// new number
I'm heading into France until the 7th, when I will return to Italy. While in France my number will be +423 663 310703
If you call this number, you are calling Liechtenstein, so be wary of your phone bill.
All is well, having a great time here, blog posts in progress on my phone ready to be added eventually.
Oh, there's no internet access at the next place so I'll disappear until about the 9th of August.
xx
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
ferrero rocher
Did you know they come from Torino? As do Nutella, Tic Tacs and Vermouth, while the world's highest quality mint is grown in nearby Pancalfieri. Torino is also the 2008 Design Capital of the world and was the capital city of Italy in the early days of unification.
With the river Po cutting through her centre like a winding blue ribbon, Torino is stunning. Art sculptures mix with ancient palaces and huge paved squares lined with decorative white buildings, with a wide open sky and a refreshing feeling of space. For once, the churches aren't the main attraction touted by locals. Because the city's expansion was planned and therefore designed, the streets follow a sensible pattern, drawing the visitor into the centre of town along the wide and welcoming porticoed walkways of Via Roma. There are fountains, large piazzas and expansive public gardens. (One of the items on the ever increasing list of claims to fame is that Torino is Italy's greenest city.)
Visitors are made extremely welcome in this town. There is a Torino card which you can buy for your chosen period of days, from 1 to 7. The card grants you free access to all of the public transport in the city and every single museum in the whole region of Piedmont. There are no limits and it only costs 20 euros for 3 days. Needless to say, I had saved up my museum visitation urges for coming here. My feet still ache when I think of it, but I spent three consecutive days covering just about every type of museum there is.
I wandered through the Palazzo Valentino and its riverside gardens, a typewriter museum (boring but I didn't know what it was until I was through the door), an automobile museum where I was the only woman with lots of car freak men, the Mole Antonella and the giant cinema museum inside (cinema was invented in Torino), the Egyption Museum (biggest one outside of Egypt, with real unwrapped mummies, tombs that were dismantled and reconstructed inside the museum, and many other amazing artefacts).
There was a photography exhibition at the Gallery of Modern Art, Eataly (local food and wine), a trip on a 1930s tram uphill to the Basilica Superga with an amazing view of Torino and a tour in Italian of various tombs of past Italian kings. I held my breath walking within centimetres of ancient paintings and other pieces in the Palazzo Madama. There were textiles, baroque and renaissance paintings including Antonello da Messina's "Portrait of a Man", Anguissola's "Chess Game" and even works by Caravaggio. (Incidentally the town I'm in now has paintings by Molineri, just sitting there in one of the churches.) I also had a personal guided tour in Italian of the many rooms of the Decorative Arts Museum, a palace furnished in the style of the height of Torinese decadance. Winding down, I dropped into an exhibition of Japanese Terracotta warriors (incidentally "terra cotta" translates to "earth cooked") and a few other smaller exhibitions. Feeling puffed? After those three days I spent a whole day in the park reading a book.
I really enjoyed my time in Torino, it was the perfect mix of socialising, museum hopping, wandering, eating and relaxing. Unfortunately the open, clean, modern feel of the city will be left mostly to your imagination; I took very few photos. Torino's beauty is in her history, her modern flourishes, her willingness to embrace visitors, and the soft, contented hum of the crowds wandering through her piazzas.
With the river Po cutting through her centre like a winding blue ribbon, Torino is stunning. Art sculptures mix with ancient palaces and huge paved squares lined with decorative white buildings, with a wide open sky and a refreshing feeling of space. For once, the churches aren't the main attraction touted by locals. Because the city's expansion was planned and therefore designed, the streets follow a sensible pattern, drawing the visitor into the centre of town along the wide and welcoming porticoed walkways of Via Roma. There are fountains, large piazzas and expansive public gardens. (One of the items on the ever increasing list of claims to fame is that Torino is Italy's greenest city.)
Visitors are made extremely welcome in this town. There is a Torino card which you can buy for your chosen period of days, from 1 to 7. The card grants you free access to all of the public transport in the city and every single museum in the whole region of Piedmont. There are no limits and it only costs 20 euros for 3 days. Needless to say, I had saved up my museum visitation urges for coming here. My feet still ache when I think of it, but I spent three consecutive days covering just about every type of museum there is.
I wandered through the Palazzo Valentino and its riverside gardens, a typewriter museum (boring but I didn't know what it was until I was through the door), an automobile museum where I was the only woman with lots of car freak men, the Mole Antonella and the giant cinema museum inside (cinema was invented in Torino), the Egyption Museum (biggest one outside of Egypt, with real unwrapped mummies, tombs that were dismantled and reconstructed inside the museum, and many other amazing artefacts).
There was a photography exhibition at the Gallery of Modern Art, Eataly (local food and wine), a trip on a 1930s tram uphill to the Basilica Superga with an amazing view of Torino and a tour in Italian of various tombs of past Italian kings. I held my breath walking within centimetres of ancient paintings and other pieces in the Palazzo Madama. There were textiles, baroque and renaissance paintings including Antonello da Messina's "Portrait of a Man", Anguissola's "Chess Game" and even works by Caravaggio. (Incidentally the town I'm in now has paintings by Molineri, just sitting there in one of the churches.) I also had a personal guided tour in Italian of the many rooms of the Decorative Arts Museum, a palace furnished in the style of the height of Torinese decadance. Winding down, I dropped into an exhibition of Japanese Terracotta warriors (incidentally "terra cotta" translates to "earth cooked") and a few other smaller exhibitions. Feeling puffed? After those three days I spent a whole day in the park reading a book.
I really enjoyed my time in Torino, it was the perfect mix of socialising, museum hopping, wandering, eating and relaxing. Unfortunately the open, clean, modern feel of the city will be left mostly to your imagination; I took very few photos. Torino's beauty is in her history, her modern flourishes, her willingness to embrace visitors, and the soft, contented hum of the crowds wandering through her piazzas.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
still kicking
Just a quick one to say that everything is going well with the volunteer thing, with Conservation Volunteers Australia. No time to write properly just now, but Iàm loving being around some Aussies again and just doing some work instead of visiting billions of museums. It all gets a bit overwhelming so this is nice.
OK, better dash; we are off to clean a garden that we know wonàt be planted by anyone after we leave, but we're hoping we might be wrong.
Check in properly later, hope you're all well.
Love Kara
OK, better dash; we are off to clean a garden that we know wonàt be planted by anyone after we leave, but we're hoping we might be wrong.
Check in properly later, hope you're all well.
Love Kara
Monday, July 14, 2008
ho fatto rafting
// I went rafting
It just occurred to me that when you read this, you will read "hoe fatto" when it's actually "o fut‑to". Italian sounds better than it looks.
Anyway, Aosta was my adventure sport week. I crammed a balloon ride, a hike and a white water rafting adventure into just under a week, and boy are my muscles stiff and sore now!
The rafting adventure was a lot of fun, not least because I was the only girl, surrounded by a group of 12 Italian men in body clinging wetsuits, plus two muscle‑bound rafting guides and a very cute Albanian driver. A feast for the eyes indeed.
The afternoon started off with a half hour explanation of the various commands. I understood most of it, certainly enough that when one of the guys said "o paura, era troppo serioso" which means "I'm scared, it's all too serious" I laughed and agreed with him.
The boys argued in Italian about who got to ride in the raft with the "ragazza" ‑ the girl ‑ until one of the guides sorted it out by choosing people based on relative weights. The winning team taunted the all boy group. Incidentally, the other group fell out of the raft three times while we didn't lose a single person!
Apparently women are better at rafting because what we lack in strength we make up for in willingness to obey commands (important in the rapids) and a better sense of rhythm and ability at teamwork.
Having mastered the commands of "Avanti! Indietro! Tenersi! and SUL FONDO!" (respectively "forwards", "backwards", "hold on" and "GET DOWN") we spent about 2 hours in the water. It was SO much fun! My arms and sides and legs are still aching 2 days later but it was worth it. We zipped along in the rapids and raced the other boat, laughing at them every time they fell out. We passed a bunch of kids on hydrospeeds (little boogie board things) and the guide remarked that they must be French, because Italian parents would sooner die than send their kids into the rapids on little boards.
After two hours, drifting down the river through mountains, past castles, farmland and stunning scenery, we finally landed and limped our way back to the car.
The rafting lasted longer than it was supposed to, so I ended up missing the last bus home. Luckily the driver (who's name was Spartak) lived in the town I was staying in so he offered to take me home. He dropped me at my hotel and invited me to join him, his brother and the brother's girlfriend for dinner, so I met them later on and I had a really yummy spaghetti and a few drinks before being dropped back to my hotel. I'd also made friends with the girl on the balloon ride, so I congratulated myself at making four friends in four days, and all Italian speakers! Spartak spoke some English but not a great deal, and his brother and the girlfriend spoke no English at all, which forced me to practise my Italian. It was quite fun to hold a conversation in Italian after so many weeks of only talking to waiters and shop assistants.
That was my last day in Aosta, so the next morning it was a painful walk to the train station and a ride back to Torino. I slept on the train (with my handbag tied to me) and dreamt about sailing along white rapids.
It just occurred to me that when you read this, you will read "hoe fatto" when it's actually "o fut‑to". Italian sounds better than it looks.
Anyway, Aosta was my adventure sport week. I crammed a balloon ride, a hike and a white water rafting adventure into just under a week, and boy are my muscles stiff and sore now!
The rafting adventure was a lot of fun, not least because I was the only girl, surrounded by a group of 12 Italian men in body clinging wetsuits, plus two muscle‑bound rafting guides and a very cute Albanian driver. A feast for the eyes indeed.
The afternoon started off with a half hour explanation of the various commands. I understood most of it, certainly enough that when one of the guys said "o paura, era troppo serioso" which means "I'm scared, it's all too serious" I laughed and agreed with him.
The boys argued in Italian about who got to ride in the raft with the "ragazza" ‑ the girl ‑ until one of the guides sorted it out by choosing people based on relative weights. The winning team taunted the all boy group. Incidentally, the other group fell out of the raft three times while we didn't lose a single person!
Apparently women are better at rafting because what we lack in strength we make up for in willingness to obey commands (important in the rapids) and a better sense of rhythm and ability at teamwork.
Having mastered the commands of "Avanti! Indietro! Tenersi! and SUL FONDO!" (respectively "forwards", "backwards", "hold on" and "GET DOWN") we spent about 2 hours in the water. It was SO much fun! My arms and sides and legs are still aching 2 days later but it was worth it. We zipped along in the rapids and raced the other boat, laughing at them every time they fell out. We passed a bunch of kids on hydrospeeds (little boogie board things) and the guide remarked that they must be French, because Italian parents would sooner die than send their kids into the rapids on little boards.
After two hours, drifting down the river through mountains, past castles, farmland and stunning scenery, we finally landed and limped our way back to the car.
The rafting lasted longer than it was supposed to, so I ended up missing the last bus home. Luckily the driver (who's name was Spartak) lived in the town I was staying in so he offered to take me home. He dropped me at my hotel and invited me to join him, his brother and the brother's girlfriend for dinner, so I met them later on and I had a really yummy spaghetti and a few drinks before being dropped back to my hotel. I'd also made friends with the girl on the balloon ride, so I congratulated myself at making four friends in four days, and all Italian speakers! Spartak spoke some English but not a great deal, and his brother and the girlfriend spoke no English at all, which forced me to practise my Italian. It was quite fun to hold a conversation in Italian after so many weeks of only talking to waiters and shop assistants.
That was my last day in Aosta, so the next morning it was a painful walk to the train station and a ride back to Torino. I slept on the train (with my handbag tied to me) and dreamt about sailing along white rapids.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
prendo il pene arrabbiata
//i would like an angry penis please
The waitress handled it well. She blinked at me for a moment before recovering and asking in Italian if I realised that it was a spicy dish. I nodded and said I did, stifling a giggle as a I realised that my accent obviously hadn't been quite right.
In Italian, "penne arrabbiata" is a spicy pasta dish, while "pene arrabbiata" is an angry penis, which I'd just ordered in good, but not quite good enough, Italian. The difference is subtle but significant.
The waitress handled it well. She blinked at me for a moment before recovering and asking in Italian if I realised that it was a spicy dish. I nodded and said I did, stifling a giggle as a I realised that my accent obviously hadn't been quite right.
In Italian, "penne arrabbiata" is a spicy pasta dish, while "pene arrabbiata" is an angry penis, which I'd just ordered in good, but not quite good enough, Italian. The difference is subtle but significant.
Friday, July 11, 2008
dove sono tutte le penne?
// where are all the pens?
I am typing this next to a little fountain, the water tripping over the edge of the rocks and stumbling along the path cut for it down the grassy hill. There are shady trees, birds, flowers and secret pathways and above it all, Monte Bianco is the dancing Salome, with the clouds as her seven veils.
Monte Bianco (or Mont Blanc in French) taunts the surrounding peaks with her pale majesty. All through the four seasons, she is dressed resplendently in snow while the other mountains don shades of green and brown for the warmer months. The little town of Courmayeur (where I am today) rests at her feet and caters for the hiking and skiing desires of Europe's very rich. In summer, hikers are everywhere. One imagines they will give way to the skiers in a few months time. The shops here are Cartier, Armani and Mikimoto getting cosy with Timberland and small hiking boutiques. There are many familiar brands and many others I've never heard of, but I have not seen a single Mont Blanc pen.
By now, I have admired Monte Bianco from almost every angle possible in Italy. This morning I saw her from the Valle d'Aosta, casually drifting along at 870 metres above ground in a hot air balloon. I was booked in with others but the rest of the group pulled out, so it ended up being a private flight just for me! I felt very bourgeouis. I was collected from my hotel at 6am by Margot, a friendly girl the same age as me, and she took me to her grandfather, the balloon pilot. I helped them fill the balloon by holding the base wide so that a big fan could blow air inside it. After about 15 minutes they turned on the gas and the balloon began to float.
The first minute or so left me light-headed, it's a strange sensation to float so high, so suddenly. I stared at the ground beneath us as it became further and further away and turned my face to the wind.
The three of us sailed through the valley, dropping and ascending depending on which wind we wanted to catch. Nestled in a tiny basket in the middle of the sky, we watched the sunrise over the mountain peaks. Margot pointed out different places to me, the local prison which she is sure must be empty because there is no crime here ‑ if someone tries to rob you, you just threaten to tell his mother ‑ her apartment, the dairy fields and the cows. She told me that the cow is the symbol of the valley of Aosta and that ever year in September there is a "cow battle festival" when they dress up the cows and bring them into the town to do battle... Not too sure what kind of battle it is but it sounds like fun.
After we landed (with a bump) Margot took me to a bar she used to work at and we had breakfast together, which ended up being free! Then she gave me her email address and told me to write to her when I am back in Turin because she works there. So, in the middle of the clouds I made a new friend.
Now, after a lunch of prodotti tipici (of course) I am going to wander Courmayeur some more and then head back to Aosta. Tonight there is a jazz party in the main square so I'll sneak some wine and a cup and check it out. Tomorrow, rafting and then back to Torino on Sunday.
It hasn't been a cheap trip to Aosta, but it's been worth every centissimo.
I am typing this next to a little fountain, the water tripping over the edge of the rocks and stumbling along the path cut for it down the grassy hill. There are shady trees, birds, flowers and secret pathways and above it all, Monte Bianco is the dancing Salome, with the clouds as her seven veils.
Monte Bianco (or Mont Blanc in French) taunts the surrounding peaks with her pale majesty. All through the four seasons, she is dressed resplendently in snow while the other mountains don shades of green and brown for the warmer months. The little town of Courmayeur (where I am today) rests at her feet and caters for the hiking and skiing desires of Europe's very rich. In summer, hikers are everywhere. One imagines they will give way to the skiers in a few months time. The shops here are Cartier, Armani and Mikimoto getting cosy with Timberland and small hiking boutiques. There are many familiar brands and many others I've never heard of, but I have not seen a single Mont Blanc pen.
By now, I have admired Monte Bianco from almost every angle possible in Italy. This morning I saw her from the Valle d'Aosta, casually drifting along at 870 metres above ground in a hot air balloon. I was booked in with others but the rest of the group pulled out, so it ended up being a private flight just for me! I felt very bourgeouis. I was collected from my hotel at 6am by Margot, a friendly girl the same age as me, and she took me to her grandfather, the balloon pilot. I helped them fill the balloon by holding the base wide so that a big fan could blow air inside it. After about 15 minutes they turned on the gas and the balloon began to float.
The first minute or so left me light-headed, it's a strange sensation to float so high, so suddenly. I stared at the ground beneath us as it became further and further away and turned my face to the wind.
The three of us sailed through the valley, dropping and ascending depending on which wind we wanted to catch. Nestled in a tiny basket in the middle of the sky, we watched the sunrise over the mountain peaks. Margot pointed out different places to me, the local prison which she is sure must be empty because there is no crime here ‑ if someone tries to rob you, you just threaten to tell his mother ‑ her apartment, the dairy fields and the cows. She told me that the cow is the symbol of the valley of Aosta and that ever year in September there is a "cow battle festival" when they dress up the cows and bring them into the town to do battle... Not too sure what kind of battle it is but it sounds like fun.
After we landed (with a bump) Margot took me to a bar she used to work at and we had breakfast together, which ended up being free! Then she gave me her email address and told me to write to her when I am back in Turin because she works there. So, in the middle of the clouds I made a new friend.
Now, after a lunch of prodotti tipici (of course) I am going to wander Courmayeur some more and then head back to Aosta. Tonight there is a jazz party in the main square so I'll sneak some wine and a cup and check it out. Tomorrow, rafting and then back to Torino on Sunday.
It hasn't been a cheap trip to Aosta, but it's been worth every centissimo.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
sto camminando oggi
// today I'm wandering
Aosta is so far north that there are streets called "rue via" ‑ 'street' in French and 'street' in Italian. The people here are fluent in both but Italian is still the official language. I'm very close to St Bernard's Pass and Monte Bianco, (or Mont Blanc); from my hotel room I can see the glaciers of the Gran Paradiso National Park.
Aosta was once the favoured departure point for Roman expeditions (pillages) to the north, and the town has an excellently preserved Roman wall running an almost complete circumference of the 'centro storico' ‑ historical centre. There are little shops and plenty of 'prodotti tipici' ‑ local products ‑ lots of gelaterias and pizzerias and a beautiful big square in the centre of town. The mountains are visible from almost every street corner and the vibe is a relaxed holiday mood, with hikers and backpackers everywhere. Very few English‑speaking tourists however, most are French.
This morning I jumped on a bus to Cogne and was reminded of Slovenia as I experienced once again the spine chilling fear of trusting one's life to a stranger who drives buses around cliffs like he's the main star of Speed. It's a long way down...
Famous for winter skiing and summer hiking, Cogne is a town balancing between many cultures. Those buildings that are not decidedly German in appearance sport French facades while the streets all have Italian names. A tiny town, there are almost as many hotels as houses and the Valletta, Cissettaz and Patri glaciers dominate the landscape.
I took the funivia/funicular/cabinovia/chairlift thingy (pick a language) up to the start of trail 17, which my Let's Go guide (highly recommended by the way) told me was a good trail for views of the aforementioned Gran Paradiso National Park and her glaciers. I nearly died in the first five minutes but there were two fat Germans on my tail and I couldn't let Australia down, so I struggled onward. I never knew I liked hiking but aparently I do. I found myself grinning as I checked out the grand views and the tiny flowers along the way, spent ages deciphering the Italian signs to learn about some bird/tree/whatever, pushed myself to get up the next hill without pausing. The view became more spectacular with every (exhaustingly steep) twenty metre climb.
Finally, I reached the peak of the trail where I took about a thousand photos of my chin and the top of my head before finally getting my whole face in the frame, and then I headed downhill. A large hare cut across my path, would have made a good meal but unfortunately there is no kitchen in my hotel, pity. I also saw some deer come bounding up the hill ‑ they took one look at me and then turned tail and fled. I wished I were so light-footed.
Meandering down a path that is a skiing trail in winter, I smugly passed puffing tourists toting walking sticks. Back onto the funicular, down to the town where I got lost trying to find the main street (plenty of signs saying "private property" but none saying "the town is this way") and I found my way to the river where I had a picnic lunch.
Now I am sitting in a little bar back in Aosta, fighting a giant wasp for the right to drink my beer and trying to ignore a very loud yappy dog and the very loud smooches of its owner who seems to think that rewarding the dog with kisses will make it shut up... hmm. If my grandmother was here she'd sort it out.
Aosta is so far north that there are streets called "rue via" ‑ 'street' in French and 'street' in Italian. The people here are fluent in both but Italian is still the official language. I'm very close to St Bernard's Pass and Monte Bianco, (or Mont Blanc); from my hotel room I can see the glaciers of the Gran Paradiso National Park.
Aosta was once the favoured departure point for Roman expeditions (pillages) to the north, and the town has an excellently preserved Roman wall running an almost complete circumference of the 'centro storico' ‑ historical centre. There are little shops and plenty of 'prodotti tipici' ‑ local products ‑ lots of gelaterias and pizzerias and a beautiful big square in the centre of town. The mountains are visible from almost every street corner and the vibe is a relaxed holiday mood, with hikers and backpackers everywhere. Very few English‑speaking tourists however, most are French.
This morning I jumped on a bus to Cogne and was reminded of Slovenia as I experienced once again the spine chilling fear of trusting one's life to a stranger who drives buses around cliffs like he's the main star of Speed. It's a long way down...
Famous for winter skiing and summer hiking, Cogne is a town balancing between many cultures. Those buildings that are not decidedly German in appearance sport French facades while the streets all have Italian names. A tiny town, there are almost as many hotels as houses and the Valletta, Cissettaz and Patri glaciers dominate the landscape.
I took the funivia/funicular/cabinovia/chairlift thingy (pick a language) up to the start of trail 17, which my Let's Go guide (highly recommended by the way) told me was a good trail for views of the aforementioned Gran Paradiso National Park and her glaciers. I nearly died in the first five minutes but there were two fat Germans on my tail and I couldn't let Australia down, so I struggled onward. I never knew I liked hiking but aparently I do. I found myself grinning as I checked out the grand views and the tiny flowers along the way, spent ages deciphering the Italian signs to learn about some bird/tree/whatever, pushed myself to get up the next hill without pausing. The view became more spectacular with every (exhaustingly steep) twenty metre climb.
Finally, I reached the peak of the trail where I took about a thousand photos of my chin and the top of my head before finally getting my whole face in the frame, and then I headed downhill. A large hare cut across my path, would have made a good meal but unfortunately there is no kitchen in my hotel, pity. I also saw some deer come bounding up the hill ‑ they took one look at me and then turned tail and fled. I wished I were so light-footed.
Meandering down a path that is a skiing trail in winter, I smugly passed puffing tourists toting walking sticks. Back onto the funicular, down to the town where I got lost trying to find the main street (plenty of signs saying "private property" but none saying "the town is this way") and I found my way to the river where I had a picnic lunch.
Now I am sitting in a little bar back in Aosta, fighting a giant wasp for the right to drink my beer and trying to ignore a very loud yappy dog and the very loud smooches of its owner who seems to think that rewarding the dog with kisses will make it shut up... hmm. If my grandmother was here she'd sort it out.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
valle d' aosta
// Valley of Aosta
I'm in Aosta now and in spite of a little confusion with my accommodation (language mix up leading me to believe that I could rent a tent or caravan when, in fact, I couldn't, meaning instead I had to trek the 1.5km back down the hill into town and find a hotel, all sorted now) it's a wonderful place and I'm in love with it. Considering I also fell in love with Torino in the space of about ten minutes yesterday, I might have to curb my romantic impulses a bit.
I can see snow capped mountains from my room!
The internet place is a little far from my hotel so I am just here to say hi and let you know where I am. I'll be back in Torino on Sunday night.
Hotel here: Hotel Mancuso Ph + 0165 34 526
Hotel in Torino (from Sunday until the 20th): Open011 Ph + 011 25 05 35
ciao 4 now
xx
I'm in Aosta now and in spite of a little confusion with my accommodation (language mix up leading me to believe that I could rent a tent or caravan when, in fact, I couldn't, meaning instead I had to trek the 1.5km back down the hill into town and find a hotel, all sorted now) it's a wonderful place and I'm in love with it. Considering I also fell in love with Torino in the space of about ten minutes yesterday, I might have to curb my romantic impulses a bit.
I can see snow capped mountains from my room!
The internet place is a little far from my hotel so I am just here to say hi and let you know where I am. I'll be back in Torino on Sunday night.
Hotel here: Hotel Mancuso Ph + 0165 34 526
Hotel in Torino (from Sunday until the 20th): Open011 Ph + 011 25 05 35
ciao 4 now
xx
Monday, July 7, 2008
uno di tanti
//one of many
There are some things that even the least observant person will notice after only a few days in Italy. The first thing that becomes apparrent is that all the cities in Italy share the same major street names, mostly relating to the unification of Italy. The second is that the Leaning Tower of Pisa is anything but unique. Almost every town has a building somewhere that leans dangerously; the only difference is that Pisa's started doing it during construction.
I'm in Pisa today but am confined to the train station. I have a couple of hours here until my next train but today there is a train and bus strike (scopiero) which apparently affects not only (most of) the trains, but also the baggage deposit lockers. In Italy, even the machines want in on the sciopero. So, rather than carry my luggage on the hour long round‑trip from the station to a tower that I've already seen (and wasn't that impressed by), I'm sitting here in Maccas, listening to music and typing this.
I'm on the way to Torino from Florence. One night in Torino and then a week in Aosta where I hope to get in a bit of adventure sport (nothing too dangerous mum, just white water rafting). My frist trip to Florence in 2002 left me cold, but this time around I had a lot more fun. I met up with Maaike and two of her friends, so we spend a night drunkenly wandering the streets of Florence, giving directions to tourists and visiting all the major sights in the moonlight. Pretty cool having the Duomo to ourselves at 1am. We failed in our attempt to find an open bar, instead we drank on the streets which, thankfully, is perfectly legal here.
In spite of enjoying myself, there isnt much to say about Florence. There were some cool shops and a funky bar slash library, and I had the best lasagne of my life there. Oh, and Maaike and I had a picnic on the bridge overlooking the Ponte Vecchio. Yeah.
There are some things that even the least observant person will notice after only a few days in Italy. The first thing that becomes apparrent is that all the cities in Italy share the same major street names, mostly relating to the unification of Italy. The second is that the Leaning Tower of Pisa is anything but unique. Almost every town has a building somewhere that leans dangerously; the only difference is that Pisa's started doing it during construction.
I'm in Pisa today but am confined to the train station. I have a couple of hours here until my next train but today there is a train and bus strike (scopiero) which apparently affects not only (most of) the trains, but also the baggage deposit lockers. In Italy, even the machines want in on the sciopero. So, rather than carry my luggage on the hour long round‑trip from the station to a tower that I've already seen (and wasn't that impressed by), I'm sitting here in Maccas, listening to music and typing this.
I'm on the way to Torino from Florence. One night in Torino and then a week in Aosta where I hope to get in a bit of adventure sport (nothing too dangerous mum, just white water rafting). My frist trip to Florence in 2002 left me cold, but this time around I had a lot more fun. I met up with Maaike and two of her friends, so we spend a night drunkenly wandering the streets of Florence, giving directions to tourists and visiting all the major sights in the moonlight. Pretty cool having the Duomo to ourselves at 1am. We failed in our attempt to find an open bar, instead we drank on the streets which, thankfully, is perfectly legal here.
In spite of enjoying myself, there isnt much to say about Florence. There were some cool shops and a funky bar slash library, and I had the best lasagne of my life there. Oh, and Maaike and I had a picnic on the bridge overlooking the Ponte Vecchio. Yeah.
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