again performed the magnificent feat of peeing with a 15kg rucksack on my back.

Having done that, and yes, I washed my hands, I debated how to pass at least 4 hours until check-in begins - something that didn’t intimidate me - I like to consider myself both very good and experienced at waiting, a unique skill. Take August 2003, Barcelona, where I had to wait 8 hours and then I only had 2 Euros. Waiting maybe monumentally dull, but there’s a mental skill in being able to do it well, as Paul will testify from our trip to La Rochelle in July 2001. God, that was 7 and half years ago. Jeez.

I bought a Treccione (toasted panino-esque thing), sat down and munched happily. Then I read “Life Comes From Life - Morning Walks With His Divine Grace A.C. Bhaktivedanta Wami Pabhupāda”, a Hindu creationist book, that is so fervent in religious belief it denies all science. Any of the “extremists” lose credibility by painting their teachers as infallible and holy - a pedestal too high for the mortals that they are. How can credibility be given to an argument of passion and anger - where is the peace there?! The book was infuriating, its misunderstanding of Darwinisim and Science especially, but also for its massive intolerance. It takes so much energy to hate.

Anyhow it was worth reading for learning about somebody else’s views, and I will have great joy in making Thom and Paul read it, the scientists that they are. I’m smiling in anticipation at the spittle that will form around the corners of their mouths. [Writing this up, I am struck by how damned odd I am a times. Ed. ]

I will, just explain how I came to be in possession of that book. Simply because the title and the cover piqued my curiosity, and it was by far the best of the rest. There it was, innocently nestled between such pap as Tom Clancy and Jilly Cooper in the library of the Crown Inn, and I had to take it (along with Joseph Conrad’s ‘The Secret Agent’ and Victor Hugo’s ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’), partially because I’m always interested in religious scribblings, but also because it was so different to anything else I’d ever read before. And boy, was it.

Despite travelling broadening my mind and such, there are times I am still an awful misanthrope. And evidently a hypocrite, judging on my statement ‘it takes too much energy to hate’. Ok, maybe not hate, but feel extreme irritation of people who are loud and obnoxious in public places, say for an example, oh, I don’t know, an airport! And then, if you give them a firm glare you question if you are being a racist - but I’m not. The fact that these oiks were Asian oiks is irrelevant - they were oiks nonetheless!

Ok, enough paranoia about being a closet-racist, it’s been nearly half-an-hour of writing now, only an hour until I do waiting from the other side of security. This will do for Italy, this time.

So, ciao for now, and always yours,

Monty


Editor’s Note:

Dear God, that was long. According to Word its 8,500 words. So, my fingers hurt now, it’s taken me a couple of days to type this up, and I’m in no hurry to do the Cologne part just yet, so this should be enough to keep you crazy cats occupied for the next week. The next instalment will be on Saturday, the next time I have internet access.

Love you long time kids, sorry I’m not in touch, but I have no credit on my phone and access to the internet only once a week. Things will change, I promise.

Ciao ciao xxxxxxxx

---

---