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.

Salzburg: the hills are alive with the sound of two girls drinking amaretto

Considering I present as the perfect person, many of you will undoubtedly be astonished to discover I actually have one or two flaws. That is if one considers the necessity of colour-coordinating and categorising the clothing and pegs on the washing line as a “flaw” – otherwise, I have but a solitary fault: an obsession with The Sound of Music. When I say “obsession”, I don’t mean that I know all the words to "Do-Re-Mi" and know all the actions to "So Long, Farewell". Although, of course, I do, it goes much deeper than this. I’m talking asking for a “pink parasol” for my seventh Birthday because that’s what Marta wanted for her seventh Birthday. I’m talking walking around for the better part of two years in a sailor dress, because mum refused to chop up the curtains and make me an outfit from those. (Mind you, I was clearly a trend-setter as I recall the Nautical-look being pretty big in 2009/2010.)

In high school, when we could pick any topic under the sun for our Negotiated Study projects, I chose to do mine on The Sound of Music. Entitled “The Sound of Music: Fact or Fiction? An in-depth analysis exploring whether the film narrative differs demonstrably from the real story of the von Trapp Family” (catchy, no?), I extended the theme from content, right through to presentation. I didn’t just write it up on plain, white paper. Pa-lease! My grandiloquent “in-depth analysis” was presented as a “brown paper package tied up with string”, inside of which various items associated with the film were employed to exhibit my findings: a giant fake rose (complete with glue gun-administered “raindrops”) with differing plot devices neatly scribed on the petals; a pair of (synthetic) mittens from which one could pull out laminated pictures depicting the real von Trapps and their on-screen counterparts; the longer, more detailed passages were printed on paper which held an arresting, yet restrained edelweiss border. Yes, I was that student. The movie still resonates with me strongly - even today, as I briefly contemplated taking up residence in a convent. Although, admittedly, that was probably less to do with Maria, and more to do with the realisation I am essentially living like a nun, and may as well make it official.

Given this obsession, it will be no surprise that I LOVE Salzburg. Fortunately, Kaitlyn also has an appreciation of The Sound of Music, so I didn’t even have to fake an adoration of Mozart or a love of Baroque architecture to explain my fixation with the city. One of the best hostels I had stayed in prior to this trip was Jufa, in Salzburg. I can happily report that Jufa still offer the best hostel breakfast around: eggs – they have EGGS! I can also not-as-happily report that Jufa is still on the other side of the city to the train station. Although I knew exactly where we were going this time, it didn’t make the long trek (90% bus, 10% foot) with backpacks and shell any less arduous, or tantrum-free. “Is this hostel even in f@%$ing Salzburg?”; “Calm down! I’ll let you off the f@%$ing bus when it stops. If I move now, I’ll f@%$ing fall over and break my f@%$ing neck and I refuse to die before you, old woman. For f@%$s sake. F@%$ing Austrian Mozart-lovers.”

Upon arrival, it was immediately evident Jufa had undergone a serious makeover since my last visit, and it was very...orange. The foyer walls were orange, the couches carrot, the counter peach, the vase coral. Just...orange. It was still too early for check-in, so we dumped our stuff in the amber-hued luggage room, and headed into see some sights and eat some food. In reverse order. First stop – Getreidegasse. The Getreidegasse is probably most famous for being the location of the house in which Mozart was born. Whilst this is probably the main drawcard for most people, I simply think it’s the most beautiful street in the world. Each shop has a beautiful wrought iron guild sign (even McDonald’s), and it becomes a labyrinth of balustrades, vaulted passageways and courtyards. Something I had wanted to do since I was first charmed by it at age eleven, was to take a photo of each of the signs. Last time I was there, the times I was sober enough it was raining, the times it was clear enough, I wasn’t sober. I was determined to make it happen this time, and over the length of our stay, Kaitlyn patiently humoured me as I got the job done.

Important thing to know about Salzburg: Amaretto is only €4.00 for a 700mL bottle. We discovered this as we were on our way back to Jufa. I was feeling incredibly flat, and the trek with my shell that morning had left my shoulder feeling particularly tender, so all I really wanted was to have a shower. It turns out Jufa have the best showers in the business. They might not have a radio or a lights show, and the walls were apricot, but they were hot and hard. It might be better if I instead describe it as hot and with a high water-pressure. On the way back from the showers (which were located conveniently close to our dorm), we met two Australian guys who were just checking in. Like 50% of the people at Jufa, Aaron and Dan had come straight from Oktoberfest.

We had big plans for that night – big plans which involved lots of Amaretto and a “girl’s night out” (you can read between the lines). We had the “lots of Amaretto” covered straight off the bat. It may not be as fancy as an Amaretto Sour but, sitting on the floor of our dorm surrounded by the tangerine walls, our Amaretto mixed with Cappy (orange juice) was equally as tasty. We’d been sitting there drinking to some sweet tunes, when an elderly lady hobbled into the room. At first, I thought she was lost (although I could understand how, with the decor, she could have easily mixed the place up for a retirement home), but as she collected some possessions from under a bed, I realised she was actually staying there. When she shuffled back in and, freshly washed, hopped into bed (at 7.00pm), we decided it was time to take our party elsewhere. We channelled 16-year-olds and made strong “Amappy” concoctions in our Sprite bottles and took them with us up to the bar on the premise of “socialising” before we bounced.

We hadn’t been sitting in the pumpkin-coloured bar for too long when Aaron and Dan saw us and came over. With them was another Australian guy, whose name I can’t remember as I don’t make a habit of remembering the names of people I don’t like. He was completely vapid and beyond irritating. Despite the fact we had been very vocal about our impending “girl’s night out”, Australian Guy Whose Name I Can’t Remember invited himself to come along. We quickly departed under the guise of going to get more alcohol from the supermarket to bring back and pre-drink...and just never came back. 

First-up, we visited an Irish pub I had been to previously. It wasn’t exactly cranking, but it was ignoramus-free and, therefore, a good place to knock back a few bevvies and quietly mourn the sixty wasted minutes listening to Australian Guy Whose Name I Can’t Remember we were never getting back. After this, we stumbled upon a bar which was almost heaving with life. Not particularly intelligent life, we later discovered, but we were liquored enough to be open to non-genius options. As we approached the bar itself, a decent-sized group of guys immediately left what they were doing to also make their way over to the bar. Very subtle. Without delay, one of the guys assumed the role of spokesperson, going through the motions of introduction for each and every one. At first it seemed odd, but we quickly realised that only this guy and one other from the entire group spoke any English. Oh, and they were German Army guys on some kind of week-long sabbatical, so you can imagine they weren’t going to let a little thing like lack-of-ability-to-communicate get in the way. Or a little thing such as lack-of-interest-from-the-other-person.

The two with the English-speaking ability latched themselves onto Kaitlyn, while I got stuck with two very affectionate Neanderthals who between them spoke about fifteen English words. I say “between them” – one of them spoke all fifteen, while the other hadn’t a clue. The second guy also didn’t seem to have a clue about personal space and manners, and no matter how many times I forcibly removed his straying appendages from my lower back, upper thigh and gluteus maximus, he didn’t seem to get the hint. He disappeared momentarily to chat to his friends, leaving me trying to explain that English is the de facto language of Australia (they were all very impressed with the quality of our spoken-English). He sauntered back over looking quite pleased with himself, reattached his hand to my upper thigh and said, ‘Excoose me. I em viiry beautiful.’ I completely lost it, my hysterical laughter instantly wiping the smirk right off his face – clearly, this was not the reaction he had been anticipating. Maybe he thought I had misheard him, because he tried it again. ‘I em viiry beautiful?’ I will concede that he was, in fact, not at all an unattractive specimen and this, coupled with his blatant vanity, made is possible he meant to say what he said. Through tears of laughter, I saw him reapproach the two guys with Kaitlyn, and he obviously relayed to them his line, because they too exploded into laughter. He came back over and tried again, ‘You are virry beautiful.’
‘Thank-you.’ On two counts, thanks for the compliment, and thanks for giving me my new abs. Definitely my favourite ever pick-up line.

We had so much culture to get through in a short space of time, so we started off early the next day. We left Jufa Granny snoring soundly away, filled ourselves up with eggs (EGGS!) and other tasty delights, and hit the city. First stop: Mirabell Gardens. Several scenes from The Sound of Music were filmed here, most notably the closing moments of “Do-Re-Mi”. Did I want to skip around the fountain? Yes. Did I? No. Did I want to march past the sculptures and touch them on their heads? Yes. Did I? No. Did I want to find six other people so we could perform a co-ordinated routine ascending and descending the steps? Yes. Did I? No. Did I want to bolt down the along the pergola and jump at the end clicking my feet together? Yes. Did I? Yes.

Food-wise, Salzburg is probably most famous for its Mozart chocolate. Personally, I think it should be apple strudel (or Jufa breakfast). As you can imagine, with my heritage I have eaten a lot of strudel (štrúdl) in my time. The best I have ever eaten was from a tiny little cafe off the Getreidegasse a few years ago. And I was determined to find it and take Kaitlyn there to try proper apple strudel. I found it, and we ate strudel, but I’m not entirely sure Kaitlyn will be eating it again in a hurry. I’m fairly sure she did enjoy it, only apparently there was “waaaaay too much” of it, and she felt sick. (My wog tapeworm may or may not have finished hers off as well.)

I knew of a sweet little spot which provides a great vantage point for panoramic pictures of Salzburg, so this was where we headed next. Problem? It’s up quite high. Actually, this means problems – plural: ‘I need to STOP. F@%$! How do your little legs walk so f@%$ing fast?! Can you carry me up this f@%$ing hill?’; ‘It’s really quite f@%$ing high, isn’t it?’ I got some great photos, but I am unsure as to how greatly Kaitlyn’s were hampered by her crawking. From the lookout, it was possible to walk along pathways around the hill and eventually end up at the Festung Hohensalzburg. As impressive as the 11th Century castle is, we considered the rope swing we discovered amongst the foliage even more exciting.

Although our days in Salzburg were resplendent with a multitude of memorable moments, some of my favourite things occurred after dark. On our second night, we ventured out with Aaron and Dan. Dan had been told by someone of a sweet rooftop bar in a hotel across the river. It was not unlike the Salzburgean version of Prague’s U-Prince. I’m not sure what I liked better – my Mozart cocktails, or the blanket the attentive staff draped across my lap as the temperature decreased.

On our final night we walked past an Irish pub which appeared to have at least half the city’s population crammed inside. With that many people, we figured the chances of there being some good-looking boys amongst them were quite high. And we were right as, immediately after entering, we spotted two genetically-blessed guys amongst the crowd. In a moment of fortune, a table right near them was vacated as we walked past, and we pounced as it was far preferable to enjoy cheap pints and vodkas while seated at a table. Especially a table with such a fine view. We quickly discovered a down-side to our arrangement – everyone except us was smoking. And this bar had poorer ventilation than my old cubby house; sitting in there was what I imagine sitting inside a flue would be like. Yet, despite our immense discomfort, we continued to sit there, just because there were some pretty men smiling at us and making constant eye-contact. I’m surprised they continued to do this, as I don’t imagine my wheezing was in way attractive. Or perhaps, in Austria, emphysema is a sought-after trait in the opposite sex.



Oh, Salzbug! So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye.