Italy

27-4-6
We had a rough ride on the Italian train system last night, whew!
My heart sank as the ticket seller at Avignon informed me there was no possibility of getting a train to Rome in time for our booked accommodation commencing on the night of the 26th. I had to find some Internet access to email the booked b& b and advise that we would not be able to arrive until the morning after our booking commenced. To add insult to injury, I would have to pay 50 euros extra on top of our Eurail pass to enjoy the pleasures of sharing a cramped, filthy compartment with random strangers overnight. The best that could be offered to us on the rail system was places in a four person shared couchette compartment, where they give you a crappy thin combination sheet blanket that appears to be made of tissue paper,and you try to sleep if you can. The early part of the journey was pleasant enough, travelling along the last of the French riviera, Monaco, Monte Carla, Ventimiglia and into Italy, with the coastal lights sparkling in the increasing gloom. Miriam settled down by 11 or so. Then when it was passport check time at the border the cops dragged away one of our travelling companions, together with his bag, and he was not seen again by any of us. He may have been an illegal immigrant or something.

Later, after most were asleep but I was having trouble getting there, I saw two young shady characters roaming up and down the corridor. Sure enough, after a while there were cops running around and a Canadian lady reporting her bag with passport and credit cards was gone.
Now I had seen one of the guys standing ten metres or so down our carriage corridor with a bag draped over his shoulder that looked like what she had described, and gave a description to the conductor. A few hours later, the cops found the offenders still on the train. They had slipped on the train while it was stopped at a station, one of the seemingly endless stops. About four o'clock in the morning a female conductor woke me up and told me they had caught the guys, and presented the missing bag to me as if I had the owner in my compartment. I pointed her down the corridor to approximately where I thought the Canadian might be found, who was of course much relieved to regain possession of her passport, her credit cards, and every essential item a traveller needs.

So all in all, a nerve wracking night. It took a long while for the adrenaline to subside. I managed a couple of hours of fitful nightmarish sleep before a freezing morning and being jolted awake by Miriam shaking me. In the confusion of having only five minutes notice from the conductor that we would have to get off at Rome, I lost my cosy windcheater that we had bought in Ireland, damn.

Also, by the time the journey was over, the railway toilets were in a condition more appropriate to a concentration camp than a contemporary democracy. The floor awash with urine had stunk from the start and grew steadily more horrific as the kilometres eked away. A strange suited gentleman who had stood at the end of the carriage looking out the window, pausing only to listen to what we think was a drag queen practising a little opera, changed into his pyjamas and climbed up into the couchette where our illegal immigrant had been. His feet proceeded to stink out the whole compartment, which we of course had to lock against the possibility of more thievery. The whole journey was an absolute health hazard. It had started like an Agatha Christie novel and ended like a failed Hitchcock movie.

We finally made it into Rome at 6.30 in the morning, where we found that the station we were at was a few km away from our b & b. A taxi driver was happy to rip us off with a fifteen euro ride including a massive service charge for lifting our two humble bags into the cab. No-one seems to give a stuff about anyone in this town, service with a snarl at every shop, but the b&b we are in seems ok and there is an english speaker on the staff , who is great and has given us some good advice.
We are told by him, look out for thieves and pickpockets constantly here,especially around the main tourist areas. And don't feel complacent on the trains, they are constant targets for thieves too.

After flaking out on the bed for an hour or so, we struggled out and tried the tourist bus that had worked OK for us in Barcelona. We were so tired that every time we closed our eyes on the bus we were instantly asleep, and unable to take in much about us. However, we did gain an appreciation of the strange jumble of the ancient, the not so old, and the plain bad taste of some of the more recent parts of Roma. With plans to tackle the city after a restorative sleep, we called it a day and hit the sack fairly early.

28-4-6
Rome

Advised by Pino, our part time (mornings only, brings our breakfast in his bag, lukewarm yoghurt, bread like paper, brioche and apricot jam, always the same....) that there was a snap transport strike again (happens every coupla months, he says)we resolve to strike out on foot to see Rome. At this point I am really glad to have with me my trusty compass, a reasonably detailed street map with major sites marked on it, and Miriam to watch my back and pockets while we walk. With the aid of these things, we navigated fairly smoothly to the Spanish Steps, accidentally found the house where John Keats, one of my favourite poets, died, the house now a museum devoted to he and Shelley. The Byron shirt shop is next door.
Onwards, and in a side street we found a pretty cool little fresh food market, bought some foccacia kind of things that were better than most of the horrible food we had been subjected to by the so called restaurants of Rome, good coffee at half the price, and a slice of real Romans going about their day.

Colntinuing on we made it to the Vatican, and round the back to the right, then to the left, and the left again to the Vatican Museums including the Sistine Chapel, one of Miriam's required sites for this trip. With a room of Raphael's frescos to compare, we argued the merits and issues of both, feeling that Michaelangelo's work was more inspired and grand in conception, but as some have commentated, his portrayals of women seem over muscular and quite masculine in appearance.

After several hours of touring the huge Vatican collection, we moved on to the Coliseum and walked right around it, as well as many other sites of great antiquity that were impressive and imbued with many ghosts of the long ago days. Particularly interesting was the site in the middle of town where it is believed the forum in which Julius Ceasar met his pointed demise once existed. It is now home to hundreds of feral cats that sleep on top of the ancient stone columns and are believed to be descendants of cats that were given by Cleopatra to Mark Antony; unfortunately he was allergic to their fur and dumped them. Now the cats are citizens of Rome and are not allowed to be harassed.

We enjoyed seeing the jigsaw of the old traces of Roman glory overlain with each new ages reworkings and renovations and additions. What was disappointing was the alarming indifference to such simple hygiene matters as refraining from urinating on every available surface. This seemed to be a popular practise among the natives of the city - and was not confined to men alone. If the scarce public toilets happened to be closed - a frequent case - the practise seemed to be to let fly in the very doorways of the toilet buildings. All this in broad daylight, with no shame displayed at all. All public buildings, such as the cafe in front of the main station Termini, had to be hosed down every morning to reduce the stench but never removing it. All in all, it seemed that the glory that was Rome is now a debased and self interested collection of opportunists out to take what they can from the visitors who surely sustain their local economy. We were pleased to be able to get tickets to get out of town and head to Florence the following morning.

30-4-06
Like clockwork we rolled out on to the narrow Via Romana as the early morning bus approached, just in time to meet us at the stop. Nice to pay one euro each to get back to the station instead of eighteen for a taxi. We find the right platform and train and begin to retrace our way by rail to Nice.

With no direct train available, change at Genoa required, from the fast train down to the dirty and slow rolling stock familiar to us from our night time adventures. Time enough in Genoa to stroll past the Christopher Columbus statue near the rail station (love your work Chris, but sorry we can't fund your trip to the New World. Maybe someone else can chip in?) Procured coffee and cake in the only shop in the street with visible tables and chairs in the sunshine and returned to the station in time for our train to Nice.

All we want to do now, having decided to abandon Venice as a destination, is to get back to England with enough time in hand to squeeze in the sights we missed first time round: Stonehenge and Bath in particular. So, after deep discussions with a helpful ticket clerk at Nice, it was determined that the fast train under the English Channel would be the best option despite a supplementary charge of 75 euros each on top of our Eurail passes. The alternative would be a slow train to Calais, followed by paying our own way on the ferry with maybe a discounted fare, and further uncertain arrangements from Dover back to London.

Journey from Nice to Paris peaceful enough for us - seasoned enough to gather provisions before the journey, but in this case the dining car was in operation. One young American lady found she had failed to get off at Aix-en-Provence and instead found herself several hundred km away in Paris at midnight, perhaps as a result of her insisting she could speak French but clearly could not listen to French and extract any meaning from it.

I had booked a room at the Terminus de Lyon Hotel just near the Gare de Lyon station, so it only took ten minutes and our trusty compass to find our way there. Clean, adequate room, and we were soon asleep.

29-4-06
The rail booking system for intercountry travel was 'down' last night, when I tried to organise our next move. A fast train was available to get to Florence for the morning of the 29th, but as to making our way back through France, nothing could be confirmed until this morning. We had already decided that a further excursion to Venice would be stretching ourselves too far, and I had emailed the booked hotel in Venice already to cancel it. Hence, by about 8am I had returned to the railways booking office and at least could confirm passage back to Nice. From there we would have to take our chances on what was available.

The train journey from Rome to Florence was quick and smooth, zipping by forest covered hillsides with the mist trickling through the valleys. On arriving at Florence railway station, the usual battle to find the specifics of which way to go, and how far, to find the accommodation that had been booked long ago. First step, buy a local map - the hotel bookings office at the station having supplies in a range of languages at one euro each. Next, try to find anyone with a smattering of English to show the wanted address to and seek their advice. In practise at this point you usually run into a conveniently located publicist for the local taxi drivers who insists that it is far too far to walk. Eighteen euros, including six to carry our two modest suitcases, seemed a little steep for a three kilometre journey.

Nonetheless, we were faced with but one afternoon to achieve the goal of seeing Michaelangelo's David, so we set about this in a very focussed manner. After briefly glancing at the ancient room in the Annalena guest house allotted to us, we consulted our map and planned the most direct walking route to reach the gallery. Once in the street, we marched at high speed back across the river Arne and by-passed the Uffizi gallery, reaching the Galleria Del' Accademia within a half hour. Here we queued up with a thin band of shade to protect us from the hot sun while an accordion player worked the other side of the street, playing his heart out but raising little interest from the crowd. Though we had been warned of the potential for a long wait, it only took about twenty minutes for us to reach the entrance.

Inside, we first checked out a display of unusual and historic musical instruments from many different countries. Included were some very early guitars that looked singularly hard to tune. Best was the Chinese water bowl, whose handles after being dampened are rubbed to produce an eerie sound.

After a while longer perusing the 12th-15th century religious art, full of suffering saints being martyred in various painful ways, we moved on to see several of Micaelangelo's unfinished sculptures, their forms just emerging from the marble. Exciting to see the rough chisel marks of the master, so firm and assured compared to other works of the era, including one that had once been attributed to M-A but in its style is completely wrong.

David stands proud and tall and every bit as impressive as one would expect. Bathed in the diffuse light of his own skylight his veins stand out in a stunningly lifelike manner. Yet I can't help thinking those hands are a little too large. Still, a magnificent sculpture and quite a different experience to the two inch tall reproductions infesting the nearby shops.

Leaving the museum we wander through the streets and take refuge in a McDonalds. After ingesting some sustaining junk food, we researched the local bus routes, finding that it would be possible to bus our way to the station next morning. Later in the evening, the guy on reception at Annalena gesticulated wildly to emphasise I would have to get down to the tobacconist shop pronto so as to get some bus tickets. You can't just buy them on the bus! So we ventured down the road and after waiting for every local in town to buy their fags and lottery tickets we were equipped with tickets for the morning bus.

While waiting to arrange a wake up call, I flicked through a book in the lobby that gave the history of the guesthouse. It had started as a convent in the mid fifteenth century, then was in the hands of a gentleman and his wife, Annalena. The family fell on hard times and borrowed money from Cosimo, one of the powerful Medici family. Later, Medici foreclosed on the loan and took possession of the house, together with its beautiful garden, which still exists today behind a high fence.

At night we prowl the streets and pass through the ancient doors of the Porte Romana. We find our destined pizzas and local red wine and sleep, tired from our long walks today.