Lake Como: Being Nice Is Fun

When you consider Lake Como, what do you instantly think of? Water sports? Gelato? Campari aperitifs? High quality silk? If you said yes to any of these things, you’re a dirty, filthy liar. The only thing anyone thinks about when pondering Lago di Como is George Clooney. And then Daniel Craig. Although, I am now thinking about playing water sports with George Clooney, after which he peels me out of my high quality silk gown, so I can see how one could argue the point. And now I’m thinking about eating Gelato off Daniel Craig’s naked body.

Lake Como, the third largest lake in Italy, has towns peppered along its shores. We were staying in Menaggio, a small town on the western shore of the lake. To arrive in Menaggio from Florence appeared to be relatively straight-forward – catch a train to Milan, swap trains and catch another to Como, catch a bus from Como station to Menaggio which stops right outside the hostel. You probably gathered from my use of the word “appeared” that this journey turned out to be as straight-forward as Mulholland Drive. Using our Eurail passes in Italy required us to reserve a seat for a couple of Euro prior to boarding. The lady at the Florence train station (the one “just steps away” from our hostel), told us that we could only reserve seats on the train from Florence to Milan, and would have to then reserve seats to Como once we got to Milan. I didn’t think this was accurate, but we didn’t foresee it as being anything other than mildly irritating. We had one hour and seven minutes between the arrival and departure of our two trains. It took us 24 minutes to find the correct counter to reserve our seats, 19 minutes to be served, 11 minutes to explain what it was we required, and 12 minutes to robble all the way back to the same platform we had arrived at and jump on the train.

The good thing about having to reserve on a train is that you don’t have to go through the headache of finding seats together, or even finding a seat at all. You’d think. When we attempted to take our assigned seats, we encountered a problem. The seats were configured into groups of four facing each other, a table in between. Kaitlyn's and my seats were supposed to be opposite each other. However, there was a rather large lady sitting in Kaitlyn’s place. When I say “rather large”, what I mean is that I think she was one Big Mac away from upsetting the planet’s rotational axis. Kaitlyn pointed out the seat number on her ticket, a nice way of saying ‘Bitch, move.’ Mrs Brando didn’t really care, and rudely gestured that Kaitlyn take the seat next to her. Well, the half of it that was still free.

When we arrived at the Como train station, we discovered that “regular” buses have the regularity of a pregnant woman on a protein-only diet. According to the not-particularly-helpful staff at the station, we had just missed a bus and the next one wasn’t due for three hours. Como is not a modern train station - no Maccas or free-WiFi there. We were hungry, pack and shell-laden and Kaitlyn was still not feeling 100%, so the idea of sitting around for three hours on wooden benches wasn’t the most appealing thing in the world. Then we spotted a cafeteria and noticed they had ice-cream, and everything was okay again. Problem was, that was all the cafeteria had: ice-cream. They also had something which I think was supposed to be a sandwich, but the bread looked like dried-out green play-dough and, whatever the filling was, it was moving of its own accord. Something which wasn’t moving of its own accord was the creepy gentleman who emerged from the toilets and, despite us being the only people occupying the place, decided to come and sit down at our table right next to me; essentially on top of me. He smelt the way I imagine Karl Marx’s puss-leaking boils did. Although I doubt he was of the opinion that cleanliness is a bourgeoisie excess - I think he was just a homeless drunk with chronic halitosis. That was when we decided we would wait outside for our bus. (If you were wondering whether or not it is possible to eat an almond Magnum, and then eat a white Mangum half an hour later, it is.)

Eventually, our bus arrived and we had to squeeze on as it was quite full. Given that three of Kaitlyn’s top five tantrum-inducing entities are her backpack, Italians and public transport, I knew it wouldn’t be too long until I had to arrange my features into the well-practised “please-excuse-my-friend-she-forgot-to-take-her-meds” expression (or, as was becoming more and more commonplace, the “I-do-not-know-who-this-lunatic-is-and-I-have-no-idea-why-she-is-attempting-to-converse-with-me” look). It was thirty seconds. Tops. 'Well of course there’s no where to put my f@#%ing pack. THAT’S OKAY. I’ll just leave it on. I’m going end up in a wheelchair after this trip anyway, so what’s a bit more f@#%ing spine damage? Not that I would put it down anywhere anyway, because one of these Italian f@#%ers would just steal it.’ I was going to mention that, judging from their horrified expressions, some of these Italian f@#%ers obviously spoke English, but she cut me off. ‘For f@#%s sake. DON’T GET UP ANYONE. I’M JUST F@#%ING FINE STANDING.’ You would think that it would have been a relief every time someone made to vacate the bus. Nope. Because we were standing quite close to the doors in the centre of the vehicle, we would both have to manoeuvre whenever anybody wanted to exit. You know when you’re on public transport and people start moving about before it comes to a stop and they go flying? Well this is what Kaitlyn was attempting to avoid, and this is perfectly reasonable as it frustrates me on trams and trains when people try and push past me while it’s still moving and I end up careening across the carriage. When it happens to me, I tend to just stick my ground and completely ignore the person until movement ceases. What I do not do is snark at them, ‘Calm down, I’m f@#%ing moving’.

The bus route had two very noticeable components: lots of stops (with lots of people wanting to get off), and lots of twists and turns. It was only a 20-something kilometre trip, but it took over an hour. About half an hour in, it felt like we were on Space Mountain – and remember, Kaitlyn got sea sick on the Venetian canals. She was sporting a very Christmasy complexion – half green from the motion sickness, and half red from the exertion of verbally abusing everyone who tried to get off. ‘F@#%ING HELL! I’ll f@#%ing move for you when the bus stops. If I move now I’ll break my f@#%ing neck. But you’d probably enjoy that. At least if I was dead I wouldn’t be stuck in this f@#%ing country.’ She was in the middle of informing the bus that they weren’t ‘going to get off the bus any f@#%ing faster’ if she were to move right then, when I realised we were approaching our stop. ‘F@#%K! I’M GETTING OFF TOO. DON’T F@#%ING PUSH ME. F@#%.’

It was maybe a fifty metre walk from the bus stop to the hostel, admittedly up a very steep, very narrow hill, but the promise of comfort was so close, I just put my head down and barrelled up. Comfort wasn’t as close as we had thought, unless one finds sitting on pebbles with a cool lake breeze chilling your bones comfortable. When we reached the hostel door we were greeted with a ridiculously convoluted sign, the gist of which was that there wouldn't be any staff there until 5.00pm. This wasn’t a once-off, reading back through the essay, it became evident that the place closes between 12.00pm and 5.00pm for staff to take a “well-earned break”. Isn't this something you might want to mention when people make a booking? Also, advice from an objective foreigner: maybe the reason your country is in the midst of such a gargantuan economic crisis is because you all take FIVE HOUR lunch breaks. It’s commonly referred to as a “lunch hour” for a reason.

It wasn’t just the office which was closed during these hours, the entire hostel was. According to their “rules”, guests had to vacate their rooms and the hostel itself by 10.00am each morning for cleaning, and were not able to return until 5.00pm each evening. Also, there was a “strict” curfew of midnight seven days a week and, if you failed to return to the hostel by this time, you would be sleeping out on the pebbles. We hadn’t gone to Lake Como to have any raging nights out clubbing until the early hours, but the whole thing seemed incredibly totalitarian. At the end of the essay was a note to say that, if a person arrived before 5.00pm, they could come and “relax with our friendly staff down on the beach” with directions to the supposed “beach”. It was a long way around the lake and, assuming the “friendly staff” was responsible for the note, we questioned their supposed friendliness and we decided to remain sprawled out on the pebbles. After all, it was already after 4.00pm, and we figured it would be a bit of acclimatisation in case we missed our curfew either night.

About 4.55pm, one of the “friendly staff” arrived and unlocked the door. She half-heartedly acknowledged us as she walked past and then proceeded to lock us out until 5.00pm. She literally sat at the desk in plain view of the glass doors, turned on the computer, and then sat there and watched us, every minute or so looking down at her watch. At 5.00pm, she stood up, unlocked the door, and greeted us as if she was seeing us for the first time. I wanted to grab her by her luscious, dark Italian locks and slam her head into the ridiculous sign. Instead, I followed her and we checked in. After perusing the edible offerings and seeing nothing we fancied, we decided to instead walk into the town and find something there. As it was still a little early for dinner, we took the opportunity to meander around Menaggio and partake in some casual George-Watch.

After dinner we returned to the hostel, a rebellious three hours inside our curfew. Kaitlyn felt like ice-cream and I felt like wine, so we hit-up the bar/restaurant/communal area. This is when we discovered the first of many ridiculous and hilarious features of La Primula Menaggio: the “Social Table”. Right in the middle of the restaurant was a table just like every other table there, except for the addition of a folded, laminated sign reading “Social Table”. Firstly, it brought about an array of questions: what is the Social Table? Is the Social Table the only table at which one can be social? If there are no other free tables, can one sit at the Social Table and refrain from being social? If one is not social whilst seated at the Social Table, are there repercussions? Is the Social Table most effectively positioned in order to maximise socialness? Is the Social Table big enough to accommodate everyone who wants to be social? Secondly, how hilarious. I felt like we’d stumbled onto some hippy-feeling camp. We were both feeling quite social, so we decided to enjoy our ice-cream and wine at the Social Table. And boy were we glad we did! That evening we met and socialised with two South Australian girls who had been in Menaggio for a few days already and had some great lake tips; an American girl called Stephanie who is from Portland (which is where myfuturehusband, Isaac Brock, lives) and a Canadian guy called Sven. Make that the Social and Multicultural Table.

Despite being exhausted, I had a horrendously restless night and, when I woke up in the morning, my worst fears were confirmed: I was coming down with something. We only had the one day to sight-see and, after talking with the two South Australians, had decided to purchase an all-day ferry pass and visit various towns on the lake including Varenna and Bellagio. Breakfast unveiled the second La Primula farce. According to the website, breakfast was free and included tea, coffee, juice, bread, yoghurt, cereal and other things I don’t recall. The tea, coffee and bread were free, every thing else you had to pay for. This would have been fine as all I wanted from that selection was tea, coffee and bread. However, “tea, coffee and bread” suggests actual tea, coffee and bread, and this is not what was on offer. Sure, there was bread, but they were rationing it out like it was World War II. For the first forty minutes, there was no coffee at all, but it was the “tea” which was my absolute favourite part. As was the case with most hostels, the hot beverages were self-service from large urns. As there was no coffee, I poured myself a tea, only to find my cup filling up with boiling water. I asked the lady looking after breakfast and she opened up the urn to inspect. She looked inside, shrugged and said ‘There is tea’. Well, yes, there was tea in there – a single tea bag in a giant urn of water. I didn’t think it was unreasonable of me to ask ‘Could you maybe get some more tea, please?’ She bent over, grabbed another single tea bag, threw it in the giant urn of water and walked off. Apparently that conversation was over.

Lake Como is super beautiful. Our first stop was across the lake to Varenna. An ancient fishing village, Varenna is a small little town with less than 1000 residents and a steep hillside which offers the most magnificent views of the lake. We spent a few hours there, walking through the hills, first to Perledo to lookout over Lake Como, and then to visit the ruins of the Castello di Vezio, a castle dating back to the 11th Century. I thought it was a great walk, but Kaitlyn referred to it as “a f@#%ing hike – how do your tiny little legs move so f@#%ing quickly?”. After Varenna, we caught the ferry across to Bellagio. Known as “the pearl of Lake Como”, Bellagio is probably the most well-known of the lake’s numerous towns. As soon as we stepped off the ferry, you could smell money – it was a little bit like an Italian St Tropez. It boded well for George-Watch. Alas, despite an exhaustive search of everything from bars to playgrounds, Clooney remained MIA. We numbed the disappointment with an amazing lunch. Not surprisingly, all of the restaurants on the waterfront were ridiculously expensive, but we walked up a narrow, cobbled street and found a small restaurant which was incredibly cheap – not just Bellagio cheap, but cheap by any standard. For less than €6.00 I had bread, a glass of wine, and some incredible gnocchi. It was probably the best food I had eaten since the dumplings in Kraków.

After lunch we wandered around some more, eventually sitting down by the waterfront and people-watching with some ice-cream, a blessed relief for my increasingly-painful throat. There was still no Clooney, which was frightfully disappointing. It was getting quite late in the afternoon and, despite the fact I had rugged up in several layers in a pointless attempt to keep any illness at bay, the temperature was dropping with the sun, so we decided to call it a day and head back to the hostel. The ferry timetable was an oddity we never quite managed to figure out. There were two or three ferries which travelled between Cadenabbia, Varenna, Menaggio and Bellagio, but there didn’t seem to be any particular structure or pattern to how they travelled between each. When we left in the morning, Varrena became our first destination purely because that’s where the next ferry was heading; Bellagio became our second stop because that is where the next ferry was heading when it left Varrena. When we arrived at the dock in Bellagio, we asked the gentleman whether the ferry was heading to Menaggio, and he said it was. And it did, eventually – via way of Cadenabbia, Bellagio, Varenna, Bellagio and Cadenabbia. I was starting to worry that we wouldn’t make our midnight curfew, but we eventually arrived back in Menaggio and managed to make it to the supermarket before it closed. We had decided that, after such an enormous lunch, we’d just do something snacky for dinner, so we purchased bread, peanut butter and bananas with which to make sandwiches, and chocolate for dessert. Chocolate was 39 cents a block at this supermarket. I nearly passed out on the way back to the hostel but we made it and, as it was after 5.00pm, we were even allowed in our rooms!

Very little time was spent at the Social Table that night as I wasn’t feeling particularly social. Due to the hostel’s Internet being down since we arrived (I call lies), we had intentions of travelling across the border into Switzerland, but had no idea how or when this was going to happen. There was a café in the town offering 30 minutes free WiFi with every beverage purchased, so we planned to head there first thing the next morning. Kaitlyn had to almost hand-feed me I was feeling so miserable so, once our stomachs were lined, we went to bed. I wish I could say we went to sleep, but it’s impossible to sleep when you have the world’s most inconsiderate room-mates (outside of Kraków). We had gone to bed around 8.30pm (party animals, I know) and at 10.30pm, I was finally on the precipice of sleep when two girls barged into the room. They slammed the door open with such ferocity that it whacked into the wall behind it and turned on the lights, all the while talking to each other in their “outside voices”. One of them noticed us, pointing out to the other, ‘Oh! There are people sleeping.’ Correction: trying to sleep, so shut up. Yet, despite this observation, they went back to discussing “that guy’s eyes” in their outside voices. Off they went to the bathroom, leaving the light on and slamming the door shut. At this point I dragged my weak and weary carcass out of bed and limped over to turn the light back off. A few minutes later they came back into the room, still talking about this guy, slammed the door shut and turned the light back on. If it was 8.00pm or even a little later, I would still think them rude, but understand where they were coming from. But 10.30pm is not early. Still, two can play at that game. I was well and truly awake by that point and, once I was confident they were asleep, I moved my phone to the charger right near their two bunks, turning the volume up to maximum volume. Did I mention my alarm tone was The Killers and was set to go off at 6.30? Your move, hoes.

It was over breakfast the next morning we discovered my indisputable favourite La Primula absurdity: the Art Corner. My suspicions that we had accidently ended up in some kind of Kumbyah hell-hole were all but confirmed. The Art Corner informed us to “feel free to express ourselves”. There were some pretty hilarious “expressions” in the art corner, including a stunning grey-lead sketch of a motorbike and a lovely collage made from travel brochure cut-outs. However, hands-down, the best piece was the polychromatic declaration “BEING NICE IS FUN”. At least, that was the best piece until I decided to express my feelings. Specifically, my feelings about La Primula Menaggio. Being nice is overrated.

 

Next stop: Switzerland. Maybe George has travelled there for the weekend.

Florence: Family Fights and a False Sense of Security

After the horrors of Rome (both Actual Rome and the one by the sea), we were quite eager to move onto somewhere safer. In all honesty, I think the Gaza Strip would have felt safe after our time in the City of Seven Hells, but that our next destination was Florence – my favourite Italian city – was even better.

When we had been selecting our hostel, we really only had one prerequisite – that it was in the actual city of Florence … as opposed to, say, “Florence by the Sahara”. Several weeks of dorm-sharing coupled with the shocks of the previous few days also had us craving a bit of privacy so, after selecting a hostel and quadruple-checking that it was definitely in the heart of Florence, Italy, we made the decision to splurge an extra €2.00 each a night for our own private room. According to their website, Ciao Hostel is “just steps from the Santa Maria Novella Station”. Sure, and Ostia is “just steps” from Rome. Other mendacities on their site included the “private bathrooms”, which were private only in the sense that there was no CCTV inside; the “flat screen TV”, which was as flat as Christina Hendricks’ chest; and the “soundproof rooms”, which had a noise-level comparative to Tokyo’s Shibuya Crossing. But these weren’t the reasons we chose the hostel – we had our own room which was walking distance from all the major city sights, so we were more than content. For the first time since Berlin, we also had our own kitchen facilities. I hadn’t been that excited about cooking since I realised Home Ec was the only non-examinable year ten subject other than PE.

After checking in and being shown how the front door worked (it was a single key in a lock) in the kind of patronising manner usually reserved for explaining to a Collingwood supporter how to use a toothbrush, we headed off to explore the city. Florence is, unquestionably, my favourite major city in Italy. It might not have the same magical and unique layout of Venice, and it doesn’t have quite the history of Rome and the Roman Empire, but it was the birthplace of the Renaissance, and I think it’s more beautiful than both of those places put together. Not to mention the general atmosphere of the city, the elegance and sophistication of which leaves the overly-touristy feeling of Venice, and the treacherous vibe of Rome for dead.

For the first time in days we didn’t feel anxious and fearful, so we luxuriated in this and spent the afternoon wandering around somewhat aimlessly. Despite not going out of our way to sight-see, our wanderings found us taking in some of the city’s major sights including the Piazza della Signoria, Palazzo Vecchio and what is probably Florence’s most famous landmark, Il Duomo. Although we were a lot more relaxed and had mostly shaken the paranoid feeling that every person we encountered was going to stab us, we decided we would have an early evening meal, and try and be back at the hostel before it was dark - just to be on the safe side.

I imagine there are hundreds of eating establishments in Florence. Of course, we chose the worst. Well, maybe not the worst, but it certainly had more flaws than redeeming features. Kaitlyn felt like pasta and I felt like pizza, and we found a little place whose menu had an impressive (and inexpensive) choice of both. It also already had a few people sitting down which, given the early hour, we took as a good sign. Turned out to be about as good a sign as turning up at an exam and realising you are the only person who doesn’t have a calculator. Almost immediately after we sat down on the terrace, a waiter appeared with menus for us, in what turned out to be the only piece of good, punctual service we received that evening. And this wasn’t because the place was busy, or because the staff was particularly stupid. No, this was because they had more important things to tend to that night than running their restaurant – things such as epic family arguments.

We realised quite quickly that it was a family establishment, with children running around all over the place, an elderly apron-clad woman “helping” in the kitchen and palpable tension. The major source of the tension seemed to stem from two similar-looking men who we assumed were brothers. Exactly what had caused the hostility between them, we will never know, but they were undoubtedly in the midst of a major conflict, and all ten generations of the family present in the restaurant were getting involved. Brothers 1 and 2 were really going at it, at one point getting right up in each other’s faces. With our lack of Italian we had no idea what they were saying, but we imagined it was something along the lines of: ‘WHEN I LOOK INTO YOUR EYES, I CAN SEE STRAIGHT THROUGH TO THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD.'
'WELL YOU'RE SO STUPID, YOU FAILED A BLOOD TEST.'

We had fun translating the argument into English and then, about twenty minutes after we had been presented menus, Brother 1 re-appeared outside to take our order. Kaitlyn ordered pasta (not Carbonara, but I imagine only because there wasn’t any on the menu), I ordered a calzone, and we both ordered water. Brother 2 was in the bar by now, so Brother 1 had to procure the water from him. Brother 2 slammed the glasses on the counter, one of them shattering, and Brother 1 shouted something at him, before flinging his tray like a frisbee at Brother 2 who just managed to duck out of its trajectory. More shouting followed, before a different young man appeared from nowhere and brought us out water.

The novelty of having ring-side seats for the spectacle had worn off, and now we were just hungry. Brother 1 appeared with Kaitlyn’s pasta, slamming it down on the table in front of her, all the while screaming at his brother over his shoulder, ‘YOU’RE FACE LOOKS LIKE IT CAUGHT ON FIRE AND SOMEONE TRIED TO PUT IT OUT WITH A FORK.’ As he turned around and stormed back inside, Kaitlyn directed my attention to her meal. ‘Does that look cooked to you?’ Her pasta, in fact, did not look as if it had been cooked at all. This wasn’t al dente, this was still crunchy. I could hear Kaitlyn eating it. It sounded like she was eating rice crackers, not Rigatoni. ‘Are you going to send it back?’
‘And have him throw it in my face and give me third-degree f@#%ing burns? I’d rather keep eating it and f@#%ing break a tooth.’ She had a fair point. As you can imagine, it was quite time-consuming to crunch through a whole plate of pasta. Still, Kaitlyn had well and truly finished by the time my meal was slammed down in front of me. It wasn’t what I ordered, but it appeared to be cooked, so I ate it anyway. Towards the end of the meal, things inside really seemed to come to a head, and Brother 2 stormed out from behind the bar, scooped up two children from the floor and stalked past us into the night. Around this time the elderly couple on the table next to us started to make conversation. German, this was their third night in a row at this restaurant as they absolutely loved it. ‘Ze food iz gut. Ze vine iz chip. And ze men, zey ah viry nahce.’ Viry nahce?! I guess growing up with Hitler and then the Soviet occupation gives one low standards.

After dinner we headed back to the hostel by way of the supermarket, as we needed supplies for breakfast, and wine for that very second. The novelty of being able to cook led us to go all-out with our breakfast supplies: eggs, mozzarella, spinach, muesli, bread, fruit, juice and proper, wog hot chocolate. As for the wine, I don’t discriminate when it comes to alcohol and, when I see a bottle of wine for less than €1.00, I consider it a challenge to see whether or not I can stomach it. I spent 94 cents on my bottle of red, while Kaitlyn totally splurged and spent upwards of €2.50 on her bottle of white. Armed with supplies, we began the trek back to the hostel where we intended to spread our stuff out across the room, get into our pyjamas, find something to watch on our “flat screen TV” and drink wine. We were maybe 150 metres away from the train station, when a man broke away from the group he was standing with and started chasing us. There was no subtlety, no slow build-up – he just peeled-off from the group and started running after us. And I mean running – dude was as quick as a cheetah. Fortunately, we made it into the train station before he could reach us. (Exactly what he would have “done” had he reached us I am unsure, but I doubt it would have been a friendly hug, or bestowing on us some famous gold Florence jewellery.) We hung around the station for a few minutes, before departing via an alternative exit and walked to the hostel.

I was glad it was “just steps” between there and the hostel, as Kaitlyn’s racially-motivated tantrum could have gone on indefinitely. ‘I F@#%ING HATE ALL F@#%ING ITALIANS. THIS WHOLE F@#%ING COUNTRY IS FULL OF DIRTY F@#%ING GYPSIES WHO JUST WANT TO F@#%ING ROB US.’ Not sure why I bothered to interject, but I felt the need to at least attempt to defend the Italian race. ‘Not all Italians are like that.’
‘Well clearly they F@#%ING ARE. Every one I’ve met has tried to f@#%ing mug me.’
‘Remember, I have some Italian in me.’
‘Yeah. Well I f@#%ing hate that f@#%ing part of you too. You’ve probably tried to f@#%ing mug me in my f@#%ing sleep.’ I should have known it was a fruitless exercise. At this point, she ceased directing her tirade at me and started telling everyone her true thoughts on Italy. ‘I mean, for F@#%S SAKE. NO WONDER YOUR COUNTRY’S ECONOMY IS IN THE F@#%ING SHITHOLE. I COME HERE TO INJECT MY F@#%ING SAVINGS INTO YOUR F@#%ING ECONOMY AND YOU TRY AND KILL ME. WE’LL YOU’RE NOT GETTING ANYMORE OF MY MONEY. I’LL JUST SPEND THE REST OF MY TIME HERE SITTING ON MY BED NOT DOING ANYTHING BECAUSE I’M NOT GIVING YOU F@#%ERS ANOTHER F@#%ING CENT. Oh! Are we here already?’ Indeed we were. It’s amazing how quickly time goes when you’re in the midst of a tantrum.

Between the tense dinner, the second potential mugging, and the revelation there was a part of me Kaitlyn “f@#%ing hated”, I needed a drink. Kaitlyn needed one too, primarily to lubricate her parched throat. I had no trouble opening her bottle but, for the life of me, I could not remove the cork from mine. I braved asking Kaitlyn to give it a try, but she had no luck either. I ended up going downstairs and suffering through a condescending conversation with Mr Patronising on the desk. I guess that’s what I get for being cheap. That, and a beverage that tasted like decaying vegetation.

The next morning we rose early, not so much because we wanted to fit in as much sight-seeing as possible, but because we wanted to maximise breakfast-time as much as possible. Although Ciao’s website didn’t wax lyrical about amazing hot showers, I expected them to at least be warm. They weren’t even tepid, they were freezing. The water was so cold that it acted like dry ice, freezing the hairs on my legs so they snapped off when I dried myself. At least that problem was solved. I guess it was lucky we had proper, wog hot chocolate to warm us up – and not just any wog hot chocolate, gianduja hot chocolate. Which is healthier, because there is protein in the hazelnuts.

We had a pretty busy morning seeing the hotspots of Florence, taking in the Ponte Vecchio, and, in more detail, Palazzo Vecchio and the Piazza della Signoria, which is home to Fake David, the replica of Michelangelo’s famous statue. We had a great morning, and Florence was as beautiful as I had remembered it. Unfortunately, the weather was incredibly overcast, so all the photos we took were somewhat lacklustre and mostly failed to capture its magnificence. Speaking of meteorological conditions, by lunchtime, Kaitlyn was beginning to feel a bit under the weather herself. We tried ice-cream but, unfortunately, that didn’t help her so, in the early afternoon, we went back to the hostel so she could rest up.

It was that evening another of Ciao’s online claims was controverted. I don’t know about anyone else but, to me, “soundproof rooms” suggests that the rooms would possess the ability to keep most sounds out. Not an air-attack, or even a Kaitlyn tantrum, but most sounds. What it doesn’t suggest to me, is that the room would have the acoustics of an empty quarry and actually amplify even the smallest of sounds. But this is exactly what Ciao’s “soundproof rooms” did. That afternoon, a group of half a dozen Asians took up residence in the rooms next to ours. Between them, they managed to portray every Asian stereotype imaginable: they ate miso soup and seaweed for breakfast, seaweed and steamed rice for dinner; the boys watched Anime on their laptops, while the girls wrote on Hello Kitty stationary with bejewelled pens. I’m not sure whether he was carrying it around Europe, but one of them was always drinking out of a ginormous Starbucks mug. Notice the stereotype missing? No, not karate, the other one: ninjas. These guys would be as successful as ninjas as I would be as a hurdler.

When they first arrived, I thought perhaps Yeast Infection, Dick, Scorsese, The Other One and Bogan Daddy had arrived with a group of friends, because I attributed the sound levels emanating from the halls with those produced by a large group of drunk Australians. I was thoroughly surprised when I ventured into the kitchen later and found, not boardie-clad men watching porn on a table strewn with empties, but six Asians reading Manga and drinking bubble tea. I would like stress that I am not employing these stereotypes as a means of being racist – everything that I have said happened. Including the bubble tea, although I have no idea from where they managed to procure that in Florence.

That night, Kaitlyn was in the throes of a horrible cold, so we took it easy, cooking up pasta in the kitchen and watching montages of Christian Bale on YouTube. So far in Italy, we had kept up a strict routine of having two ice-creams a day, so we had to venture out briefly so as not to fall behind. Especially as, according to Kaitlyn, ice-cream was the only thing Italy had going for it. ‘They might all be dirty f@#%ing criminals, but they f@#%ing know how to make ice-cream.’

The next day started off much like the previous: hypothermic showers, mozzarella and spinach omelettes and gianduja hot chocolate. Kaitlyn still wasn’t feeling 100%, but she was feeling better, so we braved a walk up to Piazzle Michelangelo. Piazzle Michelangelo is the famous square which provides the most amazing panoramic views of the city. All the pictures and postcards you’ve seen of Florence which weren’t of David’s genitals would have been taken from up there. It was a warm and humid day making it quite the walk up there, especially for Kaitlyn who was clearly not well. The views made it completely worthwhile, as did the ice-cream. Although, the warm weather and our sugary confections invited the presence of some wasps, threatening to derail the entire afternoon. ‘WHAT THE F@#%?! PISS OFF! DID YOU FOLLOW ME HERE FROM PRAGUE OR SOMETHING, YOU LITTLE F@#%ERS? They’re Italian wasps too, so I bet they’re here to f@#%ing kill me.’

From Piazza Michelangelo, we headed back down and went in search of David. Given that David is, after Il Duomo, probably Florence’s most sought-after attraction, you’d think it would be easy to find. Incorrect. I believe you would have better luck finding me in Rome again, than you would finding David in anything under three hours. Even then probably only stumbling upon him by accident. I’ve seen David twice in the past but, for some reason, my memory of Florence’s layout was not particularly great, and I couldn’t remember where I had seen him. Despite having the assistance of a city booklet and our phones, David proved to be as elusive as my first hangover. Our main problem came from asking people for directions. You’d think we’d have learnt from Rome to not ask Italians for directions. Everyone we asked pointed us in a completely different way. I was of the opinion this was because they didn’t know and/or didn’t quite understand what we were asking. Kaitlyn, however, was of the opinion they were deliberately trying to confound us and point us in the direction of a torture chamber. ‘They’re f@#%ing doing it on purpose. We’re going to end up in a rape dungeon somewhere. I bet David doesn’t even f@#%ing exist.’ Eventually, we accidently stumbled across his home. When we realised it was going to cost us €16.00, we decided to refrain from paying him a visit. After all, we’d already seen the replica in the Piazza della Signoria, and we were staying in hostels, so it’s not as if we weren’t seeing that every single day. Besides, our €16.00 would have been much better spent at H&M, which is where we spent the rest of our afternoon, trying on an assortment of nice and nasty clothing and accessories.

That night, we made the most of the kitchen facilities, cooking up a storm and forcing down the rest of our cheap wine. It’s amazing how quickly one grows to almost enjoy the tannin tastes of alcoholic swamp water. We both had enough wine in our system to feel brave enough to negotiate the seedy streets and find some ice-cream, eventually returning to finish our Florentine experience with a badly-dubbed version of Juno on our “flat screen TV”.

Next stop, Lake Como. George, baby, we’re coming for you. All of you. Both of us.

Rome (by the Sea): Mi scusi! Where is the train station?

Rome. Roma. Caput Mundi. The City of Seven Hills. The Eternal City. More accurately, the City of Seven Hells, and the City of my Eternal Nightmares.

For reasons which are unimportant here, I have been to Rome in the past and not been particularly enamoured with the place. That said, it was one of the cities I was most excited about re-visiting. And this is why I try and go through life with low expectations – because high expectations ultimately set a person up for disappointment. Simply, my disinterest in Rome has developed into a dislike. Immense dislike.

We arrived from Venice by train and had fairly simple instructions to follow in order to arrive at our hostel. It only took a few minutes for my optimistic mood to turn sour. All of the metro ticket machines were being blocked by dirty gypsies who were forcing themselves upon people, buying their tickets for them, and expecting to be paid for their “work”. Locals were pushing them away, but the tourists seemed to be having a hard time escaping their services. We sure as hell weren’t going to pay some disease-riddled vagrant for pushing a couple of buttons on a machine, so we took a cue from the locals and batted them away.

To get from the train station to our hostel, our instructions directed us to catch one train to a station, swap lines, and catch another train. We boarded the first train, and I realised that Kaitlyn was staring quite intently at me. ‘What?’

‘You really are very wog looking, aren’t you?’ I imagine my eyebrows were peeking out from under my fringe. And tormenting everyone. We swapped onto the second line and, after only a few stations, the thinning-out of infrastructure and urban development became quite noticeable. Thinking that perhaps I had accidently led us onto the wrong train, I checked the hostel’s instructions against the route information on the train wall but, no, we were definitely on the correct train. This discovery left me feeling no relief at all. On the contrary, I started to become a little bit anxious, as did Kaitlyn. ‘There’s a lot of livestock out here, yeah? A lot of livestock.’ And she was right. There was no Forum or Pantheon, just farm animals and paddocks. ‘Seriously, are we even in f@#!ing Rome anymore? The f@#!ing sheep are outnumbering buildings thirty-to-f@#!ing-one.’ There was nothing we could do at that point, so we tried to remain calm until we could fully assess the situation. But I am a total city-girl, and just looking at all of the un-disturbed nature was making it quite difficult for me to breathe.

After a period of time in which I believe it would have been feasible to conceive and carry a child full-term, we disembarked the train at “Ostia Lido Centro”, from where we had to catch “Bus no. 1” five stops.  Finding “Bus no. 1” proved quite easy, but boarding it proved quite challenging as there were at least 10,000 people crammed on board. The driver was lovely though, and waved off our apologetic “sorry-about-the-irritating-and-space-consuming-backpack” gestures. Just to confirm that we were, in fact, on the right bus, I showed him the address of the hostel. He nodded affirmatively, and made his own set of gestures which we interpreted as “I-will-let-you-know-when-you-need-to-get-off”.

The bus ride was not much more than five minutes, but in that time, I sustained serious damage to my shoulder and eardrum, not to mention irrevocable damage to my already fragile nerves. At the first stop after we embarked, a man and a young girl boarded. We were still squashed up next to the door and they pushed in behind us, the girl right at my shoulder. I couldn’t see her for my shell, of course, but I sure as shit heard her -and I will probably never hear anything out of that ear again. Seconds after the bus started moving, she let out the most ear-piercing shriek I have ever heard. You would not have been able to hear Maria Sharapova over it. I’m not sure if the bus went up on two wheels and nearly veered off the road, or if my perforated eardrum caused instant vertigo, but we managed to make it to the next stop. No one disembarked, but a few more people climbed aboard, until I was practically resting my face in the bus driver’s lap. I cannot imagine it looked particularly good. Mercifully, at the third stop, a few people hopped off, freeing up a bit of space and allowing me to assume an upright position which I am confident wasn’t in any way suggestive.

Right as the doors were closing, Shrieking Sally pushed her father off the bus, in the process pushing me into the closing doors which, unbeknownst to me, caught onto a little bit of my shell. Frantic Father started bashing on the closed doors, and the driver re-opened them. I heard it before I felt it – half crack, half crunch. Then came the pain. Oh, Good Lord, the pain. But before I had time to cry, the doors closed, and my shoulder cracked again. I didn’t have time to dwell on the agony as the driver was pulling up and gesturing that this was our stop. He pointed to my written instructions, and then across the road to an absolutely enormous complex. It looked more like a hospital than a hostel, but we ventured forth.

First thing I noticed about the hostel: it was, indeed, gargantuan. Second thing I noticed about the hostel: the guy on the desk was so attractive it was hurting my eyes – just not enough to stop me from staring. As soon as he saw us, he jumped up from the desk and helped me remove my shell, and Kaitlyn her pack. In a ridiculously sexy accent he made some comment about the size-of-me-to-size-of-shell ratio, and then squeezed my arm to determine the size of my muscles. It was my recently-injured arm. It was a mixture of pleasure and pain.  He briefly disappeared, and returned with glasses of water for us. As we began to check-in, a Canadian guy called TK arrived. As gorgeous as Mr Hot-Hostel was, his ridiculously entrancing eyes had not made me forget something very important: this was not Rome. Before I had a chance to enquire as to where the hell we actually were, Mr Hot-Hostel’s colleague passed us our “welcome literature”, the first one of which was a brochure for Ostia or, as the brochure stated, “Ostia: Rome by the Sea”.

Kaitlyn and I shared a look, but before I started demanding a refund and compensation for their false-advertising, I wanted to go and double-check the website and be certain that we hadn’t misread the information and made a hypothermic-induced error when we booked in Venice. Regardless, we still had a plan that evening which involved a lot of alcohol and the Rome which wasn’t by the sea. Kaitlyn asked Mr Hot-Hostel’s colleague how long it took to get from here into the city. She looked back at us blankly. Kaitlyn tried again. ‘How long from here on the train into Rome?’

‘Rome?’

‘Yeah. Rome.’

‘Rome?’

‘ROME. THE CITY. ROME.’‘….’ The blank look had yet to vacate her face. Mr Hot-Hostel said something to her in Italian. ‘Ahhhh! Roma?!’

‘Yes Roma! How far is it from here to there?’

‘Close, close. On train, fifteen minutes.’ I couldn’t help but call her on her bullshit.

‘It just took us almost an hour.’

‘Hour? No!’

‘Yes.’ You could see her mind ticking away, trying to come up with an answer which would satisfy us. ‘On a Saturday, one hour.’ This did not bode well for Sundays.

‘And on Sunday?’

‘One half of an hour.’ Yeah, I bet.

Mr Hot-Hostel finished checking us all in, saying he had put TK in a room with us. Before I had time to hoist my shell up, Mr Hot-Hostel whipped around and started carrying it for me. Attractive and chivalrous. Swoon.

When we arrived in our room we realised that, while the “Rome” part of the brochure’s claim may have been one massive embellishment, the “by the sea” part was very truthful, as the view from our window was all beach. Equally as eye-catching was the view of my shoulder which, after removing my jumper, was revealed to be really quite swollen and already bruised. A quick re-read of the website revealed that there was absolutely no mention whatsoever of the fact this place was not actually in Rome, other than it being “just outside the city centre”. The three of us agreed 30 kilometres is not “just outside”, but we were too hungry to plan our next move, and decided instead to see what kind of culinary delights Rome by the Sea had to offer.

Even without knowing TK’s situation, it was evident we had all  had a shocking day so far, and it seemed that we all needed some comfort food. So, we ended up at a steakhouse - because there’s nothing more comforting to a vegetarian than steak. No, they had vegetarian quesadillas and there really isn’t anything (non-alcoholic) more comforting to me than carbs and cheese. The place we went to was a really cheap TGIF’s knock-off, resplendent with American clichés: waiters dressed as cowboys, the décor all stars and stripes, “Route 66” stickers all over the walls – it was quite amusing. After we were fed and watered, Kaitlyn and I came to the conclusion that it would be more traumatic to find a new hostel and move, not to mention time-consuming, so the decision to remain in Rome by the Sea was made. We celebrated with some of the most delicious ice-cream we had tasted. At least Rome by the Sea had something going for it.

After checking the train timetables, we realised that a night out in Actual Rome was still feasible – so long as we caught a train home by 2.03am, or could wait until 5.07am. Putting all of my academia to good use, I tracked down Rome’s best purported pub crawls. TK was pretty keen to come with us, so the three of us researched each and came to a unanimous decision on which one we would be joining. The one we chose met outside the Colosseum (seriously) which wasn’t exactly hard to find our way to. What was hard to find our way to was Ostia Lido Centro. Although we had caught the bus to the hostel, we knew it wasn’t very far away, and we thought it would be nice to see a bit of Rome by the Sea. Stupidly, we had not looked up what “train station” was in Italian, and it quickly became apparent that not many locals spoke English so, when we asked if they knew where the train station was, we were met with blank stares, or they would shake their heads and walk away. In fact, a quick discussion led us to realise that, between us, the only words of Italian we knew were: “ciao”, “bella”, “arrivederci” and “mi scusi”.

As the next people approached, TK very loudly exclaimed, ‘Mi scusi!’followed by a very heavily Canadian-accented, ‘Where’s the train station?!’ Every group of people we asked pointed us in different directions as no one seemed to understand us. Eventually, we got creative and thought maybe if we pretended to be a train and made train noises, someone might understand. A man walked towards us and TK got his attention with a loud ‘Mi scusi!’. We quickly assumed the formation of a train and, with Kaitlyn and I making train-wheel movements with our hands, and TK on the “choo-choos”, we were able to ascertain that the train station was just up the road.

Over lunch we had learned that TK had a girlfriend at home whom he was very much in love with. However, he had made it his mission to find us a couple of attractive  men with whom to ‘at least flirt heavily’. On the train-ride in, he reinforced this, but I think it was merely a way to introduce his girlfriend into the conversation. He was so in love with her, it was sickeningly sweet. In fact, for the entire train ride in, I don’t think we talked about anything else, except for a brief tantrum-interlude when Kaitlyn realised she had forgotten to put her jewellery on. ‘F@#!. I forgot to f@#!ing put my f@#!ing jewellery on. I may as well be f@#!ing naked.’ We jumped off at the Colosseum station and, as soon as we walked out, BANG: there it was, lit up in all its glory. At least, I thought it looked quite glorious. ‘Is that it?’ Kaitlyn wasn’t as impressed. ‘It’s pretty small.’ From here were taken to the first bar of the night, and the pub crawl commenced.

In terms of number-of-participants, we had definitely chosen the right one. In terms of quality-of-the-organisation, even without experiencing the others, I am confident that we chose the worst. When we arrived at the first bar, we were given a number of free-drink vouchers which we were to redeem at the bar. Problem: one person serving at the bar. It was FORTY FIVE MINUTES before we got to the front of the queue and obtained our first beverage. Completely unacceptable. When we had first arrived, there were a lot of people already there, and they were all completely trashed. At this rate, I thought we would never be able to catch up to them, but TK, using his tall, board physique, somehow cracked the system and it didn’t take long for us to catch up at all.

On the walk to the next bar, this guy started chatting to me. He was American, and not at all unattractive, but he was old enough to be my father. Well, not really, but he would have been about 35. And sure, Isaac’s 36, but true love knows no bounds...and drunken attraction does. A guy our own age took a fancy to Kaitlyn and some horribly drunk girl had attached herself to TK – I mean literally attached herself to him, as she was so drunk, she was unable to stand upright without his aid. We made it to the second establishment and I managed to shake Grandpa, only to find myself standing in the line for the bathroom with a girl who had the same colour complexion as the green concoction she was drinking. She also wasn’t wearing any underwear, which I discovered as I held her hair back as she heaved her not-so-little guts out. Kaitlyn appeared and the two of us had to endure her drunken exclamations of love. ‘I loooovveee yooouuuu guuuuyyyssss. Don’t even know your naammmes, but I loooveee you.’ I’d love you to pull your dress down. We really wanted to get out of there, but we weren’t going to leave her alone, so we tried to find out who she was with. ‘My friends. But I ‘dun need ‘em nymore.’ Pause to heave. ‘Cos I got you. And you are my new friends. S’okay…I ‘dun need ‘em.’ Yes, yes you do.

Eventually, her friends appeared and we were able to vacate the bathroom. I was standing at the bar talking to a guy who was desperately struggling to find a bisyllablic word with which to impress me, when I saw Grandpa ducking and weaving through the crowd towards me. As he wasn’t brandishing a spare drink, I used my midgetry to sneak out of the crowd where I found Kaitlyn and TK. Not long after that, we were heading off to the next place – a club. It was more like a maze than a club but, after a few more bevvies, my need to dance outweighed my claustrophobic unease, and we stumbled our way around its winding corridors and up and down its staircases. We enjoyed ourselves immensely on the DF, and Kaitlyn even got up on stage and entertained everyone with a very seductive routine to some Christina Aguilera. It was gold. Eventually, the three of us found out way outside. It was a bit after 1.00am and, even though we were having a good time, we were conscious of our 2.03am train-window, and decided to call it a night. At least, we thought that’s what we were doing. Little did we know, our night was just beginning.

As we were leaving the pub crawl, we approached the guys running it and inquired where the closest train station was. They were reasonably vague about it, but one of them thought it was in a particular direction. They were more concerned in ensuring we received our fluro-orange “When In Rome” pub crawl t-shirts, which they insisted we put on immediately. We felt incredibly stupid, but Kaitlyn and I begrudgingly put ours on to shut them up. TK had asked for a small size so he could give his to his girlfriend. Not sure why he bothered as, from his monologue earlier in the evening, it didn’t sound as if the two of them spent much time clothed. We headed in the direction we had been pointed, but we couldn’t see any sign of a train station. There were heaps of people around on the street, but two guys were walking behind us, so we asked them if they spoke English and knew where the train station was. They said that’s where they were going so they’d take us. We were walking along talking and I became conscious of the fact that there seemed to be a lot less people around than there had been.We turned a corner and one of them starting patting TK on the back as if to show appreciation for a particularly humorous joke, only it was quite odd. Kaitlyn and I looked at each other because we both sensed something was not right. They stopped, and we realised that they had led us right into an alley, and six other guys started walking up behind us effectively blocking us in.

I usually try and give truisms a wide berth, but everything really did start happening in slow-motion. TK had also realised something wasn’t right and the three of us took a moment to look at each other’s horror-stricken faces, trying to think of what the hell we could do. I was aware of the six guys getting closer, and they started to peel off into groups and come towards each of us. TK was wearing a gold necklace (with a gold hockey stick he had worn every day since it had been given to him by his dad for his seventh birthday), which one of the guys grabbed a hold of and yanked off his neck. One of them then assumed something of a fighting stance, quickly mirrored by a couple of the others. They obviously expected TK to fight back, but he was smart enough to realise that we were outnumbered eight to three (two a half with me, really). He looked at us and screamed ‘RUN!’. One of them grabbed onto my arm, but TK pushed him off me, and we piss-bolted out of there before they could process what was going on. We got back into in the main street without stopping once. We were concerned about TK, but he was more concerned about us. Physically we were all okay, but I think we were all in a state of shock.

We started walking down the street and, even though there were lots of people around, it was evident we weren’t in a particularly “good” part of town. We had no idea where the hell we were and, given what had just happened, we were hesitant to approach anyone and ask. Stumbling along, we came across a food store, and TK took us inside and bought us pizza and water. By now it was just before 2.00am and we realised that we would never make it to a train station by 2.03am. We talked to the guys in the shop who, despite having limited English, suggested that we make our way to the bus station down the end of the street we were on, as he was certain that buses ran every half hour from there to Ostia 24 hours a day. I think all three of us were sceptical, but we didn’t have any other plan, so we took some time to compose ourselves, and started to head down the road.

It was a long freaking road, but eventually we found the “bus station”. It was really a collection of bus stops which I imagine serviced several different bus routes. Most of the shelters had people in them, so we assumed buses were still running in those early hours. We found the one which said “Ostia” (funnily enough it didn’t say “Rome by the Sea”). There was no timetable, and we didn’t even know for sure if a bus was going to come past, but we sat and waited. I was thinking about how lucky we were that we managed to get away without having our bags stolen, when I realised that they were completely obscured from view by the ridiculous t-shirts we were wearing. I commented on this, and TK said that the two guys we had been walking with kept looking Kaitlyn and me up-and-down, so it seems likely that they had been scoping us out for possessions. Of course, they couldn’t see our bags under our shirts, and mine was engulfing my entire body, so my necklace, watch and myriad bracelets were also concealed. ‘I guess it’s lucky I forgot my jewellery, hey?’ Those hideous, fluro-orange t-shirts had probably saved us from a worse fate – the irony was not lost on us.

As the minutes ticked away and the shock (and alcohol) wore off, we realised how cold it was. I curled up into TK’s lap, each of us with our arms around Kaitlyn, and we remained in a pathetic little huddle until a bus finally pulled-up. We climbed on-board and the driver took one look at our dishevelled state, and waved us on without charging. Being on that bus was not unlike being on a Mystery Bus Tour. Everyone was wasted but, despite it being close to 4.00am, it was party central and there was quite the community spirit, with bottles being passed back and forth. Fortunately, people seemed to realise that we weren’t really in the party mood, and left the three of us to shiver and shake alone together. The bus stopped at the train station and, even though we knew how to get to the hostel now, it was a long, cold walk, especially the last ten minutes when lightning lit up the sky and rain began to fall. Still, I couldn’t believe how pleased I was to be back in Rome by the Sea.

The next morning we decided that, despite our time in Rome being quite limited, we would take it easy, so the three of had a leisurely, late breakfast followed by some ice-cream on the beach. TK was keen to head back and Skype his girlfriend because it had been well over twelve hours since he last had, so we headed back to the hostel. TK had gone to take a nap, and Kaitlyn and I were sitting in the computer room alone when Mr Hot-Hostel came in. Despite it being barely 12.00pm, he was drinking from a very large cup of wine. He asked us if we wanted any and, although we declined, he disappeared and came back with a very large one for each of us. He may have been attractive but my goodness he was irritating. Kaitlyn was trying to Skype, and I was trying to write, and he just wouldn’t shut up. He kept trying to make us drink the wine, even holding the cup up to my mouth at one point. Then he jumped onto a computer and starting showing us photos of himself in bunkers in Afghanistan. Kaitlyn, she of slightly lesser-patience than me, got fed up with him and went back to the room. I was determined to finish what I was doing, so I stayed there and just ignored his ramblings. He started talking about me, commenting on my eyes, but then things turned creepy when he started sucking on my earlobe. I high-tailed it out of there and back to our room where I promptly locked us in. We had been umming and ahhing about whether or not to head into Actual Rome that afternoon, but I sure as hell wasn’t hanging around there any longer, so off we went.

Even though it was Sunday, the train ride in was definitely more than "one half of an hour". But it was long enough for TK to recount his Skype conversation with his girlfriend. Verbatim. Word-for-agonising-word. We spent the afternoon wandering around the Forum and the Colosseum – which Kaitlyn seemed suitably more impressed with in the daylight. We also happened upon an African street festival at which we were able to enjoy corn on the cob to the music of a man who seemed to have confused “African” with “Native American Indian”, and was playing 90s classics such as “My Heart Will Go On” on a pan-flute, sporting a feathered headdress.

Despite the fact we were having an enjoyable afternoon, even in the daylight we were all on edge and, as soon as the sun went down, our anxiety only increased. We agreed that we would like to be well and truly out of Actual Rome by the time it was dark, so we jumped on a train and headed back to Rome by the Sea.

Once we got back, we found a cute little place down by the sea to have dinner. I’ll be honest, we chose it because it was cheap, but the food was amazing. Anytime we go out for a meal and there is Carbonara on the menu, Kaitlyn will order it. Even if she has previously stated that she wants “something light”, if she sees it on the menu, she will order it. And every time she gets halfway through, completely regrets it, turns to me and says ‘I told you to stop me doing it.’

‘I tried.’

‘You didn’t try hard enough. Why do I always order creamy f@#!ing Carbonara? Next time you need to stop me.’ And next time I will try, reminding her about last time and the time before, and the time before that, and she will tell me this time is “different” because she “really feels like it”. And she will order it despite my protestations, get halfway through, feel sick, and blame me. Every. Time.

Going through the menu, the first thing I did was look for Carbonara, and it was there. I didn’t say anything, and instead kept looking for me, and waiting for her to notice it too. ‘Oh! Carbonara! That’s exactly what I feel like.’

‘Don’t do it.’

‘Don’t do what?’

‘Don’t get the Carbonara. You know why. You’ll regret it.’

‘I won’t this time. I really feel like it tonight, plus I’m hungry. I was mugged last night and spent all day protecting my bag from f@#!ing gypsies. I need some

f@#!ing comfort food.’

‘Okay. But you know you’re going to regret it.’

All three of us ordered pasta dishes and, while we were waiting, TK told us more about his girlfriend. Even once our meals came, between forkfuls of pasta, TK kept telling us about his girlfriend. And not even about her life, or sweet little anecdotes about their relationship, but really personal details that neither of us wanted to hear while eating. Or ever. Halfway through her meal, Kaitlyn threw her fork down and turned to me. ‘Why did you let me do it? Why didn’t you stop me?’

‘I tried.’

‘Well you obviously didn’t try hard enough, because I still ordered it. Why do I always order creamy f@#!ing Carbonara? Next time you need to stop me.’ Yeah, because that will definitely happen.

Talk turned to Mr Creepy-Hostel, and I recounted the story of our afternoon encounter in more detail. At the mention of him discussing my eyes, TK, seized on the opportunity to turn the conversation back to his girlfriend. ‘I probably miss her eyes the most. They’re green and just so…so earthy.’ It got better. ‘Everything about her is earthy. She’s just so fertile.’ If any boyfriend of mine ever describes me to someone as being “fertile”, I will pack my bags and move permanently to Rome by the Sea. Seeing as we were now going to essentially be doing Rome in a day, we decided to head back to the hostel and have an early night.

Actual Rome wasn’t built in a day, and it certainly wasn’t made to be seen in a day. Still, it didn’t stop us from giving it a red-hot shot. It was just Kaitlyn and I that day as TK had decided to stay back in Rome by the Sea, which was fine by us as I wanted to see the sights without a running commentary of how each one reminded him of his girlfriend’s naked, fertile body. On the “fifteen minute” train ride in, Kaitlyn accurately summarised it. ‘I feel like I’ve had sex with her.’

Considering our limited time, we managed to see what are arguably the city's most significant sights, minus the Vatican which, as the only indoor sight open on a Monday, had a queue which probably spanned the distance between Actual Rome and Rome by the Sea. We caught the train straight to St Peter’s and from there we went to the Pantheon, Trevi Fountain and the Spanish Steps. Of course, we had already seen the Colosseum and the Forum. Although time was of the essence, we decided to refrain from using public transport that day as we knew we’d see more of the city by walking. As if all the walking wasn’t tiring enough, the whole day was spent being uber-vigilant, to the point of paranoia. It’s fair to say our experience on Saturday night certainly left us feeling on edge, but there is something about Actual Rome that left us feeling incredibly unsafe. We’re not naïve travellers, and we’re careful every single day. But there is a big difference between being careful and being constantly on your guard. It was thoroughly draining and it unquestionably impacted detrimentally on our attempts to enjoy the city.

Even though we were somewhat cautious about wandering around Actual Rome after dark, we were resolute about having at least one proper meal in the city. While it was still light, we found a cluster of restaurants which were spitting distance from the train station. We decided on a cute little place which was probably as authentically Italian as Pizza Hut, but it looked the part. The first thing I noticed was that there was Carbonara on the menu. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t be getting the f@#!ing Carbonara.’ As it was, she nearly didn’t get anything at all as our waiter was so incredibly stupid.  It wasn’t a language barrier - he struggled to walk in a straight line, let alone correctly take down our order. I was starting to think that walking through the city in the dark wouldn’t be an issue because surely the sun was about to start rising, but another waiter seemed to be cognisant of the fact this guy was depriving a village somewhere of an idiot, and stepped in to save the day. Night had fallen by the time we left, but we made it back to Rome by the Sea safely.

The best way I can describe Actual Rome is that, while it is resplendent with phenomenal history, it is an absolute shithole. Its culture is marred by the insolence of its people, the significance of its sights greatly undermined by its filth. You’re probably thinking that this is a very bold claim to make from one day of sight-seeing and one night of drinking, but remember this was not my first trip to Rome. I have thought the same thing in the past and, despite giving the city a chance to redeem itself, it left me feeling the same way.

The Vicissitudes of Venice

I will never be a smoker. Nor will I ever marry a smoker – which makes my future marriage to Isaac less tenable…although, given that I am willing to get inked for him, I’m sure he will be willing to quit for me. Remember when Kaitlyn and I sat in the smokey bar just because we found two guys marginally attractive? That misguided decision has probably shortened our lives by at least five years. I woke up the next morning feeling like Aretha Franklin (circa 2010) was sitting on my chest. Our experiences with the Austrian rail system had, so far, led us to deduce that the online timetables were completely accurate. Still, with Prague still firmly in our minds, we decided to check out and leave our luggage at the hostel so we could organise our tickets at the station without the added stress of our packs. It turned out to be a pretty clever thing to do, as the train timetable was totally wrong. According to the website, the train was leaving at 2.17pm, but when we arrived at the station, we discovered it was leaving at 10.50am. We arrived at the station at 10.10am. Without our packs.

Optimistically (or, stupidly), we decided that it was completely possible to make it to the hostel and back in forty minutes - so long as we could catch a bus by quarter-past. We sprinted across to the bus stop and managed to jump on the bus as it was about to pull out. Unfortunately, it was the world’s slowest bus. We could have ridden on sloths and arrived back at the hostel faster. ‘Seriously. What the F@#!? The f@#!ing train will be in f@#!ing Venice before we get off this f@#!ing bus. YOU MAY AS WELL BE DRIVING F@#!ING BACKWARDS.’ We were so busy freaking out that we almost missed our stop. From the bus stop it was still about 500 metres up the street to JUFA, so we started bolting.

I’m no Usain Bolt (although, with my shell, I may very well end up with muscles like his), but I am a reasonably fit girl who runs regularly. After thirty metres, I was struggling hardcore. Kaitlyn was struggling even more, although this is the girl who once phoned me to say she had procured a stitch from running fifty metres to put coin in the parking metre. As I gasped for breath, I was concerned that I might be in danger of hacking up a black lung. We had already decided that when we got to the hostel, Kaitlyn was going to go and start getting all of our stuff from the luggage room, while I would go up to reception to see if it was feasible to organise a taxi and have it arrive and deliver us to the train station in time. Joey Tribbiani was manning the desk that morning, but eventually managed to organise a taxi. It was still going to be a close-call, so we hoisted our packs on and started running from the hostel and down the road. I say “running” but, with our packs, it was more an attempt at running which more resembled a waddle – a “robble”, if you will. The taxi met us about halfway down the street, and we didn’t need to speak the same language for the direness of our situation to be understood as our desperation was palpable. Luckily, he spoke fluent English, immediately understood our predicament, and promised he would get us to the station on time – other people be damned, apparently. He drove in bus-lanes, on footpaths; he drove 70 km/h in 40 km zones. I think he fancied himself as a bit of a Robert De Niro in Ronin and quite enjoyed himself. When we pulled up at the station, he jumped out of the cab and helped us with our packs. The man was an absolute legend, and we tipped the shit out of him accordingly. We robbled towards the platform and, as we rounded the corner, could see the train was still very much there. We made it. With four minutes to spare.

When we arrived in Venice it was hot. But, more importantly, we were starving. Due to the poor timing of our departure we had been unable to purchase snacks for the trip and, as such, hadn’t eaten a thing since our eggs at breakfast (EGGS!) - and we had certainly expended a tremendous amount of energy. Reaching our hostel involved a boat trip on a vaporetti (water bus), not the most backpack-friendly transport medium in the world. I see your death stare, old Italian lady, now let me employ my little bit of Italian genealogy and show you mine. Impressive, no? Upon arriving at the hostel we discovered two things: there was a pizza shop right next door, and Mussolini was still alive and kicking, working behind the counter at check-in. Although, as horribly tyrannical as he was, he must have liked us a little bit because we ended up in the sweetest room in the complex. Despite the fact bunks lined the hallways (literally, they were in the hallways), we managed to end up in a little, private room with four bunks, and a very-not-unpleasant view. Perhaps Benito liked my dimple. After throwing our stuff on our bunks and locking away our valuables, we high-tailed it next door and ate pizza slices the size of our faces. By the time we were fed and watered, it was quite late. As we only had a day to do Venice, we decided to have an early night so we could make the most of the following day.

I can summarise Venice quite succinctly: rain and wind. Drizzle, condensation, precipitation, showers, pouring, deluge, torrent, typhoon, monsoon, hurricane. When we awoke that morning, the Venetian view which greeted us was ominous. The dark, wild sky and choppy water more than hinted at the tempestuous weather ahead, but evidently our successful train-dash the day before had instilled in us a false-sense of security, and we departed the hostel after breakfast without even taking jackets. Although we could practically touch Saint Mark’s Basilica from our dorm window, our hostel was actually on the island of Guidecca, which meant that we had to catch a vaporetti over to the main island (or, main group of islands, I guess I should say). When we walked down to the vaporetti stop, we noticed that we had about twenty minutes until the next one came. In hindsight we probably should have used this time to go back and get our sexy Gore-tex jackets, but instead we wandered along Fondamenta Zitelle and explored a little bit of Guidecca.

The trip across was only a few minutes, but in those few minutes the weather deteriorated dramatically. By the time we arrived, it was so windy we needed to hold onto light-posts and rubbish bins to stay upright. Every time I stopped to take a photo, there was a real danger of my midget carcass being blown into the Adriatic Sea. We walked to St Mark’s Square and, by the time we were standing outside the Basilica, the heavens opened and we found ourselves battling thousands of tourists and tens of thousands of pigeons for elusive shelter. I don’t do birds, but I would have happily shared dry space with some flying vermin. Dripping wet and shaking from cold would probably have been the point at which most people would have found a cafe somewhere and waited it out. But not us. Maybe it was stupidity and stubbornness, but we weren’t going to pay €4,000 for a coffee in the Piazza San Marco, especially not when a trip to the hospital for hypothermia would have been covered by travel insurance.

Eventually we found a little cafe which seemed far enough out of the tourist hotspots to not be charging the equivalent of my HECS debt for a warm beverage. In my experience, nothing warms you up like a shot of vanilla vodka and Chambord but, given it wasn’t even 10.00am, we went with the next best thing: a proper, wog hot chocolate. As we sat across from each other at the table, I noticed something interesting – Kaitlyn was almost completely dry. Sure, she had been wearing a hat and I had not, but she was barely even damp, whilst I looked like Tim Robbins after he crawled through the sewer to escape from Shawshank Prison. Except there was no Morgan Freeman narrating my tale of woe. You could have wrung me out over the Gobi and turned it into an ocean, but you would have been lucky to collect enough water from Kaitlyn to make a Baby Born wee.


  

Once we’d collected ourselves, we decided it would be smart to head back to the hostel and deck ourselves out in appropriate gear. When we arrived back, I started to realise that hypothermia was a real possibility for me (not so much for Kaitlyn who was still comparatively desiccated), so Kaitlyn lovingly wrapped me up in blankets until the blood started returning to my extremities. It was the first time my desire for a hair-dryer wasn’t driven by vanity. We spent an hour or so looking for and booking a hostel in our next stop (Rome) and then, we looked out the window to see that the skies had cleared. Our second attempt at sight-seeing was a lot more successful than our first. We managed to see the city’s main attractions: Doge’s Palace, St Mark’s Campanile (the bell tower), Ca’ d’Oro. We even managed to sneak in a few token-tourist snaps on the Rialto Bridge with the Grand Canal behind us. Late in the afternoon, the sun even made a brief appearance, affording us the opportunity to sit by a canal and watch the gondolas float past while we munched on meringues and flat bread. “Gorged” is probably a more appropriate adjective.

And that was our soggy and somewhat anticlimactic Venetian experience. Aside from permanent parenthesia in my fingers, the thing which will stick with me most is Kaitlyn getting sea sick on the canals. True story.



Next stop: Rome – monuments, museums and muggings.