Italy 2005 - A fast week on a train pass

I spent a week in Italy, on a train pass with a friend in the last week of September 2005. This doesn’t have details, just memories.

We started in Bologna with a walk around the university. A meal of fresh flat-bread, filled with mozzarella and Parma ham.

Milan is a fine city; its central piazza is theatrical, needing hours to digest. The cathedral was being restored, a pride of old was evident, made me breathe the soft night deeper. We felt under-dressed. The bars and restaurants were expensive, like it was simply supposed to be that way and not obnoxiously so. I passed a bar with a medieval decor and perfect customers and thought of how well that would work in the UK.

In the area popularly known as the Cinque Terre (five villages), we stayed at the fishing village of Riomaggiore. The houses cling onto sharp cliffs, and an observer would dread what might happen in an earthquake. After much gossip with a room-letter, we settled into an apartment with a balcony and a boiler that was in a world of its own. The steep walk up the hill melded well with the steep climb up stairs, spaced acres above each other in our apartment. Night fell across the Ligurian coast and was atrociously beautiful. At the top of the hill between Manorola and Riomaggiore, we tried to get to a restaurant recommended by the sparkly-eyed doe that gave us her apartment. The sun was setting over the village, and grapevines were evident on a hillside on the right hand side. The left fleshed out glinting village lights, and people taking clothes out of their verandas. In central majority, the sea took the scene, its’ crashing waves moulding like a water slide, against the cliffs. It was like the sea was always trying to sit on the cliffs, but its bum would slide off just when it found the most comfortable spot. And the waves, they spent all the red-golden light that they earned from above. They fought like hares against foxes. In the seafood restaurant above we ate well, the lady who let us out the room made an appearance. The night ended in a village bar full of foreign people staying at the hostel, with solid drinking, and an attempted visit to the beach, but alas, no moonlight.

After strawberries washed in the fountain and a bruschetta, we set off on the trains for Firenze (Florence). One cannot ignore the tourism, but for me the home of the Renaissance always evoked attachment. In my tatty t-shirt, I was surprisingly welcomed into an uptown cake shop, where I got a few free biscuits. We sat on a bridge near the Ponte Vecchio, people were having cheese and wine on a small ledge on the side of the bridge. I bought something at the cake shop, its packaging looking like it was a piece of jewellery. It did melt in the mouth. The YHI hostel in Florence is one of the finest anywhere - a mansion in the outskirts, with olive groves all around. The first thing that came to me was an image of the head of the Cosa Nostra (Sicilian Mafia) in his country home, Corleone, the subject of the great Godfather films. Bar-wise it’s great, with the other travellers a great chat and evening bands/karaoke. I feel sure that rivers of ink have been wasted describing Firenze, but its grandeur might best be recognised by artists and time. Before leaving, I met a cute Spanish woman who asked for us to go around Florence with her and a friend. And then a pair of Brazilian girls, we had much banter at the station. We really did feel like staying.

Roma called. The eternal city. The centre of that circle called the Roman Empire. All roads lead to Rome. After stumbling around traffic in Termini, we found a pensione, a lady with a huge nose occupied the chairman’s seat, so we rented her room. It was above the local Chinatown. A most charming man gave us lunch with wine that tasted like Fanta that had been left out too long. We roamed to the Colosseum. There was a group of kids riding around in a contraption where they all pedalled, about ten of them. The kid steering at the front was unfortunately given command, and all the rest seemed to love the thrills. At the Vatican City, I saw a hobo pushing around an American lady. The police didn’t rush to her, but stayed back a while before having a chat. Rome’s Metro (underground) seems to be full of mariachis who completely believe that they are still in Mexico. At dinner in a cafe owned by a Brazilian, he brought over complimentary lemon liqueur and advertised Rio de Janeiro to no end. I slept amongst the humdrum of big-city buzz as the great Roman night played it out until the bitter gladiatorial end. The place was grand. Every moment at night was hollering riffs going off all over. In the morning I bought chianti from a waitress in a cafe, who must’ve inspired at least one artist to write a song.

We fled to a place of extremes - Napoli (Naples). We arrived and at an accommodation booking stall were smiled and paraded by the lovely Francesca. I fell for her completely, she was mad. Her wavy hair would whiz around and her eyes looked like coins burned right inside. After walking around for half an hour to a lush pizza place, I was fed and wined to happiness. Our night was booked on an island called Procida off the coast of Napoli. The streets were in total chaos, even worse than Kenya. If anyone followed the traffic signals, they were honked and bumped from behind until they moved. On the buses here, we finally realised that in all of Italy, it was just not necessary to try and pay fares. Crossing the streets here involves weaving through, as described by the Lonely Planet, watching the mood of each driver before anything else. Napoli revolved under it’s own sky. The afternoon was spent in the ancient ruined city of Pompeii. The tourists were so crass it was shocking. Americans came by the busload in white socks/trainers and knee-length shorts, sporting t-shirts advertising Florida. They bought everything going and then disposed guidebooks on the site of the ruins themselves. Julius Caesar would’ve turned in his grave!

We left Pompeii tired and happy. After somehow making it to Napoli’s port, we got the ferry to a fishing village called Procida, full of sailors. We dragged our backpacks with two women up the hill because they seemed to know where our street was. The owner was a guy who was darn proud of his rooms. We were shown everything from the harbour view, to where his Piaggeo got a tyre puncture yesterday. The night spent with sailors and various kinds of women in the bars was eventful, best imagined.

On the last day, a whole day’s train travel from Napoli to Venezia created a perfectly insane ending to a charming week. Venice didn’t seem romantic, the gondola rides are rubbish, and nobody seems friendly over there. Maybe I had my rose-tinted glasses on, but that’s what came through.

It’s their passions for daily life which I celebrated most - talking that comes from eyes and wrists, sometimes from mouth.