Nearly home..at Changi

From Helsinki to Singapore, with an induced sleep (from half a Valium!) I don't actually feel too bad. The Finnair food was awful, but that was probably my fault for pretending to be a lactovegetarian. Result, a tasteless pasta in all shapes, it was just terrible. I wonder what Qantas will offer with the same order?

Having a few hours in Changi, unfortunate name for us Aussies, (remember the war atrocities?), but the airport has free wifi, like Helsinki, and is three times as large but just as efficient. These two airports would be my preferred stopovers I think. Here there is a quiet efficiency and lots to buy if so inclined. I've spent all my Euros and am now ready for final assault, ten hours to Melbourne arriving at 6.45 tomorrow morning. We'll see how I feel then.

But it has been a good trip, all that I could have wanted as I didn't have any real expectations, just catching up with people and seeing the sights. I can't believe I'll be in New Zealand in two weeks, but I am not thinking about it yet.

Am now moving down to Departure gate C18 to wait for the call and hear the Aussie accents in the Qantas plane. Always reassuring, lol!
It's been quite a trip....

Rome - Final Impressions

Memories of Rome are marked by the constant waiting, with things never on time and people not expecting them to be. In short, it is in a state of total dysfunction, and those in charge know it, but can't do anything about. 

Perhaps it has been caused by years of corrupt rule by Berlusconi, or perhaps it's just in their DNA, they don't really care as long as their bellies are full and their team is winning. For football here is the religion, not Catholicism, which is just a show, and a right royal one at that. The tourism industry, built on Rome's history and art treasures, survives in spite of itself. Probably with the arrival of the internet, other countries more sophisticated like the USA have moved in and the industry is booming, in spite of of a lot of disgruntled ripped-off tourists from the US whom you see every day.

Then there is the dirt and really, the filth. The complete opposite of London, the Romans walk around in a mess and throw their ubiquitous cigarette butts in the street. The buses are crammed and most people probably don't have a ticket because there are no inspectors. The metro runs OK, but they need a ticket for that as there are barriers to pass through. That said, the Italians are probably very honest, although they feel that it is their right and duty to rip off the tourists. If there were to be a film about the end of the world, then Rome, not Melbourne, would be in my mind, the ideal place to film it.

In Rome there is an enormous black population from across the Mediterranean, many are beggars and most are without papers I would think. It is not a happy sight to continually be asked for money from a severely deformed person sitting on the street outside St Peter's Basilica where many millions of dollars of Art treasures are being ogled at by the throngs of greedy tourists.  If you have the guts to survive this, then Rome is worth the visit, as the artistic rewards are great and many. But you need to be fit and have staying power.

I wonder if I will even have the guts to do it again, as there is always more to see and more to experience. Probably once I get over it, I could do it again, but next time I would go to the Amalfi Coast where the sea embraces the shore, or perhaps north to Venice, or to Milan where I used to live and work forty five years ago, but it has probably changed for the worse too.

Fiumicino- Last wait

Finally at the airport where I arrived three weeks ago. I even used the same cubicle in the same toilet when I arrived. Which means there are not a lot of toilets to be found in Fiumicino.

I slept well in Marco's room in 'Palace Locatelli', on the fourth floor of their house. Marco is everywhere in this house, he really was the adored son, and a great follower like his Dad, of AC Milan, the legendary Italian footy club.  As well as Carlton, the Melbourne team, who sent them a knitted Carlton AFL scarf when Marco died. The wound is still there and Silvana is a lost soul without her boy. I met Polina his Russian bride last night. She is blonde, very pretty and very intelligent. She now has an Italian visa and is doing well thank you very much. I don't think she will be staying for much longer in the 'palace' however. There is still a lot of healing to be done. It is a very complex situation and I am happy to be now on my way to uncomplicated Helsinki, where I have an eight hour stopover. I may even get into the city, who knows.

Helsinki airport, nice trip. The passage through Fiumicino was as expected, an hour late. After arrival at eight I was checked in at nine. The staff was ever so casual,  and even sent me through without so much as weighing my cabin baggage, which I knew was above the quoted limit of seven and a half kilos. But anyway I wanted to keep it with me, rolling a trolley is sometimes easier than carrying a back pack.

With another hour to wait I had a cappuccino and roll to assuage my hunger having had no breakfast at Silvana's. She had wanted to take me for the traditional coffee cornetto at their local bar, but Walter decided that it was better in peak hour to get straight to the airport, which I was happy to do although I did have an extra hour to wait.

Nearer the time for boarding I pick up my bag and find some chewing gum attached to the bottom, coming from the table where I had rested it. My final memory of Rome is a fitting one, as it is indeed one of the dirtiest cities I have experienced, although the Italians are the cleanest people I have met. Probably this is the reason, their outside is so dirty they know they have to be super clean in their homes. I then discover without announcing anything, that they have changed the departure gate, from gate six to gate three. Memories of Stansted flood back but no such walk thank goodness. I get there well in time.

Back in the Finnair plane I have a window seat and five talkative Japanese older women sit next to me. I put on my mask and blow up my neck pillow and try to sleep through their chatter. Although I have booked a vegetarian meal we are all served a big chicken sandwich which I am happy to nibble at, also a coffee which is quite good.

We are soon descending into clean Helsinki, and it is a breath of fresh air. I decide not to go into the city although I have seven hours to kill. Am just too tired to go thorough security and catch the bus and be back for an eleven o'clock boarding. So at least I have time to finish my Italian blog. Which I will do in the next post. Btw, Helsinki airport is very accommodating, but expensive, and has free wifi, unlike most other airports including Sydney and Melbourne, which charge for the privilege. I think it is a very civilised country and am a bit sad I didn't have more time to discover it. Next time it may be Scandinavia, there'll be no more Italy I'm afraid, see my impressions about this in my next blog.

So I buy some Finnish chocolate and have an orange juice and sit and watch the Finns playing travel games!

Last day - Piazza del Popolo

Giving myself an easy last day, as I am spending tonight with Silvana and Walther at Axa, they are taking me to Fiumicino airport tomorrow at nine a. m. at the latest.

Fred arrives back from Puglia with the three chiwahwahs at eleven a.m., just when I have finished the letters to Sophie and Iolanda. He looks a bit frustrated, but then four days away with three barking dogs isn't easy. I tell him that I am not staying the night, (he hadn't been told by Iolanda), but he is always without expression, which is unusual for an Italian! But I know he is probably happy to be home, and alone, except for three dogs and a cat.

 I say goodbye to Electra and set out for the Piazza del Popolo to see the two Caravaggio and two Bernini sculptures I was told are in the church at the entrance to the Piazza. It is a beautiful day, the sort of spring day the Romans have been waiting for. I decide to have a macchiato to celebrate, and to try yet another coffee order. This time it's different, again. I ask the waitress if the church opposite is that of the Caravaggio fame. Yes, she says it is, but closed from12 to 4 every day. As it is now just turning twelve, it looks like I'll have another four hour wait for the the Caravaggios, but this is Rome's story, always waiting, but not complaining. The Australian Aboriginals would be at home here, time is not important and you can always do it later.

I will have to find something for the next four hours which doesn't involve too much walking as I have all my luggage to drag, but it's not to heavy. Thank God for light travelling, perhaps I will write my final blog, Impressions of Rome, while I wait.

 I cannot believe my trip is nearly over, but I have to get to Fiumicino before I can really relax. Travelling is not the best tranquilliser! I decide to take a walk down a street I haven't tried before, sort of parallel to via del Corso, the main drag. I look at the various caffes, all very tourist driven. I see a couple emerge from one, less than happy with the maitre d', surely overcharged for something.

You can't help feeling a bit sorry for these business people who are suffering in an Italy, which is surely the next Greece. The only way to survive at all, is to get as much from the tourists as possible, but the restaurants are quite empty. I buy a paninno for three euros fifty and it satisfies me enough to continue my walk. A soup in one these restaurants is the equivalent of thirty six Aussie dollars. Not worth it I'm afraid.

I continue walking and discover a map. I now know I have been here before, not exactly here, but from the other end when I visited the Pantheon the other week. I pass by an interesting restaurant called Alfredo's. Inside is a photo of every international star you could think of, the 'Harry's Bar' of Roma Centrale, but it is completely empty on this beautiful spring day. They must be hurting a lot. I resist the temptation to walk in but find a gelateria right next door, so I order an small gelato and sit and take a photo myself, of the near empty once-famous restaurant. 

An American with an enormous camera hanging from his neck emerges with his wife from Alfredo's. I feel better, at least they have had one lunch to help out, and the couple has had the satisfaction of sitting in the seats of Gina Lollobrigida or Cary Grant.

By the way, what one must realise is that although it seems the Aussie dollar brings 65 cents, in reality it is exactly two dollars to one euro, much the same with the English pound. That's the REAL exchange rate when travelling.

So four o'clock comes and I am on the door of the Iglesia, it opens miraculously the moment I arrive and I am first in, which is good. For a brief moment I am alone in another amazing Baroque church with Bernini sculptures, paintings by Raphael and Michelangelo and also two by Caravaggio. Soon it is full of tourists with their cameras and the spell is broken. Yet I'm glad I came and waited, as always, for another Art experience in Rome. As it is now nearly five I will take the metro to Palasport and wait for Walter after I ring him. I decide to walk to viale Europa where we met the other day and have a chinotto and ring him about five thirty.
It's less hectic here, quite normal really, and I find a seat outside opposite Banco Popolare at a place which is called Danny's Bar. But there is no service, perhaps because I am a lonely tourist wearing a cap. I give up and leave, Silvana might be early, but, in fact, she isn't.

Down at the Metro Silvana arrives in her Citroen, (Walter has a Mercedes), and she takes me to the beach at Ostia, not far away, where Marco had had plans to make lot of money that summer, selling fried potato rings to the beach goers, as he had discovered they were doing in Melbourne. But sadly it won't be him doing it this year. Silvana is always close to tears when she speaks of Marco. I can only listen.
We go back to their home for a 'brodo', a soup with noodles, and I decide to have an early night. We have talked enough.

Day in Napoli

Of course it wasn't simple. I thought I had the Roman train system worked out, but no. Arriving early for the 8.25 ordinario, instead of the Regionale, which yesterday's kindly inspector had assured me would leave at the same 'binario', platform, but it was not to be. I had two coffees, at different locales, the second while sitting and blogging, watching the happy waiter sing along to an English pop song on the player, and he was quite good.

The only Napoli train I could see was a 9.00am so I thought OK, that's better than nothing, as I noted the Binario 19. As I walked down the platform I saw a rare information kiosk, showed my ticket, and yes, it was not valid for the 9 am, my 'regionale' didn't leave till 10.45, way down the track, or I could of course, take the nine o'clock and pay the difference! So again I was stymied but was happy to rush to find a rare seat, second class on the nine o'clock. It was packed. The inspector again was kind, charged me another 9.80 euros and gave me the return timetable, for 18.41. Sounded good, I wonder what will happen then, something surely.

A few hours later.....arrived in smart Stazione Centrale near the Piazza Garibaldi. Think possibly to find out about return trip but huge queue in the Trenitalia office makes me think again. I'll approach that challenge later. So I head out to the main square called Garibaldi, with his large statute looming over an incredibly busy Sunday traffic. I'm sure it is always like this. Suddenly I see an accident, an 'incidente', a man is knocked over by a passing scooter, or a scooter is knocked over by a passing man. This traffic makes Rome look normal. One of men then runs and launches a savage round of kicks to the one on the ground, who then gets up, jumps on the pillion of the scooter and the two whiz off into the crowd. A larger crowd has now gathered around another man, obviously injured, on the ground and soon the carabinieri arrive and there is the sound of an Ambulance. It is all very busy and people stand around, some being witnesses and some just staring. I decide to move on, feeling I need to see the sea and so I catch a passing tram which goes to the port.

It's only a minute or two away but I can see a little of the crazy city from the windows. I see an impressive cathedral Dome and go over and discover the end of a Mass in process, a Carmelite Monastery, and there is to be procession down the streets and the crowds are quite large, but most are just looking on. The apartments high above the square where many have hung their best bed sheets or table cloths to celebrate the day, the loudspeakers are working and the hymns are ones I already know from my Catholic past. It is indeed the Sunday in Napoli I had thought would be happening. I continue getting lost in the myriad of streets and markets, stopping for a tea with lemon to recover and buying a pair of fake 'Ray Ban' sunnies from a stall, for five euros, they asked ten.

I get too involved in the mercato San Antonio de Bruta, (my spelling) and decide to head back, feeling tired and hungry. On reaching Piazza Garibaldi I see the boy sitting on the footpath I had seen on arrival, I can't pass him this time, his feet are very twisted. I reach in and give him my small change and he gives me such a smile of gratitude I feel good and bad all over, me for being rich and he so poor. I have to forget it but these people in the streets of Rome and Naples do affect me. I suddenly see a caffe and find a seat to have some very greasy meat balls with melanzone (egg plant) and potatoes. it is a very interesting scene and is just on the main drag. There is pop music playing and the people are out of a Fellini movie.
I am happy to have had a taste of Napoli and I will now find the 'treno regionale' to take me back to Rome for my last day tomorrow. Arriving at the terminal I happily discover there is a train for Roma in five minutes, I am ready to take it.

This time I have the right ticket for the right train. I walk to the top to be near the Termini in Rome and find a near empty carriage. A few stops later I see a man climb in with huge baggage which I help him put in the luggage rack. He says Grazie. A minute later he leans over and shows me his ticket, I see it is not the Napoli Rome ticket but the reverse. He must be illiterate but I say OK to him and he seems happy. I'm sure we won't have an inspector this trip.

I am returning to Rome with probable indigestion and pair of faux Ray Ban sun glasses. Could be worse!

Hadrian's Villa and Villa d'Este

Finally, a day after I had thought, I am at Piazza dei Re di Roma, and am early of course. I meet our guide, a generous soul from Toronto, Canada, married to a Roman, she tells us, and she is certainly a loquacious and knowledgable guide for the afternoon trek to the Villa of Hadrian and the beautiful Tivoli Gardens with fountains of more recent Renaissance times.

The Villa is about forty minutes from Rome, not taking in the traffic, which she says, is excessive because of the Metro strike that day. Little seems any different, but we have to stop soon for a nature call from one of our passengers. Luckily a Servito is on the way and it's not a long stop as a very long American, 1m 80, sheepishly obeys his call of nature.
The enormously large country residence, built by Emperor Hadrian on a hill, is at last a reality and is amazing. Like a little village housing a thousand people, mostly vassals, it is a seat of power worthy of one of Five Great Roman Emperors.

There are only nine in our group so we get good attention from our guide, who is very solicitous that we fill out the online assessment which is posted a few days later. She will get good reports I am sure.
After the gasps of Hadrian's Villa Lucrezia Borgia's Villa d'Este is next. But this one is famous for the gardens and fountains mostly, and they are fabulous. We are given an hour's free time to stroll and climb the hundreds of steps but I am walking fit, so I do it good time enough to have a huge gelato while waiting for the group on the Tivoli piazza. It is a lovely town, Tivoli, perched high on a hill, being home to another Pope's palace, built to rival Lucrezia. The people seem very happy, but then it is Saturday afternoon, and they are on holiday. A group of young people are preparing a sand sculpture on the piazza for later that day. There is a young people 'passagiata', and the young girls are of course, very heavily made up. It has been another tiring but enjoyable day.

Treni in Italia - Trains in Italy

This is posted from an excellent first class seat in an intercity train to Orvieto, but it's not the on I had booked or paid for, or so I thought.

First, there are two sorts of trains in Rome, those for the tourists and those for the regular Italians. I had bought in the ticketing machine, quite easy I thought, a valid ticket for a month from day of validation ( in the machine on the binario, platform), but it was for an 'ordinario' train, not the Intercity, which by the way, left half an hour late. I wonder how late the ordinary train will leave tomorrow when I intend to go Naples, second class, with the ordinary Italians?
However I am taking the smart train, obviously much faster, today, and I pay the ticket puncher double the amount I paid, for the privilege.
Correction, the inspector just came and allowed me to stay on First Class for a second class supplement of eight euros, he also checked the time table for return, and then the timetable for tomorrow to Naples, as I now plan to forget the Porta Portese market tomorrow and got to Napoli and allow an easy day on Monday before I leave on Tuesday. He was remarkably kind and helpful
and I was suitable impressed.

The weather is beautiful and I look forward to a lovely day at Orvieto, in Tuscany, which I am told is also beautiful and all in its original state.
Have arrived in Orvieto and it doesn't disappoint. A funicular, for one euro, takes you up the steep hill to the village perched high on cliffs, and all is in the original, except, of course, for the tourists and their traders. I walk completely through the village in about twenty minutes, not pausing for the many caffes but just once to visit a church of the Tortured Virgin, a statue of whom poses resplendent in the nave of the church, her heart pierced with seven arrow. Such is the life of a virgin woman in Italy!

I reach the other side of the village and the wild wind nearly blows me away as I look down on the the beautiful Umbrian fields and villages. I am outside a tightly bolted two storey house, it looks cosy inside and I would be happy to look inside, but I must go before I am blown away.
Before long I see a church, I enter, and am greeted by a charming man who tells me in English this is one of three monuments to visit, five euros for the three. I buy a ticket, and look forward to see some of the Pope's treasures from Pope Urbano IV and Gregorio X.
This church San Agostino, houses some of sculptures brought from the Duomo which I will see later, after a lunch, hopefully not in a tourist caffe!

Taking advice not to eat in the piazzas, I found a little Trattoria La Palumbra, situated in a side street, reasonable prices and looks cosy. Excellent attention from mine host, with two assistants rushing around serving a full house. A bruschetta al pomodoro and spagetti alla napolitana later, I decide it is time to leave to view the Duomo and Galeria Papabile. Slightly overcharged for some things I didn't order, I paid and left, senza servicio, but feeling justified. I found later, that this restaurant was the one recommended by the tourist books and also by the man at the ticket office at the Duomo. They must be making a fortune, as my meal, which cost twenty euros, would have cost them less than two euros.

I find the Duomo, and it is very impressive with amazing Papal history going down through the ages. However the weather has turned really nasty, rain and chilly winds are blowing so I will escape to the warmth of the railway waiting room for my return train, 'ordinario'.

Am in waiting room sitting next to a man with tourette's syndrome. He is quiet but shaking a lot. I feel for him. Two aussie women come in, can tell by their sandals. One is doing a 'facili', numbers crossword. I am ready for a quiet early night, especially after last night's spectacular experience.

Btw, the ordinary train is also very good, couldn't find a first class carriage, so wasted that money, tomorrow I take a second class to Naples.

Tango in Via Macerata

Yes at 21.00h al punto, I entered the house next door to my lodgings, the centre of Roman Tango, and it was just that. A dimly lit large room, painted floor, photos of past and present Tango greats plastered around all the walls, even a large authentic poster of a 1950s Alan Ladd movie, dubbed in Spanish, about a wild Tango dancer.
I was warmly welcomed and the crowd increased fast, most seeming to know each other. A few were quite friendly, after all, I was a Tango afficionado, as they all were, or so they thought. Our teacher, an Italian girl, who could easily have been South American, was an absolute purist. This was NO queer Tango, but the pure essence, and the class, a free one for the Pigneto Festival, was for beginners. Maria, the teacher, spoke in hushed tones about the pure essentials of the Tango, the connection between the two people, how one read the other's thoughts and translated them into movement. We were asked to feel each other all over, and the woman who chose me said she was a little embarrassed. But no problems, we all did it, and more, but nary a Tango step was introduced till the very end when we were all exhausted.

I began to like our Tasmanian Tango even more. This one was NOT for me I decided. We finished about ten thirty, they went on to do a Milonga, the Tango 'Ceilidh', and then I left, to try and sleep the experience away.

The place was excellent, but I just didn't really fit in. So much for queer tango in Rome!

Post Script: two days later...
Sunday night on my return from Naples at about six o'clock, I decide to spoil myself and recover in a long cool bath, I needed it after the dirt and heat in the crammed second class train.
As I lie in the soothing water, I hear a familiar South American tune, it is the Tango Club next door doing a haunting melody. I decide to feel better and have a look. I hurriedly dry myself and throw on some 'tango' clothes, and pop in next door. It is open and the dance is in progress. It looks like the real thing so I stay and soon am walking, tangoesque, around the floor with many others, but this time with a statuesque woman who says in perfect Italian that she is 'americana'.
This is how I learned tango in Hobart. I am refreshed and encouraged. I stay an hour as fatigue sets in, after all, Naples has been quite a day.

Rome Tango Club.

Elektra, posing beautifully at my window.

The Visit

Am in Il Bar, the creatively named corner bar on Via del Pigneto, where I had a tea the other day, the waitress remembers me with a smile. The wind has just sprung up and the stall holders have abandoned their merchandise.
But not before I search through to find something black to suit my Melbourne friend, who only wears that colour. I find, haggle, and still pay too much, but that's the market, rule one, you must leave the vendor unhappy!
The bar is popular with the Africans, some very spectacular in their colours. Later today at two thirty I am to go to the Tivioli Gardens, about one hour from Rome. I mistakenly thought I was to go there yesterday, my watch said 24th, but of course it was wrong and I had to change plans, go to the Coliseum instead, and 'by accident' instead visit my friend Silvana and her husband at Axa, right near a popular beach on the outskirts of Rome. They are still in abject mourning, having just lost their only son, Marco, whom I knew in Melbourne. He was killed in an awful motor scooter accident, in a coma for four days, and died just when Silvana who left Melbourne prematurely to be there, arrived in Rome.

I had phoned Silvana the day before but she was so upset she said she couldn't see me so I left it at that, thinking I would be in Tivioli yesterday. 

So at a loose end now, I took the Metro to the Coliseum, and saw that it went also to Palasport, where I knew Silvana lived, or nearby. I decided to go there, phone her and see if she felt better enough to see me, as I knew when I saw her mother, Pina, on my return to Melbourne it would be silly not to have seen her. So I tried to ring outside the suburban station, but the phone didn't ring, so I asked a passing man if the number I was using was OK, he said 'Yes, but use my mobile'. We did and this time Walter answered and immediately said to meet him on the Banco Populare corner in the next street in half an hour.

 We eventually made the rendezvous, and then went back to find a much better Silvana, having just returned from the hairdresser. I then found she had tried in vain to contact me at seven that morning when all the family in via Mercato were out, with no luck. But here I was, in spite of all, at their immense palatial home in Axa, one of the better suburbs of Rome.

Well, we did much talking, the tragedy, still fresh in their hearts was all through the house. Marco's Russian bride,married for just one year, was living in their apartment in the basement, but probably not for too long. Silvana was quite inconsolable, and Walter was doing his best.
We chatted for three hours over a cup of tea then they returned me to the metro on their way to collect two guests arriving for the Motor Cycle championships that weekend. Marco was a sports enthusiast and there were a thousand at his funeral, Silvana told me. He was thirty-six, and such a handsome boy.

We decided before I left that they would take me to the airport Fiumicino on Tuesday morning at nine, after sleeping at their house Monday night. I would be tired after my trip to Naples and would not have to get up so early. Iolanda would be happy to to have an extra day to prepare my room for the next guest.

The stories told about Marco were to much to relate, but suffice to say, he was a charismatic youth who was loved by everyone. We talked about life after death and we sang the HU together. Silvana was happy to receive a small book I had on all this stuff and she felt much better when I left. Amazing thing that sound, the HU!

Via Macerata- Pigneto

Last night I caught an excellent movie at the Aquila, the local cinema around the corner from my street, via Macerata. It was called 'La Citta Ideale', quite a recent release and was debuted at Cannes last year I believe. The young direttore was also the main actor, an architect who wanted to live as ecologically sensitive as possible, as a series of incidents lead him to be prosecuted for a hit-and-run he didn't do, indeed he was the only person to stop and try to save the body he saw on the side of the road. It was indeed a black, ironic comedy, and left the innocent 'hero' waiting for what perhaps could become an indictment, as his friends progressively left him.
The were only four others in the large cinema space, young Italians, enjoying it immensely.

Another nice coincidence in Via Macarata -it is the centre this weekend of the quarter's Arts Festival, including a tango fest happening just next door from where I am lodged, at the Tango Centre of Rome! Caffe Razmataz, where I had a delicious tea last night, is also a centre of some activities.
So I am in for a busy weekend, especially as my hosts have both gone till Monday, Fred to Puglia and Iolanda and Sophia to Wales.
I can do some home cooking finally, so off to the market!

My beautiful bedmate, Elektra.

View from the back window

Italian kitchen

Il Pigneto

Have arrived for my second 'stagio' in Roma. But not after a near disaster in Stansted!
Being warned to arrive early to enable a long tedious pass through security to go without stress, I escaped from my Hostel at London Bridge, a tiny room with four bunks and no aeration as the Russian wanted to hear nothing from outside, at the early hour of 6.30, foregoing a shower, I just wanted to get out! I had a cursory cornflake breakfast, included with the gracious tariff of thirty pounds! and then took the first bus I saw to Liverpool St Station where the express train to Stansted left every half hour or so.

So I arrived terribly early at Stansted, four and half hours before the scheduled flight departure. But no stress, I was doing as planned, and what could I do in London City in two hours anyway, just walk and look, and drag my trolley bag. So I passed through the very tough security, practically strip-searched, with my printed-out boarding pass, or so I thought, and sat down in one of the many eateries not far from the signage giving evidence of my departure gate, in four hours time!

Time passed, I ate and drank an awful Americano coffee, chatted with a Cypriot couple quite angry with losing fifty percent of their savings invested in the wrong  Cyprus Bank, and when finally my departure gate, number 54, came up, I took my bag and began the long and tortuous trek along corridors, up and down escalators to arrive twenty minutes later at the designated Gate. 

I took my place in the quite short queue, as I was an early arrival, and the efficient woman checked my 'boarding pass'. NO, it was wrong, had not been checked at Passport control, although I had been exhaustively searched and stamped, I thought, on the way. She said I'd have to run back to my original arrival place, and re-do my exit procedure, and get a proper boarding pass, but that I would probably miss the flight as it was now half past and the scheduled departure was a quarter to two. I retrieved my papers from her and began the unbelievable return, against the hordes who were all coming against me, to try and get my flight.

I was literally huffing and puffing, darting and weaving through the masses, thinking, I must get this flight. Of course I HUed. On seeing some officials I stopped to check what I had to do, they said, 'go with this lady and pass back through security and get your pass'. 

It was now eighteen minutes to two, I would miss the flight they said. Finally back at the original desk, they scanned my original pass and said it was the wrong one, apparently I had torn off the other pass and they had kept it in Rome on my earlier departure. As I had been booked, she said, just 'give him a boarding pass and get back as soon as you can'.

Hurriedly they presented me with the invaluable pass and I began my return trip. Running and bumping, it was literally a kilometre to the last gate. I arrived exhausted and no-one was there, the plane was still there, but everything was ocked, and there was no sign of anything.

They've closed the flight, I thought, then a lone voice called out, 'Rome Ciampino is leaving from Gate 46'.  They've changed the flight departure gate! I then noticed someone whom I recognised from my flight walking slowly back, resigned, to the gate which I had passed ten minutes before on my agonised run to Gate 54. 

Finally I arrived at the end of the long queue, took my place with the others, and waited another half an hour before we boarded. While waiting I saw a very angry scene at Gate 44 where an Englishman had missed his flight because he had heard no announcements. ' Ryanair doesn't do announcements' the woman, said, 'But you took my bag', she said. 'Go back to the ticket office and find another Flight.' He was ropable and swore on his way back. Then I saw two young people arrive after me, saying they had just gone to 54 and had to run back to 46. They were not as exhausted as me, but happily I had co-conspirators. Such is life when you take Ryanair. Always check your Boarding Pass especially when you are not a European, you always need a Passport check!

A day later...

Now I have had a lovely night's sleep and am dining alfresco in Via Pigneto, life is sweet!
The Pigneto Quartiere is now one of the hippest in Rome, thanks to arrival of a big black population, all smoking grass, heavily noticeable in the streets wherever you walk.

The ubiquitous street market  is full of excellent food products, fruit, vegetables and even meat. I sit and have cappuccino with a 'bruschetta al pomodoro' and it costs only 2.50 euros. I check the Lonely Planet 'Rome Encounter,' well researched by an Aussie, and discover a bar close by which was frequented by Pasolini, so I must find that. I stroll a few blocks, get lost, but nothing is far away, ask some young people where Via Fanfulla da Lodi is, and it's just around the corner. I find it, and yes, it's already abuzz with clients at 1pm. I note that Sunday is a cheap buffet and mentally note that for next Sunday.

On my way back to the market in Via Pigneto to buy a little camisole I saw, the clouds gather and it's going to rain, big drops, people are scurrying about, umbrellas turned up, preparing for the rest of a wet day. Optimistically I return but the market is fonished, and in process of packing up. Well I'll find another camisole somewhere, I'm sure.
The rain gets heavier and I seek refuge in the bar nearby, very smart, and I order a tea with lemon, and a pastry. I'll wait out the rain, as I am going to a movie at the local cinema tonight at 9.30, I can have a quiet afternoon. 

Tomorrow is a trip to the Tivoli Gardens and Hadrian's Villa. It's going to be a good return I can feel that.

Peckham Rye

Out of trendy London City and the Southbank, to a place you could easily mistake for one of the many Afro-American boroughs in New York, especially Brooklyn. Yes, it's Peckham Rye, and I'm here to visit Meg and John's grandkids, Harry, Ted, Milo and of course Havana, Lydia's daughter of Cuban fame.

The atmosphere at Peckham Rye is refreshingly and unconsciously black, and I am immediately seduced by the many delightful shops and even succumb to buying a cheap pair of gaudy moccasins to take home (instead of the expensive Italian ones I nearly bought in Rome!)
Luckily Renie, Jasper's Italian-English wife, is home with two of her littlies, and invites me to wait while she collects Harry, the third one, from kinder. I'll have to juggle my time to see Havana at six as Jasper works till seven.

Before taking the 343 Peckham Rye bus from London Bridge, I had checked in to my Backpackers, St Christopher's in Borough High St. so when I return at ten'ish tonight it would be quick. The front-of-house was very efficient, with an Aussie boy and a Scandinavian girl at the reception, open 24/7, so when I return tonight I'll just collect my bag and take it two minutes away to another hostel building where I will be sleeping, which I hope is more quiet than this one. Breakfast is included, about 30 pounds for the night, but with a four-share! I think I'll forego the breakfast, just sleep and run.
All good, Irene just returned with her beautiful brood.

Milo and Ted

London Festival Hall

Well I am now in Central London, and I seem to recognise everything. Quick twenty minute express train from Richmond to Waterloo, after buying a day travel card for eight pounds. Although it's grey and cool and I'll be walking 'most everywhere. Crossing the Jubilee Bridge and discovering Festival Hall canteen, I decide to stop and have a second breakfast of English porridge and coffee here. There are quite a few here, and it's only 10.45am.

Backtrack to Richmond where Anna and I went for a walk along the Thames, looking at the former King's Palace and then taking in a movie, Aussie director Baz Luhrman's 'Gatsby'. It was good, critics had panned it but it will be a big success as it has Baz Luhrman's stamp on it. Colour and lots of good acting, and even Scott Fitzgerald's granddaughter said it evoked the right atmosphere. We strolled home at five o'clock through the gardens of the old Royal Richmond Palace, although very little is left of it, except some grand private apartments which are now worth a few million pounds apiece.

Back to breakfast, porridge was hot and excellent served with honey and thick brown sugar pots on the side. My Americano, the coffee of choice for many, a long black with side milk, is good and also a glass of iced water alongside, very American.

The room temperature is very hot as they've had no spring weather here, and everyone is dressed for the winter. Thank God I bought my sweater at the charity shop in Pershore. I have all day to stroll down the Thames, perhaps even visit the National Gallery, a mere ten minutes walk, with the London Eye at five minutes, and the Globe, on the way to London Borough, where I will check in for tonight's sleep at the Back Packer Hostel, St. Christopher's, at London Borough, just a short bus ride to Liverpool Street station where tomorrow I take the train to Stansted for my return to Bella Roma. 

My UK time has been excellent, but I did carefully pre-plan it all. My friends were excessively kind and I have enjoyed it all. Tonight I join Gen Y for an interesting evening, meeting the young two year old Havana Soto, Lydia and Alexy's daughter, which was one reason for my London Visit. Will be good I'm sure.

Return to Rome

Am in Stansted Airport, financed by Irish Mr Ryan of Ryanair. Past security with a full body search, and now waiting for flight to Rome.
Last night had lovely reunion with Lydia and met her two year old Havana, whose dad Alexy is a marvel. Lydia had just returned from Turkey and was completely exhausted, but her brother Jasper joined us and Alexy cooked a roast chook with fried plantanes which I had mistakenly bought at the local Peckham Rye Market for bananas! They resemble them but can't be eaten raw. Peckham Rye is ninety percent black and the African food reigns supreme. A lovely place and warm and welcoming, I even bought a pair of Ghanian shoes for ten pounds!
More souvenirs...
The night at the hostel was forgettable, sharing with a Russian couple and a Japanese boy. 

I awoke after taking a valium at 6.30, and gratefully left without a shower and quickly made my way to the airport early.

Liverpool Station

With a Happy Havana...

Some of the Sculptures

At the Bicester Art Show - Sculptures

Here are just a few of the excellent sculptures at the local Bicester annual Exhibition.

Oxfordshire

Last night was spent in Piddington, Bicester, Oxfordshire. Meg and John, friends of over forty years, had Hal and me to lunch in their 17th century home. Was great and Hal managed well after a near two hour drive from Pershore. 

A good night's sleep, and then on to see John's exhibition in Bicester, the local village. He is a better than average sculptor and the quality overall was excellent, see photos. Met some lovely people and even one whom I may meet next year in Wellington, Sally Trench, an author and exceptional third-world worker from South Africa. She invited me to visit her there and she is coming to Wellington next year. We actually had friends in common in Wellington.
All in all it was an excellent visit,  and Meg and John were delightful hosts, as usual. Now am on train to Richmond to see Anna.

Ciampino Aeroporto

Miracolo! After being thoroughly warned and waking up at five am, I am at the airport three hours early. No sweat. But I was lucky, bus, metro, bus, all with no waiting, and I even have my return ticket from airport to Rome. I fear ironically, it may not be so simple at the Stansted end, but we'll see, I have made all the preparations.
But as for yesterday, a bit of tourism and meeting the next hostess, Scottish Italian, Iolanda. She was happy that I leave my back pack at her place as Ryannair is strict about only one piece on board. So I arrived as arranged at 5.30 al punto, and she graciously received me with her strange Scottish Italian accent. Also, a with a chiwahwah and a cat to share my bed. Luckily I did go as neither she nor her husband Fred will be home when I return in a week, so more things to arrange, perhaps leaving the key at the cafe next door, although when I had a chinotto there he was a bit surly. Iolanda and daughter Sophia are going to Wales to a look at dorms for the Uni term starting in October. Their three daughters are all studying in UK. Sophia, the youngest, wants to be a sculptor, and is studying in Wales! Anyway it will be an interesting week with Fred who teaches English part time.

But before this visit, I had the pleasure of visiting the Pantheon, and witnessing another interesting event, the reciting of the Rosary, at midday. Similarly I had witnessed it on on the steps of St Peter's, with many languages being used. In the Pantheon, which has signs up for Silenzio, the noise was a steady and a loud hum, so the verses of the rosary had to be amplified. A Bishop and assistant priest were reciting the verses, and a few people, who all women and me, were sitting in the front.

The other hundred or so were milling about, taking absolutely no notice, they just wanted their photos.

Before the Pantheon, not too far away, I visited the famous Piazza Navona, a great disappointment, another tourist trap like Fontana de Trevi, and totally ruined by the thousands there. E la vita in Roma!

I wanted to experience a 'smart ' street, via Boschetto, also not far away, or so I thought. It was quite a walk but I jumped on one of the many buses to shorten it a little. Well is was a simple little back street , but some nice shops and a few cafes where I stopped for an English tea with lemon. The waitresses were so lovely I will return when I come back. Each quarter of Rome has a different feel and it's necessary to try them to find out, although via Boschetto was also recommended in Trip Advisor.

I return for my last trip to Cipro and via delle Medaglio d'Ore, and hope I don't see the young Bangladeshi trying to sell garlic near the supermarket. He is so nice and stands there all day waiting to sell one plastic bag of garlic . Rome is full of illegal immigrants trying to make a euro, and also those who are begging, like outside St Peter's, where the cripples and deformed are lying on the streets waiting for the odd penny to fall in their way. Somewhat depressing I must say.

Now for the Ryanair experience...do I think I could ever do it again, I wonder sometimes. It was a miracle we took off. Crammed like sardines in a tin, crazy Italians on a weekend lost in London with their mistresses, and kids on the rampage. Luggage stuffed everywhere, no wonder they put a limit on one piece but it's still abused.

 We are ten minutes late leaving, and I'm a bit nervous about the quick transfer but suddenly realise I have an hour up my sleeve,with the time change!
Relaxed I chat with my Italian neighbour who is off to London on business for one day only. Such is Ryanair. This Irish company, built and nurtured in Ireland's boom time of twenty years ago, is still flourishing and has the stranglehold on cheap European travel.

Well, have arrived in larger London, which makes Rome look like a village. Managed to escape from Stansted airport clutching some English pounds from the ATM, no Euros here, and made my way through the maze at Liverpool St station. Was earlier than expected (one hour time change thank God) so I tried to use the machine to collect my return ticket I had booked on the net. No luck there, it didn't recognise my card. Too bad, I can't waste time on this, must rush to Paddington for my connection to Pershore. Asked someone which line, Hammersmith, so took it and watched the once familiar stations fly by. Once in Paddington, now undergoing a huge transformation, I walked another ten minutes to find the main platforms. I again asked where the Worcester train left from, and he said, wait, it will appear when it's been given a slot. So I bought a sausage-roll in honour of England, and then felt like a coffee. Eventually I located a coffee stall, asked for a small flat white, and received the best coffee I've had since Hobart, really! Feeling better, and as I had time, I found the Mens and discovered it was thirty pence, cheaper than Rome, at one euro.

All well, I then found the platform and am typing this in heated warmth, as it is freezing for a spring day, at seven degrees centigrade. I will be looking for a pullover in Pershore!,

Pershore

The train trip to the little Worcester village of Pershore was a delight, and luxurious, with free wifi and even food to buy.
Arrived with Hal right there to pick me up and a big welcome from her Mum, Jan, and son, Rufus. Lots to talk about over a cup of tea and then a light supper before we watched an excellent show on Stonehenge Hal had recorded. 

An excellent night's sleep and awake to another lovely day, as was yesterday as it had warmed up a little. Rufus was going kayaking that day and came home wet, having fallen into the river. No harm there. Hal took me on an extended walk to the weir and it was all very green, English and beautiful. That afternoon with her friend Guy arriving from London, we decided to have a lunch at the local pub, outside on the banks of the Avon. It was a delight, and Rufus gave us a Wiggles exhibition. Afterwards I went shopping for a sweater in the Main Street and they went home.
It was a lovely start to my English stay. 

Tomorrow it is to Oxford, to see my old friends Meg and John.

St Peter's

Well, what can one say after witnessing one of the greatest, if not THE greatest artists in all of art history, Michelangelo. After meeting the rep of 'Enjoy Rome' tours at corner of via Germanica and Leone IV, I found the group was made up of many nationalities, including one Aussie couple, of which, more later.

We set off at 1pm, wondering if I should have booked the earlier visit, but really it didn't matter. Whenever you visit the Vatican it is with 30,000 others.  It was worth it however, as you must just forget the constant bumping and squashing and remember you are here for an experience you will never forget. The three hour tour needed all of that, but then many more courageous or fitter than I, like the two Aussies from Ballarat, went on to do it all again!

For me, it was to be thought about, and savoured when I had time to myself. It is really crazy the high tourist season in Rome, when it is for many, the only time for the locals to make a dollar. I bought a few post cards, keeping travel weight down, and contented myself with that, and my memories and few (dozen) photos. My battery went flat just as we entered the last stage, St Peter's itself. Well no matter, I had taken my share.
Home to rest and recuperate for today's fare, the Pantheon and Piazza Navona.

The queues....

The Art.....

The Aussies in red and caps...

A non event!

Well I eventually made the tennis Open, for what it was. I forget that I come from a country of tennis fanatics, the Italians are not like that, although it was interesting, their organisation, or lack of it!

Many, many chic dressed highheeled hostesses doping absolutely nothing, and the number of Andre Agassi lookalikes, all shaven headed and earrings all over the place. They really looked like mobsters.
Anyway the downside was that no-one of any quality was playing, they all had byes. 

It  really began the next day, today was just a dry-run. The players were good however so I can only imagine how good Nadal and Federer would have looked! At the next stadium a footy match was roaring. I discover Rome Lazio were playing and no tickets were available, even one's  life may have been in danger so I heard later. After much waiting at the bus stop, all full, a young man told me just get on the next one and see where it goes. The traffic was gigantic comingback from the footy. I got home tired but wiser, thirty Euros for two ordinary tennis matches is not what an Aussie expects from his 'Opens'.

Today is Vaticano Day, so I hope it goes better. but, really it is all the Roman experience.

Stadio Olimpico

Well I made it in good time to see the two female stars, Sciapone and she who shrieks and won
the Oz Open champion practising on the outer court. 

It was good to arrive three hours early, remember what I told myself, always be early especially in Rome, where you never know when the next bus is coming. I had prepared myself with bread, ham and cheese for a long day at the courts. It's cloudy but still hot, God knows what it's like hère in summer. I am quite well prepared but no sun screen, just a cap and long sleeved shirt. It's very relaxed hère at thé moment but am sure it will change once the stars are on court. I am hoping to see Nadal and Federer but am happy whatever.

I haven't said it before, but it's obvious, the Italians enjoy life, even in its adversities. for most people, life is quite hard, just work, sleep, eat, and play when you can. Like the couple at the caffe Siciliano yesterday. He was a type like Marcello Mastroianni, and she was a veritable puta. Big breasted and small waisted, high heels and painted lips. I noticed her arrive at the caffe and descend to the toilets, the sign said Sgre e Sgras, and I had wondered if if was a communale toilet. Ten minutes later emerged from the doorway, she, perfectly coiffed still, and close by, he, trying not to look like a cat who's just had his milk. Today I went to the toilet, for all the legitimate reasons, and discovered it was a perfect place for a dangerous liaison, soundproof and large enough for anyone, or two, to have a good time. Well those two were a busy couple who needed just ten minutes for the necessities of life in Bella Roma.

Back to the tennis. Outside court it is now the boys turn, but I don't recognise anyone, damn!
However it's actually much cooler outside, or is it just that the clouds have appeared. It's going to be a long hot day, and btw, just in case you want a hit of sugar, don't bring along a bar of chocolate, which I did, and which is now a mess of melted brown caramel in the packet. I dare not open it. Well I've never even been to an Open before, and I don't know these things. There are many die-hard tennis tragics around me and I dont think they bring chocolaté!