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“They’re not trying to kill us, it’s just cultural”.

2007-01-05T03:21:00.000+11:00

We did it.
We survived even though at times we thought our week of wrong-side-of-the-road driving would never end and even managed to navigate our way through Florence, tiny Italian country roads and huge scary three lane Autostradas.
Leaving Perugia the day before Christmas Eve, we packed up and headed off to Florence where we traded our much loved yet sometimes frustrating public transport for something a little more independent.
Originally we had hired a zippy little Ford Festiva to see us around our week long tour of Il Chianti in Tuscany where we hired a villa with some visiting friends for the week.
Instead the extremely stoic Hertz rent-a-car people informed us we would have to settle for the newest, biggest merc instead.
It sounds like a good thing, right?
But it turns out size really does matter on those tiny winding Italian roads.
Still, we persevered with our beast of a vehicle and after overcoming a natural urge to sideswipe parked cars (thanks to Alex’s yells of “GET OVER GET OVER”), we eventually got used to driving our very own diesel guzzling luxury truck through the battlefield that passes for the Italian road network.
At times it was a wild ride as we swerved to avoid the Italian drivers (who drive WITHOUT using the rearview mirror). We looked on with fear (and a little admiration) as they traveled 80 kilometres an hour on tiny stomach churning village roads, cutting corners and overtaking on blind turns. And we ignored our fellow drivers as they constantly tailgated us, chanting to ourselves that they weren’t being overly aggressive – “It’s just cultural, everyone drives 50cm away from the car in front here”.
We even made it out onto the dreaded Autostrada where we managed to tip 140 k/h and still feel like we were driving at a snails pace as the smallest Fiats and the latest European models hooned past us.
Driving Italian-style is fun, but Italians also have their own flair when it comes to parking. Kids run riot in car parks so it’s up to the drivers not to run them over as parents think nothing of walking a five-year-old (or infirm nonna) behind a reversing car.
San Gimignano is a gorgeous Tuscan hill town, but all we remember from this trip was returning to the car to find our next door neighbour had parked so close (about five millimetres!) Mantha was forced to climb across the passenger seat.
When it comes to Siena too, we now forget its elegant sloping Campo and elaborate Duomo in favour of the crazy underground car park where we scored the last space, which required us to gun the merc up a curb and almost straight into a brick wall with the result that we ended up parking half on and half off the footpath. We would never have thought it legal, but it was a marked out spot next to three other cars parked in a similar fashion.
Driving in Italy is not for the faint hearted, but we’d both definitely do it again, although maybe not anywhere near Napoli where apparently even other Italians won’t risk it.

Showing off in Rome … well sort of

2006-12-17T03:33:00.000+11:00

It was supposed to be our moment to shine.
We were finally getting to demonstrate to someone, who we weren’t related to, just how well we knew the Eternal City.
Feeling confident about showing Alex’s good friends from Sydney - Punk and Keshev - a great first day in Italy and excited to see them, we headed to Rome.
We met at their hotel and after joyous greetings, took on our assumed roles of tour guides, albeit without the microphone headsets or bright red oversized flower to lead the way.
It was Keshev’s first trip to Italy so we made a beeline for the Fontana di Trevi.
Clearly quite a few other visitors to Rome had the same idea.
As we rounded the corner to the famous fountain we could barely make it out for the thousands of tourists packed onto the stairs and piazza in front.
We’d just finished telling our friends they’d picked an excellent time to come to Rome because November and early December are the quietest of the year.
Ahhh, the crowds must be here because of the long weekend, we could only shrug and smile weakly.
Still, we’re insistent travelers and we all somehow managed to elbow our way to the front of the fountain, avoid getting smeared with some precariously gripped gelatos, toss in a couple of coins and snap some photos.
Next it was around the corner and across the road to the Pantheon, ancient Rome’s best preserved building.
Not as packed with tourists as our last stop, the Pantheon was accessible, but unfortunately the winter refurbishments meant the draw card tomb of Raphael was out of bounds due to some heavy duty scaffolding and shade cloth.
No matter, we marveled at the nine metre oculus in the roof before it was time to check out one of Rome’s most lively sights, Piazza Navona.
Even though a long weekend Feast of the Immaculate Conception winter carnival, complete with massive merry-go-round and hundreds of screaming children, meant we could barely see the piazzas three stunning fountains, our friends still appeared to be enjoying the adventure.
But by the time we got to our next sight, Campo De’ Fiori, with its trendy bars and picturesque flower markets, the sky was definitely looking a little grey.
We reassured one another that our decision to leave our umbrellas and jackets back at Punk and Keshev’s hotel was the right one.
After all, the morning weatherman, who we’d watched on TV about five hours earlier before leaving Perugia, had told us there was no chance of rain and the mercury would tip an uncharacteristically balmy 17 degrees.
Alas by the time we were admiring the elegant Piazza Farnese no one could deny the weather had drastically changed.
It was cold, it was raining and advising Keshev to go out sightseeing in short-sleeves had been a mistake.
On the bright side, we were all freezing and wet together and even better, it was midday, we were on holidays and there were dozens of bars just metres away.
As we sat drinking beers and gossiping, the only downside to our day in Rome so far was that the awning we were sitting under turned out to be less than water tight.
It was going to take more than a bit of rain and some unexpected crowds to ruin our inaugural tour of Roma.
After enjoying a couple of very damp Peronis and waiting in vain for the rain to stop or die down, we decided to set off on the twenty minute walk to the charming pizzeria we’d expertly selected for lunch.
Ignoring the fact that we were all completely soaked and freezing and after a slight directional hiccup, which added an extra ten minutes to our rain soaked journey, we finally arrived, hungry and ready, at the restaurant.
Unfortunately the pizzeria wasn’t exactly ready for us, in fact it was shut.
Luckily plan B swung into action and we headed for “a great little enoteca” near the Spanish Steps, and not too far from where we now were.
Our hearts sank when we finally arrived and found the bar at the front of the restaurant was standing space only.
Pushing our way through the bar we found the maitre d and, to our surprise and delight, were seated immediately.
After a delicious late lunch during which we all had time to warm up and dry off it came time to pay the bill.
Aiming to enlighten and entertain and, all right, show off a bit, Alex was telling our friends that it is illegal for any commercial establishment not to issue a customer with a receipt, or scrontino.
It is also illegal for a customer to leave any commercial premises without taking their scrontino.
With that we paid, she pocketed the bill and we left.
With a spring in our step, everyone’s clothes almost dry and our bellies full, we almost felt like Rome locals until the waiter chased us down the street and shouted to us in English he needed the scrontino back.
And just when we thought we knew how things worked in Italy…..

La bella figura

2006-12-05T02:35:00.000+11:00

Italians love fashion, but they often - how do we say this – don’t look all that fashionable.
Of course it’s probably our “stranieri” eyes that fail the fashion test.
After all, we’ve lost count of the number of times we’ve been disapprovingly looked up and down by discerning Italians.
And many of them really are incredibly discerning with both men and women often donning head-swiveling outfits that mix sophistication and cutting edge fashion and they usually just throw them on for the evening passagiatta.

Still, there remains some common classic Italian fashion choices that seem just a little strange to us – especially when they come from a nation that reminds the world of their fashion credentials at every turn.

1. The Italian preoccupation with colour - especially orange, but extending to bright green, bright blue, iridescent purple and various other busy multi-coloured patterns.
Now we love a bit of colour as much as the next ragazze, but have to draw the line at the guy we saw on Corso Vanucci last week who chose to team orange trousers with a green skivvie, an orange vest and a red jacket.
And just this morning we had to stop and gawk at a guy running along the same street. At first we thought he must be a tourist since it’s so very un-Italian to move at any pace faster than a stroll, but his fashion choice of red trousers, a white and red long sleeved top and red vest, convinced us he couldn’t be anything but Italian.
In our experience, it’s mainly the men who go in for the colourful look, but we’ve also seen some brave women give it a go too – a purple fur coat anyone?

2. At the risk of sounding like complete wowsers, “slutty” is probably the best way to describe another strong Italian trend.
The fact that children’s television presenters show more cleavage than most people do on a Saturday night probably has something to do with Italian women’s love of flaunting the flesh. Even though it’s winter outside, you could put money on the number of belt-like mini skirts and plunging necklines that will be out on the old town tonight. Oh, and it’s Monday.

3. The jeans tucked into boots trend.
There’s probably one ubiquitous trend here in Italy every season and this time around it’s the ole jeans tucked into boots look.
We are, of course, familiar with this fashion from back home, where it was popular (we both on occasion went out with jeans tucked into boots).
But describing this look as merely popular is a drastic understatement in Italy where everyone - from the 11-year-old coming home on the school bus to the 60-year-old mama slamming down her café macchiato - wears jeans tucked into boots ….. ahhh …..all the time. It’s so popular that it’s actually more difficult to find someone who isn’t wearing their jeans tucked into boots.

4. Designer labels.
It’s no surprise that Italians spend gazillions on designer labels every year. They are obsessed with Dolce and Gabbana, Gucci, Pucci, Miu Miu, Louis Vuitton and Chanel. But they also adore Puma and Adidas and snap up everything with a label from sunglasses and trainers to watches, caps, jeans and jackets no matter how “labeled” they are.

5. The Italian devotion to the seasons.
Italians stop wearing short sleeves at the end of August. They start wearing jumpers in October and huge coats make an appearance on November 1. We can only assume that Italians are brought up to have an incredible level of self-discipline because not a single one reverted to short sleeves despite unseasonably sweltering weather that persisted all the way into November this year.
We can only surmise that if they were to give in and start dressing according to the actual weather they might not get as much wear out of their seasonal wardrobes, which, it appears from the constant turnaround of styles in the clothes shops, they must update every year.

Tanti Auguri Alex

2006-11-24T17:30:00.000+11:00

Cake for breakfast, cake for dinner and cake for tea.
If you’re still left wondering whose birthday that describes then you've obviously never met Alex.
To mark Alex's entry into the dirty 30s, we headed off to Italy's sophisticated north for a dose well.... wouldn't you know it ..... chocolate.
It doesn't matter that we already live in Perugia - Italy's capital city of chocolate - we also chose to spend our leisure time living it up in Italy's other premier chocotown - Turin.
Turin, or Torino as it’s also known, has had an amazing facelift in honour of the Winter Olympics earlier this year and as a result is now Italy's undisputed tourist friendly city (even better than Rome, Florence and Venice!).
Apparently people come here because they want to see the Shroud of Turin, but we came here because it is the home of the chocolate-hazelnut flavour marriage (famously commodified by Ferrero in Nutella), but also available for sampling in any one of hundreds of authentic Torinese cafes serving an amazing hot chocolate and hazelnut drink.
It's also the birthplace of icecream on a stick - called Il Penguino, which was invented in a Torinese cafe which still serves them.
In any case, there was no better place for Alex to spend her milestone 30th birthday.
And yes, it started with cake - a chocolate tart to be exact - followed by a custard filled doughnut (Italian style, none of that revolting American chain rubbish of course) for breakfast.
After that, the birthday gal (with sister in tow) headed off for some sightseeing - visiting the church housing the famous shroud (it’s not on display, so we had to take their word for it that it was in fact there), an exhibition of Rembrandt drawings and then the Palazzo Reale (for an hour long tour in ITALIAN!!).
Lunch was a French-inspired crepe accompanied by two pints of beer and followed by a very special white chocolate buona bar (an Italian staple).
Tonight, she's off to tuck into a seafood dinner, followed by pannacotta (I’m sure you’ve all had one, but did you know it was invented in Turin!)
So, chocolate cake, bombolone (that's Italian for doughnut), crepes, beer, chocolate bars, seafood and pannacotta. That's what I call a very Alex birthday.
Tanti Auguri!

Rolling mauls, rucks and scrums, Italian style

2006-11-13T03:33:00.000+11:00

It started as a bit of a what-if game.
Alex got a text at 7am from Jason saying the Wallabies were playing Italy in Rome that afternoon.
She went back to sleep.
But we both kept thinking, well…. what-if we actually went to Rome today?
What-if there was a train?
What-if there were tickets?
What-if we could find the stadium?
What-if we went and there were actually people who turned up to a rugby game in Italy?

To hell with it, we thought as we made a mad dash for the 11.15 am train from Perugia (got ready in about ten minutes – a new record for us) and two-and-a-half hours later, rolled into Roma Termini.
No time for lunch or to check out Italy’s biggest Zara store.
No time to do anything, except run for the metro and the Flaminio metro stop (about 15 minutes from Termini).
Once on the metro, we realized the game was due to begin in an hour and a) we didn’t have tickets, b) didn’t know if it was sold out, c) saw loads and loads of Aussies, Italians and assorted English speakers on their way to the stadio (mysteriously, no Americans).
Thanks to a brief internet search about 15 minutes before we ran for the bus (to get us to the train station in Perugia), an old website page (featuring an Italy-England game from 2001) had given us moderately clear directions to the ground.
Metro to Flaminio, Tram number two to the stadium (Alex even saw a guy she went to uni with on the tram, although they both ignored each other!).
Turns out we’d actually almost been there before.
The stadium is just 500 metres from Rome’s Parca Della Musica where Manth had spent two days at the Rome Film Festival (Well, one day had been spent at the actual festival and the other was devoted to a prolonged negotiation with Italian bureaucracy in an ultimately successful attempt to organize accreditation).
So, we made it to the stadium and now just had to find tickets.
While there were lots of people at the ground, clearly Rugby isn’t THAT popular because there were dozens of scalpers touting their wares as soon as we stepped off the number two tram.
Around the corner, there was also an official ticket office with tickets still available.
After running the gauntlet through a group of extremely insistent, nay aggressive, scalpers, we purchased our tickets (legally) with 15 minutes to spare before kick off.
€25 a pop, on the try line and surrounded by Italian fans.
At first we were a little worried.
There were A LOT of Italians surrounding us, and we’ve heard the stories about how “passionate” they can get about sport.
But that’s “calcio” - the world game - and ummmm, this was Rugby - played well by three nations and ahhh, dare we say, moderately well by those in Europe.
As it turns out, we, and the handful of random Aussies sitting within a ten row radius of us, had nothing to worry about.
These were the best behaved Italians we’ve ever seen.
Almost overwhelmingly male, the Italian fans had donned the Italian Rugby uniform (maybe this was the uniform in Australia too, when it was still known as the gentlemen’s game). Collared business shirts, blazers, dress trousers, shining shoes and TIES. They were all wearing ties.
Sure they kept it lively by shouting and cheering.
But it was all so “un Italian” no one stood up and got in the way, no one invaded our personal space, no one even really gesticulated in a threatening way.
It was also unlike other Rugby games.
We also didn’t see a single person drinking a beer (or eating a TG Milner meat pie for that matter), although there were dozens of gelatos getting the once over (don’t think we’ll ever get used to middle aged men proudly licking ice creams at any time of the day or night).
Turns out they were actually selling beer.
It was just that no one was buying and we found out why when Alex went to score us a couple of Peronis only to find out they were flogging them for €5 a pop (for a can). That’s something like $AUS 8 each. Way out of our price range so it was a dry match for us too.
The good news was that Australia won the game, albeit unconvincingly.
Still, we had fun (and provided entertainment to our Italian neighbours) by screaming our support to Lottie, Matty and the other ones. We even got a laugh from the Italian guys in front of us when Matty scored a try and we shouted that we still loved him even though he’d left his wife and kids for a Jeans West model.
The game ended and it was time to head back to Perugia, where we arrived tired and hungry at 10.30pm after a three hour train trip.
Thank god the pizzerias don’t shut till 11pm!

How about this idea for a TV show.

2006-11-04T05:10:00.000+11:00

Marty the monster meets bikini babes who then morph into Deal or No Deal contestants and engage in a battle to woo a very ugly man all set on an island in the Caribbean where each famous person is voted off every week with the survivors then entering a talent show where they have to dance with other celebrities while wearing clothes that are three sizes too small for them, while the scantily clad losers end up in a circus smoking lots of cigarettes before they all break into song, change into ever more revealing outfits before touting a revolutionary mattress and pillow set during the ad break.
Welcome to the weird and wacky world of Italian TV.
Here, anything goes, even at four pm in the afternoon.
A lot has been written about the peculiarity of Italian viewing habits and with good reason.
At any time of the day or night one can turn on the television and find a reality TV show full of Italian celebrities.
Just in the past month we’ve seen Isola Famosa, Survivor, Wild West, Dancing with the Stars and Celebrity Circus.
Then there’s competitive reality TV involving regular people.
There’s dozens of programs and all of them are almost unbelievably weird.
Sometimes at the start they seem completely regular.
But just as Deal or No Deal or Who Wants to Be A Millionaire is heating up, the host pauses, stands up, and then tells the contestant they will have to live in a house with seven other people for eight weeks.
Alternatively the host will pause, stand up and introduce an attractive scanitly-clad woman (whose age can range from a rather icky 16 to a deeply disturbing 50-something) who then performs a song and dance routine that may or may not feature Marty the Monster and is completely at odds with whatever has been happening in the half an hour previous.
Sundays are particularly entertaining with all the major channels rolling out a “Buona Domenica” or “Good Sunday” show.
But if you’re picturing an hour or so of quiet reflection with occasional crosses to a church service somewhere, well, you’re wrong.
“Buona Dominica” goes for hours…. it’s on every time we switch on the TV …. and opens with a big razzle dazzle song and dance act involving the main players (there’s about six hosts), before morphing into a truly bizarre dating show where (it has to be said) unattractive audience members are called onstage to do odd things to the programs male host (whose girlfriend is also one of the hosts).
As an example, last Sunday we saw a segment where the male host was hooked up to a heart rate monitor and the selected audience members had to stand behind him and touch him anyway they wanted (including rubbing their hands all over him) in order to get his heart rate up.
The show then segued into a very raunchy and dramatic dance segment where a woman wearing not much more than a black bikini gyrated to a Prince song.
Back from the ad-break and the hosts interviewed a weeping mother whose daughter had been murdered three years ago and her killer had yet to go to jail.
And we thought we had short attention spans.

Andiamo in Palestra

2006-11-04T05:05:00.000+11:00

Yes, yes, you read it right.
We have indeed joined the local gym, or palestra, as such places are known here in Italy.
But before you come over all Fitness First and start picturing rows of sweaty Italians slogging it out on cross trainers, bikes and treadies; or pushing themselves to the limit in Boxing, Pump or Spin classes, let us put your mind at ease.
Olympic Palestra, as our little slice of fitness heaven is known, bears no resemblance to those McDonalds’ of gyms.
There are no nifty little swipe cards to get you in.
There’s no welcome pack with towel and water bottle.
In fact, there’s not even a bubbler to re-fill one’s water bottle.
And there was no sitting down with some pimply 21-year-old receptionist to work out one’s “fitness aims and objectives” (we thanked the almighty for that small mercy).
There are, quite simply, two bikes, one (evil) step machine, one very odd bum slimmer machine (kind of similar to a cross trainer except one moves ones feet side to side instead of up and down) and one treadmill.
That’s right folks, one treadie.
We should also mention that there are loads of weight machines and free weights as well as an upstairs area (where the taller of us have to duck when walking around) with some more, albeit circa 1985, free weight equipment.
Another interesting thing about Olympic Palestra is its size.
In the Italian tradition of championing the little guy (as seen in Italy’s devotion to artisanal shops, local butchers, fishmongers and fruttivendolos, instead of supermarkets) Olympic Palestra is a fraction the size of what we’re used to.
It could be fitted inside the group fitness area at North Sydney Fitness First about six times over.
We’re not sure how, but it does somehow manage to have its own group fitness area, which only fits about six people and makes for some “interesting” classes.
Best of all though is that Olympic Palestra is on our street about 200 metres from our flat, so we have no excuse not to go (those of you who knew where we lived in relation to North Sydney FF will not be surprised).
Okay, down to business.
We joined our Perugia gym in an attempt to reverse some of the kilograms of fun we’ve had since we left home and to make sure they don’t multiply.
So far, after a week and a day, it’s had no effect on the scales (weighed ourselves yesterday to find the kaygees are still attached), but it has made us feel better.
It’s also, quite surprisingly, turned out to be a great cultural adventure.
You see, Italians have a very different attitude to the gym, and exercise in general, than most Australians do.
Even before the temperature dropped to a high of seven degrees, one never saw Italians out in the fresh air doing vigorous exercise.
Sure they love the passeggi'ata, or the promenading stroll up and down the main street while holding a gelato at almost any time of day.
But you just don’t see power walkers or joggers.
Same goes for the gym.
When it’s packed, most of the goers are there, spending five minutes on the bike, then the cross trainer then the treadie. They then spend another hour-and-a-half gossiping as they move from weight machine to weight machine.
Of course there are some Italians who are there to train.
But it’s sometimes hard to tell the difference.
They all want to use the equipment exactly when they want to use the equipment.
There’s no time restrictions posted, so we’ve just started using the stuff for a moderate period of time each session, say 20 or 30 minutes a go.
But Italians, many of whom use the equipment for the same kind of times, don’t like to wait.
As a result they take the type of action we’ve NEVER seen before.
Basically, they have no compunction about tapping you on the shoulder as you are huffing and puffing along on the treadmill or bike, and saying, “Quanto tempo?” or “How long have you got to go?”
Or they stand about five centimeters from you and wait and wait and wait.
The first time it happened Mantha nearly fell off the treadmill before almost smacking the guy in the mouth.
But it pretty much occurs every day now and we’re used to it.
It’s not personal, it’s just the Italian way.
And it makes for a fun-filled action-packed gym session, which actually fly by with all the entertainment on offer.

Ps. Olympic Palestra is the only gym we’ve ever seen with numerous prominently displayed Vietato Fumare or No Smoking signs.

Italian for beginners

2006-10-29T02:39:00.000+11:00

The first thing to remember about the Italian language is that it has two modes of address for the second person singular – the informal “tu” and the formal “Lei”.
To complicate matters. “Lei” can also be used for the third person feminine singular, although when being used in this mode it is represented with a lowercase “l” as in “lei”, but is conjugated in the same way. So too, “lui” – the third person singular masculine – keeps the same conjugation as “Lei” and “lei”, but only in the present tense.
If you hadn’t already noticed, Italian can be complicated.
The language – which officially became known as Italian in 1870 – is actually based on Tuscan and Umbrian Italian with a good dose of other regions’ dialects thrown in for good measure. Perugia is supposed to be an excellent place to learn Italian because the Perugina dialect is very close to the national lingua which means you get practice.
So, apart from its complicated history and complex conjugation, learning Italian is fun because the University Per Stranieri – the University for Foreigners – or literally The University for Strangers - is fun, or at least it’s interesting.
Stranieri, as the University is endearingly known around town, runs courses in Italian.
It also does an excellent sideline in Italian bureaucracy 101.
Successfully enrolling requires a mix of planning, energy and tenacity, a dash of assertiveness, a pinch of charm and a dollop of luck ….. and that’s even before you’ve started the never ending schlepping to the bank, the segretariat and the questura (police station) - if you want to stay in Italy legally.
Once you’ve got your marco de bollo – that’s the adorable postage stamp-like tax payment receipt – affixed to your enrollment form and been handed a timetable, it’s finally time to start class.
We either had the good fortune or made the mistake of enrolling in a one month Stranieri class, which we later found out meant three months of work was crammed into one month.
We declined to sit the entry examination and therefore should have proceeded into the Beginners A1 class.
We figured a refresher in “Mi chiamo….” Or “My name is….” wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
Wrong!
Even though the rules clearly state we should have been in Beginners A1, we somehow ended up in Beginners A2 (we think the woman who enrolled us in the segretariat thought she was doing us a favour, and well, maybe she was but then again ….. well we’re not entirely convinced!)
So off we go to Beginners A2.
Once there we find we are the only native English speakers (not a bad thing we think) surrounded by loads of Spaniards, a couple of Belgiums, a few Germans, a chick from the Czech Republic and a Japanese guy who is studying to become a priest.
Most of the Europeans are what’s called Erasmus students – which means they are studying at Perugia’s normal Italian university (they have one too) on a European Union scholarship. Perugia has lots of these Erasmus students.
Our teachers are Francesca – for conversation and pronunciation – and Antonella for grammar.
We spend our first week reviewing the present tense and then move onto the passata prossima, or the recent past. The next week we’re learning the future, a day later it’s time for direct object pronouns and then we are onto the passata indirecto or the indirect past – for which there are a long list of terms and conditions to learn about when it’s appropriate to use.
Sandwiched in between these large chunks of grammar are loads of new vocabulary as well as about a thousand irregular verbs and lists to learn on their conjugations. There are also personal pronouns as well as other adjectives that can be conjugated similarly to personal pronouns but are in fact not pronouns.
You get the picture. We covered a load of new material in four weeks.
Now, maybe we’re naïve (or just delusional), but we’ve both done our fair share of Beginners’ Italian classes.
Italian was not brand new to us.
It was, however, new to almost all our European classmates.
Why then were they able to speak it so much better and with oh-so-much-more ease than us.
Well, here’s the answer as explained to Alex by Julian (or shoolien) from Belgium.
“Yeah, I know I should probably be doing more study, but it’s really all just too easy. If I don’t know a word I just add an “o” or an “a” to the French word and it’s almost always right.”
It took Alex about a week to recover from that little bombshell.
So there you have it. Even after busting our guts with hours of extra study everyday, attempts to memorise verbs and vocab, we’re never going to be able to simply add as “o” or an “a” to words in our native tongue and get the Italian.
To be honest Julian’s secret made us feel a whole lot better about our failure to keep up with the class.
Having said that, we did have a snicker when one of our teachers asked if anyone in our class liked Italian desserts such as tiramisu.
Overwhelmingly the answer was: “What, is tiramisu Italian?”
Who are these people?

ps. it probably doesn't help our case to admit we usually study with a verb book in one hand and a Peroni in another. Is that bad?

Ciao Ragazze

2006-10-29T02:37:00.000+11:00

Apparently Perugia is under threat.
From what you may ask, as we did.
Well, according to Antonella, our Italian grammar teacher, too many foreign girls are getting engaged to Italian boys.
This is why there are so many local girls who don’t have boyfriends, she continues seriously.
But why can’t the Italian girls take up with the foreign boys, surely that would be a solution? we think.
Oh no, it’s too hard for the girls, Antonella says.
The “stranieri” culture is too different. They only want to be with Italian boys, with Perugini boys actually, she says.

Italians have made being a closed society into a social phenomenon.
Here, it’s always your family first, your contrada (or neighborhood) second, your town third, you region fourth and Italy fifth.
It’s an attitude that can rear its head in some unexpected and sometimes ugly ways.
The often violent pushing and shoving to get on a bus or train first; the shameless queue jumping or the refusal to yield to anyone when walking down the street (ie, if there’s a group of five Italians they will walk five abreast and force all other comers onto the road and often into the path of oncoming traffic!)

Having said that, Perugia is actually a relatively open city.
With more than 10,000 students (both Italian and foreign) here at any one time, it’s in the best interests of the shop keepers, café owners and bartenders to serve us.
But they don’t all have to be welcoming.
Take the morning cappuccino.
We started going to “our” bar, at the foot of our street and on the way to Stranieri about a month ago.
For the first week-and-a-half we got greeted with a gruff “Dica Singorina” literally “Tell me Miss” (as in tell me what you want).
Then one day, quite miraculously, after a week-and-a-half of fronting up every day and asking for the same thing, our barista greeted us with “Ciao Ragazze” literally (Ciao girls) and prepared our usual (due cappuccini) with no order necessary.
She’s even started smiling at us now.
Who knows, maybe this time next month we would have graduated to “Come stai?”

Buon Compleano mia sorella

2006-10-24T06:59:00.000+10:30

So today I get free reign of the blog.
As you may know I am not really allowed “to write the blog”. Yes, it is meant to be “our blog” but Manth really is the writer and I’m good at “other stuff.” (Already, Manth would have a problem with the number of inverted commas and capitals I’ve used… and she’ll still have to sub it before it’s published!)

So today is “her birthday” or in Italy “suo compleano”. Fittingly, I granted Manth three wishes and here is how she chose to use them...

Wish #1. Do not mention my birthday to our Italian class!!
I understood why especially because our class has an average age of 21 and the next obvious question would be, “How old are you?” The last time we answered that question one of our fellow students said “…wow, no… really?”
We are still not sure if this was meant to flatter or offend.

Wish #2. I wanna have Prosecco with lunch!!
Easy peasy japanese. We always have Prosecco in the fridge and always drink with lunch. Today is not that different to yesterday or the day before that or probably tomorrow! (is that bad?)

Wish #3. Don’t get me any presents!!
Ok… if you insist. I tried…really I did.
It just wasn’t that successful.
After standing in a bookshop for 30 minutes while all the Italians got served first when it finally came to my turn to buy the book I was holding I also thought I might be able to buy a birthday card, so I asked “Avete buon compleano carte?” or “Do you have happy birthday cards?”
Well clearly this is a very odd question in a liberia or bookshop because immediately a search was done of the store catalogue – surprisingly there was no book called “Buon Compleano carte”!

Ok, well that’s it from me… I promise not to write again.

In Baci we trust

2006-10-23T05:43:00.000+10:30

Grown men push children out of the way in order to snag a couple of free biscuits, grandparents trample tourists as they surge forward to collect miniscule sample bags of chocolate and school children aren’t afraid to kick and punch in their quest for a tiny taste of complimentary iced tea.
Welcome to Perugia’s annual Eurochocolate festival.
From October 13 to 22, the little town of Perugia is transformed into ground zero for chocolate lovers.
Or at least that’s how it used to be.
Eurochocolate is now more trade show and selling opportunity than traditional Italian food festa.
Sure, it still manages to attract some artisans and a handful of experts to talk and tempt.
But there’s really not a lot of tasting going on.
And the people manning the dozens of stalls are more likely to work for big companies like Perugina and Ferrero than the local craftsman.
It’s a big event though, only rivaled by June’s Umbria Jazz which funnels hundreds of thousands of music lovers into the city.
Eurochocolate has an extraordinary effect on tiny Perugia, swelling its 150,000 strong population to more than double on weekends and attracting in excess of a million people to its tiny main street over the weeklong festival.
Visually, it’s a spectacle to behold.
In Piazza November IV, next to the lovely Fontana Maggiore, Perugina sets up a giant walkthrough Baci, roughly the same size as the Pisano-designed fountain, while Lindt has a circus tent tendering samples to the impatiently waiting hordes of daytrippers forming five competing and disorderly queues outside.
Perugina also released a new Baci in time for this year’s Eurochocolate.
But do you think they gave any away to interested observers?
No way, they sold them in boxes of 12 for triple the price of normal Baci.
We’ll stick with the original and best thanks very much.

Mammoni Mio!!

2006-10-18T06:09:00.000+10:30

Italian men have a reputation for passion, romance and well, yes, sleaziness.
But there’s more to these Ferrari loving, spaghetti slurping, sometime fashion plates than meets the eye as we discovered one late summer Saturday night in Perugia when we suddenly found ourselves dinning with a couple of likely lads.
We say suddenly because it was just that.
One moment we’re minding our own business, standing in the queue for Pizza Mediterranea – the best pizzeria in Perugia – and the next, we’re at a table for four with our new Italian friends – Luigi and Fabrizio.
We admit it.
We were charmed by these Italian stallions.
They asked us about ourselves.
They seemed interested.
And they really really wanted to have dinner with us.
And why not, we thought.
So that’s how we found ourselves hunkered down with a beer each (well we had a beer each but Fabrizio opted for that most sexy of Italian drinks – acqua minerale).
The conversation progressed well.
They refused, in general, to speak to us in English, so we were forced to use our (very bad) Italian.
We talked about which pizza we would order (apparently funghi has a reputation for upsetting tummies!?), then about Italy and Australia before the real fun started and we moved onto what each of us did.
Luigi, obviously spotting his golden opportunity, reached into his pocket, fished out his mobile phone and proffered it to us with a proud look on his face.
Looking down, we understood immediately.
Luigi was not a wage slave.
He had his own business and here was a mobile phone photo snapshot of his very own optometrist shop.
Now that he mentioned it, he was wearing a great pair of glasses
Fabrizio, on the other hand, launched into a detailed story about how he had been “in insurance” with his father and brother but was now (insert amazingly proud smile here) a tax auditor for the Ministry of Finance and waved around a business card to prove it..
An optometrist and a bureaucrat ….these boys were getting more appealing by the minute.
We moved onto the topic of travel.
Yes, they agreed, we, and Australians in general, travel a lot.
They, on the other hand, were now too busy and important to take holidays very often and when they did they usually went to Sardinia.
But Luigi could remember a time, before he started his optometry business, when he spent four weeks in Chicago staying with the father of a school friend.
He’d love to go back to the United States, but it wouldn’t be the same if he had to stay in a hotel.
He’d also spent a week in Morocco.
Wow, we said and asked him what he thought of it, remembering our own adventures in Marrakech, Tangiers, Rabat and Fez.
“Oh I didn’t really leave the Club Med much”, he said.
He’d won the holiday at an optometrist convention.
We swear this is true.
The conversation continued and Luigi lent forward to ask: “Who did you live with in Australia before you came here”.
We explained that we had lived together, but before that had lived with flatmates or alone.
“How about you,” we asked.
There was silence at the table.
Both men turned a deep shade of pink.
Turns out, they both live with their parents.
We had just met our first “mammoni”.
That’s the Italian slang for grown men who live at home with mamma.
But it’s more than a descriptor for cheap rent.
It implies they get meals made to order, all washing, cleaning and ironing done for free.
It also implies they are reminded on a daily basis that they are the centre of the universe and completely indulged.
Luigi and Fabrizio were nice enough fellows. Each of them had three scooters and a car (Fabrizio had two cars, while Luigi actually had a child and an ex-wife too – he showed us a photo of his son on the mobile phone, but only after showing us his shop first).
But they were both on the wrong side of 35 (actually closer to 40).
Still, we got digits (that’s for you Leah and Anna)
And we didn’t get some impersonal business card.
We got a pen advertising the optometrist shop and featuring Luigi’s work number AND a piece of scrap paper with both mobile numbers (see above) accompanied by repeated pleas to call.
Yeah right.
If we wanted to go out with optometrists and accountants we would have stayed at home (no offence intended)/
Thank god the pizza was excellent.

Paparazzi in Perugia

2006-10-17T00:53:00.000+10:30

So….. we are now sheepishly willing to concede that there’s a slight possibility the man with the speed boat in Venice might not have been exactly who we thought he was (thank you everyone who sent sms’, emails and messages of disbelief, they are duly noted; as are the notes of support from those who saw what we saw!).
Still, we’re determined not to let one celebrity mis-spotting incident ruin it for everyone.
So, armed with our trusty point-and-shoot digicamera and buoyed by the knowledge and life experience of our ever resourceful visiting parental units, we set off one sunny day to try our luck on Perugia’s paparazzi trail and what do you know …...

Okay, okay, that’s not exactly what happened.
MnD met us in Perugia, where we have finally arrived, found a great little flat (after a bit of a disastrous false start – but that’s another story) and started Italian classes.
As a bit of an aside, let’s just be clear that we are at the bottom of what’s supposed to be the beginners two class.
In fact, sometimes we have to take turns giving each other little pep talks after class as our multi-lingual, almost overwhelming European classmates continue to pull further and further ahead of us, the lone native English speakers.
In truth we seem to spend much of the class shrugging our shoulders and trying, in vain, to puzzle out the recent past tense and possessive pronouns while our classmates move onto the future tense and complex sentences. (And we’d just like to take this opportunity to thank Mr Terry Metheral for allowing us NOT to learn grammar in primary school….. really helpful when you want to learn a new language).

But moving on...
To be honest, Italian class is pretty great and we are loving Perugia and had a load of fun with MnD before they left us to return to the luxury of Rhodes Waterside.
But something strange happened while they were still living it up at the Sangallo Palace here with us. Perugia fell ill with a very particular type of infection ….. “Il Boss” fever.
For those of you unfamiliar with this complaint, it can be described as a condition in which the entire town goes crazy for a certain American 80s singing sensation who made his name banging on about where he was born (that’s in the USA) and “Dancing in the Dark” with a future Friends’ star (that’s Courtney Cox-Arquette for any of you too old or two young – or just too smart – to have spent your formative years watching Video Hits every Saturday morning.)

Anyway, so for a while in Perugia it was all about Bruce Springsteen aka The Boss aka Il Boss when in Italy.
He performed in Perugia, at the local open air local athletic field no less.
We managed to listen to two songs (none of which were the two we knew) before we got a bit bored of it (you could hear, but not see it, from parts of the city).
And that would have been enough for us.
But our cup overfloweth because the very next day after the gig, we were going around our business (that’s drinking cappuccino or sipping the vino, we forget which) when MnD spotted a fan scrum (no media in sight) outside Perugia’s lone five-star hotel.
Alex took off with her camera, stuck her elbows out and pushed her way into the centre of the ruck from where she managed to get, amongst all the excitement, photos of the man himself.
Now, don’t tell us you are not excited about this.
And don’t tell us this isn’t Bruce Springsteen (although we weren’t entirely sure which one was the rockstar and which one was the bodyguard at first…. until we saw the goatee).
So there you have it, yet another piece of celebrity life captured by us. And you all thought nothing happened in Perugia!

We saw Brad Pitt

2006-10-01T00:27:00.000+10:30

There’s no other way to say this.
We saw Brad Pitt in Venice
We can’t tell you exactly where it was.
But that’s not because we’re trying to protect Brad, Angelina and their brood of Benetton ad-like children (whose names we can’t remember except Maddox from Vietnam ….. erm or is he the one from the Sudan).
No, we can’t tell you exactly where Brad was because we aren’t actually sure ourselves.
You see, it was really hot …. no, it was sweltering hot.
And we were a bit tired after a full day in the city of canals.
We’d just been on a tour of the Jewish Ghetto (which was actually really great and so interesting).
So, as you can imagine, it was the most we could do to get out the camera and take this shot of him getting his boat ready to go and pick up the family (all the time saying to each other: “oh my god”, “is it?”, “could it be?”, “it is!”, “take the photo!”, “I’m trying” and “wouldn’t he have someone to do that for him?”)
So you see, we’ve got actual photographic proof that we saw Brad Pitt in Venice.
Who wouldn’t recognize that chiseled jaw line and lithe physique?
And unless anyone can prove he was somewhere else on September 28, 2006 (or has recently grown some distinctive facial hair for a new film part) then we think you’ll all agree that it is indeed Brad Pitt, in Venice, the same day we were there, just ten metres from us.
We should also say that we are willing to entertain the possibility of selling this picture to a women’s magazine complete with an accompanying story (quoting a “source close to Brad”). We’re willing to consider magazine input on the angle because we got A LOT of good stuff. Oh, and let’s be clear about this, the picture and yarn go to the highest bidder (like we said, we’re not interested in protecting Brad, Angelina and their kiddies).

The home of Romeo and Juliet an expensive city maketh

2006-10-01T00:24:00.000+10:30

Fair Verona is a lovely northern Italian town.
A couple of hours on a slow train from ridiculously expensive Venice and a couple of hours from the apparent gastronomic delights of Modena, we decided to make this pretty Shakespearean worshipping city our base for a bit of exploration of the Veneto and Emilia Romagna regions.

But first, lets turn to those star-crossed lovers that (let’s face it) are complete fiction and have completely taken over the otherwise charming town of Verona.
At the risk of sounding a bit too “bah humbug” about all this, we paid our €12, got our Verona card, visited the Casa del Guilietta, touched the left breast of her bronze statue that’s supposed to bring luck (how this works when the statue was only installed in 1972 we’re still not sure), had a photo on her balcony and even went to her tomb.
And on the way we saw thousands of tourists who are clearly devoted to the theme.
It’s interesting, because the Romeo and Juliet shtick this town has got going clearly attracts the crowds, but there’s no doubt, Verona is a fabulous place to visit on its own merits (thanks all the same Will Shakespeare).
We loved the Roman Amphitheatre – the third biggest in the world seating 20,000 people. It’s smack bang in the centre of town and is actually Verona’s open air opera house.
We adored the Castelvecchio (ancient fortress) with its crenellated walls and views out over the river Adige, not to mention its wonderful art, fresco and statue collection.
We also ate exceptionally well in Verona (I’m sure you’re all shocked at that). Sure, it was more expensive than we are maybe used to, but this is northern Italy after all and we even got to sample polenta (which in English they unappetizingly describe as rice porridge).

Our first day trip from Verona was of course to Venice.
There are no superlatives that have not already been used to describe that extraordinary city.
For us it was an important trip to make some new pleasant memories of a place that wasn’t much fun last time we were there (January 1999, accommodation at a bleak campsite on Mestre where we were stranded for half of our three day stay because either it was Sunday and the bus didn’t run or it was too foggy to get the boat across to Venice).
This time around, the sun was shinning, the canals sparkling and the tourists out in force. We had a quick look at Piazza San Marco then got as far away from the other tourists as possible, strolled around, got lost and went to the ghetto area.
We also sampled a drink called a Spritz (forget the Bellini, this is the typical drink of the Veneto), which is now our new favourite aperitivo.
It’s prosecco, a dash of bitters (campari or aperol) and topped up with soda water. Served with an olive garnish.

Our second day trip was to Modena. Just as Perugia is the home of Baci chocolates, Modena is the home of balsamic vinegar.
It also has a very pretty old town, and a tower that leans (yep, like Pisa, but a couple of degrees less).
Arriving at Modena we planned to climb the tower, visit a couple of the apparently very impressive buildings and see the Town Hall before buying some balsamic vinegar (for you dear brother) and then perhaps sipping some Lambrusco (yes, don’t laugh this is an expensive, respected wine in The Veneto) before wandering around a bit more.
The reality of Modena was a bit different.
We arrived. Made it to the Old City. Had a coffee. Found the tourist office, where the woman silently handed us a map which apparently meant we should be on our way.
We visited the cathedral (very nice) and then went to present ourselves for tower climbing duties (we love a tower, actually we love anything that involves climbing and a view).
But we became a bit confused when we (at first) couldn’t find the door to the tower climb, and then (finally) found the door but discovered it was locked.
Back to the tourist office where the unapologetic woman there told us all tourist sites in Modena ONLY open on Sundays. Okay then, not that much for us to do.
We then walked around the very small city three times (during one circuit we located the synagogue) and then picked an argument with each other because there was nothing else to do.
The argument settled (it wasn’t interesting either) we found a bar, drank some lambrusco at 12.05pm and then went to look at the Balsamic vinegar shop.
The vinegars looked good, but there is apparently no saving to buying aged balsamic in Modena as opposed to Australia so …. Sorry Jas, no vinegar.
Maybe next time, if we go back on a Sunday and feel a bit more inspired (but let’s face it, probably not gonna happen).

Once more back to the bright lights of Madrid….

2006-10-01T00:15:00.000+10:30

(where we meet the Spanish masters, visit all but one Camper shop on our last day in Madrid, get discriminated against by Iberian airlines and are reminded of our old hostelling days - and not in a good way – on our return to Roma.)

Ahhh Madrid
A city packed with fried and salty goodness. A town flowing with light crisp beer. And an economy bolstered by five (count them five) shops devoted to Camper – first among shoe makers – and countless Zara superstores – champion of women everywhere.

Arriving back in Madrid for our final three days in Spain, we mapped out an itinerary designed to let us get to know this behemoth of a city.
We’d spent just one short afternoon and night here at the beginning of our trip and now we had three full days to really develop our relationship.

First things first, we set off to get our fill of Spain’s premiere fine art museum - The Prado - and to stand and marvel at the genius of El Greco, Velazquez and of course, the dark and sometimes scary Goya (we especially like the one where Saturn bites the head of his son….. he captured the gory red of the blood very well).

Out and about in Madrid we stumbled on some very cool areas too.
We stayed in the tourist friendly, but still somewhat authentic- feeling Plaza Santa Ana.
But we also spent time wandering around the ultra hip Cheuca district (also the home of Alex’s dark mustard suede mid length wedge heel Camper boots, which she found in a non-Camper shop for a bargain price).

Later we set off on a pilgrimage to locate another newly discovered Spanish shoe brand (we’re calling it as the next Camper) called Hakei. Sounds Japanese, but it’s a San Sebastian brand, reasonably priced, and they have a large range including boots, ballet shoes, low heeled and high heeled shoes as well as clothes and bags.
This project took us to the posh area of Madrid and then onto the city’s answer to Central Park, complete with massive lake and row boats.

There’s never enough time for shopping and our final day in Madrid saw us embark on a mercy dash to four of the city’s five Camper shops to locate Mantha’s dream boots (last size 40 in the capital).
After formulating and perfectly executing an elaborate Madrid metro hopping itinerary, we got the shoes (calve-length charcoal and grey suede boots with kitten heel).
We even made it back to our hotel, stuffed in said shoes and got to the airport with three hours to spare before our flight to Rome.

Sounds perfect right? But you know there’s always a catch and unfortunately, three hours is just not early enough to get a seat on an overbooked Iberian plane when the powers that be have already determined that you are not worthy.
Even though we were among the first from our plane to check in, the helpful Iberian Airlines check-in woman informed us that we did not have seats because the airline had sold ten percent more tickets than they actually have and we would therefore have to wait until the flight closed (twenty minutes before take off) to find out if there was room for us. Apparently, the bonus was to be an upgrade to business class should we actually make the flight or a regular economy seat on the next flight (three hours later!) should we not.
No matter how many times we try to solve the puzzle of why we were deemed unworthy of a seat (even though we booked our ticket seven months in advance and paid top-dollar for it) we remain at a loss.
Still, the next “helpful” Iberian woman (at the “waiting list” desk) finally gave us the good news that yes, we would be able to fly on our plane, but, alas, we would not be able to sit together.
Oh, and forget the business class sweetener, that must have been a language misunderstanding!
So we board and find our seats.
Alex is in row seven (aisle) and Mantha in row 32 (middle). It’s a totally packed plane so we are still feeling relatively thankful just to be “allowed “on our flight.
Our feelings take a wild change in direction however when it becomes apparent the “helpful” “waiting list” woman decided to sit another “waiting list” punter (who presented at the counter AFTER us) next to Alex when she could have just sat us together.
Nice one Iberian Airlines. Don’t think we’ll be flying with you again.

The good news is we made it back to Roma in one piece (and amid lots of clapping from the Spanish and Italians on board who had to be told ten times to sit down until the plane came to a complete stop).
Apart from obviously getting what we paid for, being allowed on our flight also meant we were still able to make it to our budget accommodation at the YMCA in Rome (close to termini, but on the “right” side on the station) which shuts up shop at midnight.
It had been a bit of a miracle to find the accommodation in the first place so we decided to chance it and put up with a shared bathroom for just one night.
Bad idea.
After a lovely dinner of pizza (oh how we’d missed you) and un litro di vino rosso (“it’s just so drinkable”) we go back to the YMCA and the reality of sharing toilets and showers hits us. It’s made all that more fun when there are some trouble makers who insist on sitting outside our room, smoking and banging on our (unlockable door).
To call it a fabulous night just doesn’t describe the joy.
As we made an early start the next day to Italy’s affluent north we didn’t just schlep our backpacks (now swollen with Campers) but also carried with us the knowledge that once you leave the dorm room and the shared bathroom, you can NEVER go back.

And the winner is ....... Granada

2006-09-24T04:42:00.000+10:30

For early mornings, cleanliness, exceptional public transport (except for one bus driver who forgot to tell us to get off at the train station, nearly causing us to miss our train to Madrid) and the best tapas, the award goes to Granada.
Home of the Alhambra and its breathtaking Moorish palace, fortress and gardens, Granada is quite simply wonderful.
But to be honest, it probably would have been just as amazing had we not had to get up at 6am.
And perhaps, just this once, we might have done well to cast aside our mantra of “don’t overplan” which would have allowed us to go online two weeks earlier and book one of the 6,000 tickets available to the Alhambra.
Obviously we didn’t do this (because we hadn’t bothered to do our research) and by the time we realized tickets to the Alhambra were a necessity, well, the tickets had sold out.
But just when we thought the worst, the optimistic woman at the Granada tourist office informed us that all was not lost.
Apparently a number of extra tickets go on sale every day from 8.30am.
“But get there early,” she warned, “really early, seven or earlier”.
Like a red rag to a bull, we took up the challenge and set our alarm clocks (yes, there’s more than one), dragged ourselves out of bed at 6am, and took off for the bus stop.
The first bus of the day miraculously ran on time and we somehow found ourselves at the entrance to the Alhambra.
Even better, our shame at failing to secure tickets ahead of time faded completely when we turned up and found 100 other people in the queue ahead of us.
By the time the ticket office opened at 8.30 there was close to 800 non planners patiently waiting in line.
We can’t speak for everyone, but we certainly got tickets and it was definitely worth the early start (even if it did turn our brains a bit to mush as is evident in our series of “where’s wally?” or in this case “where’s alex in her signature pink t-shirt” photos one of which is above.)

Pub crawling with a difference

Granada is home of the liquid dinner.
But it’s not what you think.
While it’s true we ordered a lot of drinks on our last night in Granada, we also managed to eat for free.
While tapas elsewhere in Spain has been delectable, what was on offer in Granada was all the more impressive because it was always complimentary when you bought a drink.
And it wasn’t just some sad olives or a plate of less than fresh potato chips.
At one bar we got a wonderfully vinegary seafood salad, at the next an incredibly generous helping of saffron-scented paella, while another bodega provided little rolls stuffed with tuna and roasted red capsicum before we finished off the night with tostadas topped with tender roast lamb.
Talk about a pub crawl with bite!

Sweet Malaga

2006-09-24T04:33:00.000+10:30

If Malaga were an ice cream it would be rum and raison.
The capital of Spain’s tourist coast, the Costa del Sol, Malaga is like a sweet surprise package that delivered a new treat around every corner and left us with a very pleasant after taste.
It was a gamble of a destination to begin with.
Neither of us knew much about it and the guidebook was non committal about the town’s merits.
But it was a good halfway point between Gibraltar and Granada so we decided to take a punt.
And it paid off.
With an exceptionally pretty old town and an impressive new museum devoted to the town’s prodigal son – no less than Pablo Picasso, Malaga has a sophisticated air about it, but a heart made for fun.
It was also an incredibly welcoming town and we had no problem finding a bodega at which to sip our evening manzanilla.
Even better, we got to experience the flush of making a wonderful local discovery when we stumbled across a restaurant called La Casa del Perro (literally The House of the Dog, but according to the owner it’s also a play on words about fidelity….. hmmmm a bit deep for the likes of us).
We returned to our friends at this unique restaurant for dinner twice during out stay (a first for us) to gorge on their contemporary take on Spanish food, which included “little bites” instead of tapas, followed by larger sharing plates all divided into vegetarian, fish and meat (which made avoiding the jamon incredibly easy).

No, we're not in Slough

2006-09-20T01:47:00.000+10:30

Red telephone boxes, British mail, Marks and Spencers and Bobbies on the beat.
No, we didn’t duck over to Slough for a flying visit, but found a slice of the old country, complete with a fish and chip obsession and plentiful percy pigs (see photos), at the parallel universe that is the British external territory of Gibraltar.
A place like no other we’ve ever been too, Gib, with its offers of tea with scones and fried bread for breakfast, is almost more English than England.
And it boasts dozens of pubs, way more than it can possibly need when the island itself measures just five kilometers at its widest point.
Still, the English know a thing or two about beer and who are we to argue, especially when a swift half is just the thing on a steaming day.
But Gibraltar’s not all about being a quaint mini version of Mother England.
It has its own personality too (albeit one that comes out after the hoards of English day trippers in their football jerseys have gone home).
Apart from its attraction as a duty free shopping destination, Gib also has a distinctly international feel to it.
Separated from Spanish Andalusia by a bridge and located just across the straits from Morocco (you can see North Africa from the top of the cable car-accessible Rock) tiny Gib is a cultural melting pot where English, Arabic and Spanish culture co-exist.
And if that stew isn’t spicy enough, Gib also adds a dollop more flavour with its sizeable Jewish population, descendent from Genoese Jews who came to the Rock in the 18th Century.
We also hear that Gibraltar is looking for new residents right now. So for any of you single Jewish gals out there who like a bit of tapas (it’s just minutes from Spain) and are looking for a holiday atmosphere all year round, well Gibraltar might just be the untapped market for you.
Cheers big ears.

Thinque Therveza por favor

2006-09-16T01:13:00.000+10:30

BIG dinners, three bottles of wine per meal, a beer at midday and another couple with lunch, constant snacking, shopping, shmying and more shopping, a bit of walking, a bit more shopping, museums, gardens, lets-have-a-sit-down and it starts again.
Free accommodation, washing every day, afternoon siestas and a bit more fresing, being ordered to “put your money away” amid calls of “Are we there yet” and “I want paella”.
Nothing beats meeting up with your parents when you’re traveling.
Pre-Seville, we ate sparingly, saved our euros for a drink at the end of the day, self-catered lunches of bread rolls (that’s rools for Yael), tomatoes and maybe a bit of cheese if the budget allowed it.
But this week, we’ve eaten out every meal, except when we opted for a homemade feast of Spanish delicacies to be enjoyed in our air-conditioned grand apartment in central Seville.
We’ve had lots of fun with M&D too.
Who could forget our visit to the Alcazar – the mosque slash church slash palace with immaculate gardens.
It was all very interesting and informative until we found the courtyard of pillars and talked the parental units into some ridiculous poses (see above).
We’ve taken them on walks which turned into pub crawls.
We’ve been to restaurants and tapas bars where we were told to order “whatever you want” as long as you get me a “bit of meat” (remember Jamon is an animal with cloven hooves that chews the cud).
Now, as our Seville adventure draws to a close, we are reflecting on what a lovely time we’ve had here.
It’s been “stinking hot” to borrow a phrase, but its also been the most fabulous week of our trip so far “can you believe we’re all here in Seville, Robyn, I would never have thought we’d all be here in Spain together”.
How lucky we are that we get to do it all again in three weeks when M&D meet up with us again in Perugia, Italy.
Imagine the fun we’ll have when the prodigal daughters can actually speak the language. We might actually manage to order some food we actually want!
As they say in Spain: “Ole”.

El Toro

2006-09-16T00:14:00.000+10:30

Dashing matadors dressed in sparkling outfits, stoic picadors and their armour-clad horses, swirling pink capes and the mournful call of the trumpets.
A Spanish bullfight would be the perfect spectacle if only they didn’t have to torture and kill the bull.
Unfortunately that’s just not possible.
Without wanting to condemn this wildly popular Spanish tradition, which we are the first to confess we don’t really understand, we must admit that once was definitely enough.
In fact, Mantha, Alex and Mum would probably never have gone at all, except that Dad was so keen. When someone says it’s their lifelong ambition to see a bullfight, well who are we to stand in the way.
So on a sweltering Sunday evening, off we toddled to the Plaza de Toros Da La Real Maestranza – commonly known as Seville’s bullring.
It’s not really bullfighting season, but Seville, being a centre of the sport (?) continues to stage (?) bullfights on Sundays even outside the major bullfighting festivals (?).
Arriving at the bullring with our €30 tickets in hand, we somehow manage to rent €1 cushions (the bullrings “seats” are hard stone) and find our seats in the shade before it’s time for the show to begin.
It’s lovely and exciting to start.
The matadors, picadors, the horses and officials all come into the ring to the sound of a brass band and present themselves to Seville’s mayor who is ensconced in the presidents’ box – the best seat in the house.
But then, before any of us is really prepared, it starts.
The first bull comes galloping into the ring, the matadors tease it a bit by swirling their pink capes and then dashing behind the wooden ballasts that serve as small entranceways to the ring.
It doesn’t take an expert to realize that no one is going to get hurt at this stage.
Soon, we spot a procession making its way into the ring. Two picadors on horseback clutching long lancers. The horses, to our horror are blindfolded, but much to our relief they are covered in armour.
It’s then that things rapidly start going down hill.
Without going too far into the horrifying details, each bullfight includes a lot of jousting with real weapons, dancing, of a sort, stabbing, lots of blood and some very traumatized bulls who are subjected to the most disturbing systematic torture and eventual death.
We are well aware that we only saw one matador who came any where close to showing what must be considered real skill.
His efforts attracted a standing ovation and white-hanky waving frenzy from the crowd. Even the bull seemed to do die with some dignity during this fight.
But the others, sadly, came across simply as heartless butchers who couldn’t even kill a bull humanely.
After four bullfights and four dead bulls, we started to get the message.
The bull always dies and usually it’s a painful traumatic death.
We’d seen enough.

The Spanish apartment

2006-09-12T04:10:00.000+10:30

Scene One:
A busy street. Saturday afternoon shoppers going about their business in the 38 degree heat of Seville. Streets lined with shops and restaurants.
The Baden sisters have shrugged off their 18 kilo backpacks in front of an apartment building after consuming two beers in an hour at a nearby bar while they wait for their parents to arrive.
They look up and notice two red smiling red faces pushing their way through the crowd.

Mantha: I can see them. They’re here.
(Takes off running down the street.)

Alex: What about me? I suppose I’ll stay with the bags then.

Mum and Dad arrive outside the apartment on Calle San Elloy where there is a heartfelt reunion between daughters and parents while an elderly man and middle aged woman, who speak no English, look on.
The man and woman, the real estate agent and owner, take the four Badens upstairs to the flat they have rented (with air conditioning) on the first floor.

Scene Two:
A two bedroom flat on Calle San Elloy in Seville.

Elderly man: Olah (and lots of other sentences in Spanish)

Badens (in unison): Olah (and big smiles)

Elderly man: More sentences in Spanish.
Walks around apartment in manner of giving tour to Dad.
Points out air conditioning, bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchen, hot water heater and wags his finger in the air as if to warn dad not to touch it.
Dad and Mantha nod knowingly.

Woman from real estate agent: Speaks in Spanish.
Badens look at her blankly and say Olah.

Woman from real estate agent: Speaks more in Spanish.
Badens look at her even more blankly.
Takes Mum and Alex on tour of flat.
Points out air conditioning, bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchen, hot water heater and wags finger in the air as if to warn not to touch. Mum and Alex nod knowingly.
Woman goes into internal courtyard and picks up hose.
Mantha hides inside in case woman decides to turn it on Badens.
Woman turns on hose and points it at ….. pot plants.
Says something about “manana”.
Alex later looks up word in dictionary and finds it can either mean tomorrow or morning. She nods knowingly.

Money changes hands.
There is much counting of cashola.
There is much discussion about when Badens will leave the flat.
There is much smiling and then elderly man and woman from real estate agent leave.
Badens have no idea what they were talking about, but quite like flat.

Later that day.
Badens eat Tapas for lunch and later find supermarket and buy:
Wine
Rochfort cheese
Spanish cheese
Crackers
Nuts

Which they eat for dinner at 8pm after trying in vain to wait until 10pm to eat Spanish style.

If it’s Friday it must be Spain

2006-09-10T03:37:00.000+10:30

(Including: an academy award winning performance, Roma the second time round, the longest two-and-a-half hour flight on record, Madrid and tapas a go-go)

After two nights being kept awake by ballroom dancing nonas in Pesaro, we decided to call it a day. We’d actually booked for three nights, but decided to leave early after fearing we had somehow become part of the making of Cocoon Three.
To put it bluntly there were elderly people everywhere. Which is fine for them, not so fun for us.

Not wanting the hotel people to get too shirty about us leaving early (they were a little odd) we decided to tell them we’d mixed up our dates and were due to fly to Madrid the next day (okay, it was a white lie, but the hotel wasn’t full and the owners were slightly unpredictable).
It was all very dramatic. Mantha running downstairs to reception in a panic and proclaiming “C’e un problemi” (There is a problems!) in the middle of the breakfast room. They let us go and kept the grumbling to a minimum.

Alex consulted her handy €4 Italian train timetable (aka the Bible) and located the train (s) we needed to make to get back to Roma (there were just two this time). Unsurprisingly when we got to the station the train didn’t exist (we’re getting used to this). We spent the next two hours sitting on a concrete slab in the shade in a park across the road from the station. It was really quite tranquilo until a swarm of stinkbugs decided they wanted to nest in our backpacks.

We arrived back in Roma after about eight hours of traveling (only six of it was actually on public transport the other two was quality time with insects) and by some miracle got ourselves a room back with our favourite nunnies on Via Sistina. The room was only for one night so we moved to Pensione Giusti the following day (also run by nuns but a little more polished and expensive than our no nonsense favourite convent).
One bonus of changing lodgings however, was that we got to stay in a part of Roma we had never visited before, between Piazza Santa Maria in Maggiore and the Equilino. It’s called Monti (we think) and it felt just like a regular Roman inner city suburb, not so many tourists and lots of locals going about their business. A real find.

We used our extra day in Roma to go to Sora Magherita – our favourite family-run Osteria in the Jewish Ghetto where we indulged in the delectable fried goodness of Cacioffi alla Guidea (Jewish style artichokes), handmade fettucine (Alex), handmade gnocchi (Mantha) both in a sauce of cece e pepe e ricotta (parmigiana, pepper and ricotta) Bloody brilliant!.

Our journey to Spain the following day should have been as straightforward as ordering a cappuccino and cornetto con crema for breakfast, but thanks to the ever improving incompetence of Rome Airport it was a certifiable shambles.
We got to the airport early, checked in without incident and went to our gate. Twenty minutes before boarding there was an almost incomprehensible announcement that the flight had been delayed …. for two hours. What a pain, we thought. But no bid deal.
As the time for boarding arrived, our flight number disappeared from the gate to be replaced by others. Eventually, about half an hour after the rescheduled scheduled boarding time we found our flight had moved to another gate - in a totally different part of the airport. How nice of them to tell us.
We found the new gate just in time for the rescheduled rescheduled scheduled boarding time but ended up waiting…. and waiting … and waiting. Almost four hours later (after another half an hour of waiting on board our tiny Iberian plane, we finally took off.
We can only reason that some higher power clearly didn’t want us to leave Italy (and who can blame them).

With no food on board our flight we arrived in Madrid starving. But it wasn’t time to eat yet. No way. First we had to have a full on screaming fight with the hotel we had booked with over the phone.
They spoke no English, we speak no Spanish, they claimed we hadn’t made a reservation, we claimed we had and were the very same booking they had clearly written in their book under the name “SAMM” Australia. Eventually after much too-ing and fro-ing we resolved the problem and landed our room.
Clearly there’s no hard feelings cause we’re going back in a couple of weeks before we fly back to Italy.
Then…. finally …. it was food time. We decided to go into the first place we found, which usually isn’t that smart, but in this case was genius. We somehow ordered dos boccidillos con tortilla y dos cerveza and got two glasses of beer and the BIGGEST baguette sangers stuffed with Spanish omelet we’d ever seen. Exactly what we wanted. A perfect start to our Spanish adventure. How often does that happen?

Waltzing in the streets in Pesaro

2006-09-10T03:31:00.000+10:30

Some choose to sun themselves with the rich and famous on the isle Capri or at one the small towns on the Amalfi Coast.
Others, like us, choose Pesaro.
On the Adriatic, Pesaro by day appears a standard resort town.
It has a picturesque old city, concrete-walled resorts by the sea and thousands of beach umbrellas and banana lounges set up metres from the water.
But at night the real Pesaro reveals itself and god help anyone who isn’t prepared for five thousand rampaging over 60s with a penchant for ballroom dancing and synthesizer music.

We are staying at the grandly named Albergo Leonardo Da Vinci. It’s a three star “resort” where the proprietors speak Italian, German and passable English, which gives an indication of the clientele.
Lots of Italians, lots of Germans and us, the lone English speakers in what feels like a ten kilometer radius, and the youngest guests by about 40 years.
Our room costs €37 per person per night, half board, which, we have discovered, means breakfast and dinner is included.
What a bargain, we thought.
How fantastic, we mused.
We get a “buffet” breakfast and three course dinner every night, even if we were slightly surprised to find that dinner starts at 7.30pm - incredibly early by Italian standards.
On our first night, we decided to turn up about 7.45pm for what will now be known as “the great eating frenzy of Pesaro”.
Entering the dining room fifteen minutes after the advertised start time, the entire hotel population (which is about one fifth full at the moment) were already ensconced inside the canary yellow cavernous eating hall.
Those familiar with Italian menus will already know the meal always starts with antipasti. Accordingly, an extensive selection of crostini, salad, and other starters was already set up on a buffet table in the middle of the room and each had a sizeable portion already removed apparently due to our failure to arrive at the precise dinner start time.
Shown to our table, we were directed to help ourselves from the buffet before ordering a litre of San Genovese red wine , which was brought to our table and clearly labeled with our room number (thanks to the waiter’s trusty green marker pen). This wine was stored in a giant switched off tuckerbox fridge, along with our fellow diner’s leftovers, at the end of the meal apparently so that we could enjoy the last 250 mls during subsequent dinners.
We were also directed to a pencil and piece of typed paper on our table asking us what we would like to eat tomorrow night.
Was this some kind of a vote? Where we about to eat a dinner based on what last night’s guests had ordered? Or had we misunderstood and would they bring out what we nominated tonight?
No mistake, about five minutes into eating our antipasti the waiters started bringing out dishes of pasta (which were not on the list we’d just filled in), which they deposited at our left elbows. We continued to eat out antipasti and salad, but felt the need to speed up.
Five minutes later, the waiters began clearing the pasta dishes, the primi piatti, from other tables. We had yet to begin.
Minutes later, the waiters started bringing out more big plates with what looked like schnitzel and grilled fish.
It was time for secondi and we were still eating antipasti and already suffering extreme food anxiety.
It appeared that no matter what we did, we couldn’t catch up to our neighbours who were all ploughing through their hunks of meat and fish and onto dessert.
In a moment of weakness we gave in to the pressure and started eating the incredibly creamy pasta while still downing the antipasta. As the forkfuls came thick and fast even the waiter could tell we were in trouble and gently suggested that perhaps we wished to skip the secondi and proceed to dessert.
Finally, the voice of reason. But the damage was done.
Dessert – fruit salad or icecream – was inhaled in seconds as the food frenzy continued and our three course dinner was over in half an hour.
It was now 8.15pm and we had nothing left to look forward too except a case of extreme indigestion.
It might be free, but the half-board dinner clearly comes at a price, one that is clearly too expensive for us.
It’s going to be pizza for dinner tonight.

Time on our hands in Urbino

2006-09-10T03:25:00.000+10:30

Most people probably visit Urbino just for a day.
With a population of 6,000, that’s probably enough time to explore the main points of interest, wander the delightful cobblestone streets and discover some “undiscovered” gems.
Not us.
We’ve been here for four days and are starting to understand why the innkeeper kept asking us - “so you’re staying four nights??” when we made the booking.
Still, Urbino’s great.
It doesn’t have that many restaurants or museums - we found one that only opens on Thursday afternoons (we’re saving that one for next time).
And with such a small population, we’ve found ourselves meeting the same people over and over again.
There was the Irish (or she could have been American) tourist with flame-coloured hair who we bizarrely saw in Perugia last week and then almost collided with during our self-improving foray into Renaissance art at the Palazzo Ducale – Urbino’s main attraction.
Then there’s the Italian guy, who’s thing must be lurid-coloured trousers, cause he had red ones on when he was at the table next to us during yesterday’s aperativo hour (he had red wine, we had a great local white with the obligatory stuzzichini).
Today, we saw him again when he sat on a park bench next to us for about two hours, this time wearing green slacks. We devoured the seemingly never-ending Guardian international edition and he read what looked like manga comics (clearly Japanese stuff is cool everywhere, even in Italian backwaters).
There are also the students who we see walking all over town. They’re pretty much invisible during the day, but at night we start seeing them from about 6pm in the town square where they stand around drinking longnecks of Peroni.
About two hours later they saunter off to buy stacks of pizzas (we assume its pizza cause it’s in pizza boxes, but we couldn’t be sure) which they take away (somewhere, we’re not sure where, but they all seem to walk in the same direction).
They’re back again in the main square two hours later. This time drinking more longies. Mysteriously no one seems to ever get drunk.
Well, except the town deros.
They sit on the steps outside the Farmicia and are harmless enough. One has a very mangy Bill Sykes dog, but a very clean looking son.
We saw one of the other deros (also drinking a longneck) disappear for about five minutes this afternoon and when he returned he was holding a very good looking gelato, which he presented amid great fanfare to the kid.
It appears that even the town drunks in Urbino know how to live the good life.

Mi piace Urbino!

2006-09-03T03:03:00.000+10:30

The remote hill town of Urbino is a pain to reach by public transport.
We learned this during our six hour odyssey involving four buses, three trains and an elevator (which wasn’t in our hotel and cost €0.50).
It probably would have taken only an hour-and-a-half to drive the hundred and fifty-odd kilometers from Perugia. But where’s the fun in that right?

Urbino is situated in the hills of Le Marche. It’s a region of Italy bordering Umbria on one side and the azure Adriatic on the other.
Its coast line is a Mecca for European package holiday makers who fly directly into Ancona. Most of them never make it out into the picturesque and largely undiscovered countryside.

Not that we’re complaining.
We haven’t bumped into a single Australian since we arrived here (amazing!), although there’s been a smattering of mostly Italian and European vacationers sharing the cobblestone streets with us.

Urbino is a UNESCO world heritage site and (as the guide book informs us) one of Italy’s best preserved hill towns.
It flourished in the Middle Ages and went on to become a centre for the arts during the Renaissance, no doubt helped along by the fact that its most famous son is none other than Raffaello.
We visited the house where he was born (it’s now a museum). There were lots of Raffaello paintings and a heap completed by his dad (who was also a very famous Renaissance painter).
As we gaped at yet another Madonna con bambino we wondered how these masterpieces had been overlooked by the Uffizi and marveled at how trusting the Casa di Raffaello’s curators were to just leave them hanging on the wall with no supervision.
All was explained when we looked a bit closer and saw that each and everyone one of them was marked “coppia” or copy.
We never would have known the difference, which probably says something uncomplimentary about our art credentials (sorry Annush, but we’re really trying!).

Urbino is yet another Italian university town and this year the school is celebrating its five hundredth year, which makes our unis at home look positively prepubescent.
We arrived right at the beginning of the term and there are hundreds of students pouring into the town, finding accommodation and meeting up with old friends.
We know this because all the action happens in the main square – the unimaginatively named Piazza Republica (every town seems to have one).
We sat in the square for about four hours last night, first sipping Prosecco and then gulping beer while we ate the free stuzzachini brought out by the bar.
We thought all our Chanukahs had come at once when the waitress bought out another entire round of chips, nuts and little pastries when we ordered the second round of drinks (for the grande sum of €4). We of course had to eat the lot and much to our surprise, had to forego dinner. (I bet most of you can’t believe that we missed a meal, but I swear it is!)

Fear not. We still live to eat and our food reconnaissance in Urbino is bearing fruit.
It appears there are two main local specialties here.
The first is a type of pasta called strozzapreti, which the guide book says are delicious worm-like shreds of pasta designed to choke priests (those zany Catholics!!).
We plan to sample some tonight if we can control ourselves when it comes to the aperativo hour and the plentiful stuzzachini.
The other local specialty is called cresco sfogliate (at least that’s how we think it’s spelled). It’s a flat bread, similar to a tortilla, which is basically filled up with mozzarella and tomato or prosciutto (which for those of you who don’t know comes from the prosciutto animal – no relation to the pig!).
Being ever the resourceful travelers we said a polite “no grazie” to the cresco sfogliate on offer from the local bars at €3.50 a pop and hit the supermarcarto to make our own. E viola …. un picnic. We even managed to locate a couple of €0.75 cans of Nastro Azzuro (it’s okay to drink at lunch when you’re on holiday).

Urbino is generally reasonable priced. Food seems to be about the same price everywhere, but lodgings are a lot cheaper here than they were in Roma and Perugia.
We’re staying at the two star San Giovanni – smack bang in the centre of the action.
It’s clean and quiet and really quite charming. All for a tidy €55 a night (that’s compared to the €70 we were paying in Perugia).
We did spend our first night in Urbino outside the cita storica or old city because San Giovanni was booked out.
Piero della Francesca, our first night’s accommodation, was a bit of an experience and taught us a valuable lesson – never stay outside the city walls even if the hotel tries to tell you it is ONLY a ten minute walk and there are regular buses.
I suppose it’s true that it might be ten minutes if you’re an Olympic champion willing to risk life and limb taking the walk of death down a twisting road hosting zooming Italian drivers with no footpath.
We’ve also now learned to always check if the buses miraculously stop at 7.30pm. (yes, they did).
So many things to love about small town Italy!

E delizioso, si.

2006-09-03T03:02:00.000+10:30

There’s no delicate way to say it.
Italian food is wonderful, but it’s murder on the plumbing.
It’s always been a case of the more the better when it comes to pasta, pizza, gelato, cappuccino, formaggi and olio at home.
But something happens when you put it all together in La Belle Paese – far, far away from wheat-a-bix, skim milk and salad sandwiches.
Of course, it could just be that it’s not that smart to start the day by throwing back a full fat cappuccino coupled with a custard cornetti if one is going to have a slice or two of delectable pizza topped with cheese, anchovies and oil for lunch.
It would still probably all be okay if dinner didn’t consist of pasta in a creamy tartufo or porcini sauce, a salad drowning in extra virgin oil and a basket of bread.
Not to mention the litre of chianti that goes with it and the gelato topped with panna, or cream, that follows it.
It tastes great, that’s for sure.
But it just means one needs to stay within quick strolling distance of one’s hotel and clean bagno, or bathroom, when the day’s eating frenzy spontaneously reaches critical mass.
Don’t misunderstand. No one is contemplating declaring themselves lactose intolerant or embracing one of those hippy gluten free diets.
There’s got to be a price for everything and clearly this is the cost of La Dolce Vita.

For whom the bell tolls

2006-09-03T03:00:00.000+10:30

Either there’s something going on in Urbino that we don’t know about or all our clocks are wrong.
It started today at 8.12am when the Duomo bells began to chime.
Ahhh, how lovely, we thought. What a nice way to start a Saturday morning.
The chief bell ringer must be giving us a wake up call so we don’t miss the weekly market.
We both must have drifted off, because at 8.25am, the bells started again.
Okay, the bellman must really like doing his job on the weekend, we reasoned.
At 8.40am, he had another go and we started questioning whether we might have accidentally hit some medieval snooze button.
The bells went crazy at 8.55am and all we could think of was that the bell ringer was giving us five minutes notice before the top of the hour.
He gave us ten minutes warning after 9am too, when the bells went into a frenzy of ringing.
We finally got the message. It was time to get up.
The bells have continued to toll with such randomness during our stay in Urbino that the only thing we can think of is that the bloke in charge rings them whenever he wants.
Or maybe it’s just a typically Urbino-like thing to do.
After all, this is the only town in central Italy that managed to remain an autonomous kingdom in the 16th century when the rest of the region was being ruled by the Pope.
They probably deserve a bit of arbitrary bell tolling.

Perugia - It really is a hill town

2006-08-30T23:20:00.000+10:30

We thought we’d be oh so clever and come to Perugia a month early to sort out our university enrollment and accommodation before the hoards of students arrive in the days before the October 1 kick off date.

We got here yesterday on one of the very few direct trains from Rome. It was one of those Regionale trains that stopped at what felt like every stop. No matter, the ride was relaxing, even entertaining, and we got here eventually even if it was 40 minutes later than the timetable had us believe.

We found our way to our hotel without a problem, checked in and set off to explore.

For those unfamiliar with Perugia, it’s an extremely picturesque Umbrian hill town. It gets a steady tourist stream but compared to Rome it’s empty.
The place is kept lively by its 150,000 extremely friendly and accommodating residents who are helped along by the thousands of students who attend the town’s two universities. One of the universities is for regular Italians and the other - the Universita Per Stranieri – is for people from all over the world and is where we are going to be studying.

The other extremely significant feature of Perugia is that it’s not one of those towns where students ride bikes.
It really is on a hill and it’s impossible to get around anywhere without schlepping up and down one of the dozens of vertigous laneways what feels like a gazillion times a day.

On our first afternoon here, we located our university (it was down a VERY steep hill). We wandered around a bit to drink in the student atmosphere (how exciting to be students again!) but couldn’t find anything resembling an enrollment office.
We decided to leave further efforts until the next day. It was late, and we planned to come back refreshed after a good night’s sleep and a massive plate of umbriacelli con tartufo – that’s truffle pasta.

So we trudged back up the hill.

In the morning, we headed straight back to the university to sort out our enrollment (down the hill).
When we got there we finally located the Student’s Secretariat where we were told it was possible to enroll, but first we had to go up the stairs to the bank and pay for our tuition. No problem….. except when we got there, the ATM didn’t like our card. Any of our cards.

Still no problem.
We decided to see if there was another bank across the road in another street (up a hill).
We reached the top and asked a woman for directions. She said we should turn around and take the first street on the left (down the hill.)
We headed off, found the bank, but this one also didn’t like any of our cards.

It was time to stop and take stock.
We realized we’d seen quite a few banks on the main street (up the hill).
So off we went back up the hill to find the first bank.
But no luck.
The second bank, also no luck.
The third bank. Still no luck.

Was it a conspiracy, or was there something wrong with our accounts and cards?
Left with no alternative, we decided to go back to our hotel and call our bank at home and check. (Down the hill).
Much to our relief, the bank told us there was nothing wrong with our cards, and we should just keep trying banks.

So we headed back to the main street, where there are more banks (so many banks for so few people). Back up the hill.

We tried another four banks until we found one that worked and we could finally withdraw the cash we needed to enroll.

But it’s now 1pm and the university’s bank shuts for siesta at 1.30pm. Can we make it all the way down the hill in time? We try (and go down the hill) and somehow it works out. We get our official hand written receipt and race back down the stairs to the Student’s Secretariat to finish our enrollment.
But it’s now shut for the afternoon and won’t reopen until 3pm.

Back up the hill we go. At least now we know the location of all the banks in Perugia.

Get thee to a nunnery

2006-08-29T19:53:00.000+10:30

All nuns do not look the same – at least up close.

Having decided to try something new in Roma this time, we are staying in the Instituto Immacolata Concezione Nostra Signora di Lourdes – a convent run by a group of very smiley nuns on Via Sistina, close to the Spanish Steps.
Being two Jewish girls with limited exposure to the ins and outs of Catholicism we have discovered quite a bit about nuns so far.

1. Lourdes is a saint and not just the name of Madonna’s daughter
2. True to The Sound of Music, all nuns can sing and do so often, starting at 6.30am each morning.
3. Nuns all wear sensible shoes.
4. They don’t take the elevator, preferring the stairs.
5. Nuns really do have the patience of saints and will spend half an hour chatting in Italian to you even if you only understand every tenth word. Hand signals are universal.
6. Nuns take a 45 minute lunch break every day, except on Sunday when they take an extra half an hour.
7. Cleanliness must indeed be close to godliness because they run the cleanest pensione we’ve ever seen.

Staying with the nunnies – as we now affectionately refer to them – has delivered answers, but it’s also thrown up more questions.

1. What do they eat?
2. Do they do the same job everyday or do they swap around so that one day one of them is on breakfast duty and another day she’s on door duty, cleaning, cooking etc?
3. What time do they get up?
4. Is the chief nun really called Mother Superior?
5. What do all the different outfits mean?
6. Who drives the car parked in the courtyard?
7. Where is the good looking male benefactor a la the Flying Nun?

Staying with the nuns has been so interesting we didn’t even mind the 10.30pm curfew.

Una prima volta per ……

2006-08-29T19:52:00.000+10:30

Even after more than eight visits to Roma between us, there are still many experiences we haven’t had and places we haven’t been to in this mammoth city.
First new adventure to cross off the list this time was climbing to the top of the cupola at St Peters Basilica at The Vatican.
After queuing to pass through security, then queuing to get into the Vatican Crypts to see the tomb of Pope John Paul II, we joined the queue for the Cupola.
We’d both heard it was well worth the seven euro price tag and where not disappointed.
We opted to take the elevator up part of the way – giving us a 200 step headstart, but leaving us a further 320 steps to cover.
The staircase itself was worth the admission price.
Up we went and as we climbed each section got smaller and smaller.
At one stage we were even forced to lean to the right at almost 45 degrees as the higher we trudged the more the staircase slanted inwards.
Finally, after overtaking more than a few hyperventilating tourists, we squeezed through the last section of stairs – so narrow we wondered how claustrophobics or anyone more than slightly overweight would fit let alone cope – we emerged on the roof of the cupola to enjoy a panoramic view of Roma.
It sounds clichéd, but yes, it was breathtaking.

Roma L’economica

Un cappuccino (alla bar) – €1.10

Una Pizza - € 5

Una Birra in bottiglia €4

Un litro di vino della casa €8

I gelati - due gusti €1.90

What war?

2006-08-24T17:44:00.000+10:30

Tel Aviv is teeming with people.
Jerusalem was packed - especially the museums.
While there are definitely less tourists around at the moment, the bars, clubs and restaurants are all bursting with Israelis doing what they do best ... living.
We went to a bar last night- - apparently it’s the new “in” place to go. Rocked in at 9.15pm - which is early by Tel Avivian standards. We tried to sit at the bar, but were told all the seats were reserved for people who called ahead. We ignored him and by 11pm were glad we had considering the bar was heaving with people and we had snared three precious seats.

We saw this notice on the outside of a shop in Jerusalem. It says: "Big Discounts for Brave Tourists". Funny or sad. We're not sure which.

Beer O'Clock

2006-08-24T17:15:00.000+10:30

Israelis don't drink alcohol. Even at bars and pubs it's not unusual for them to drink coffee, tea or icy drinks. When they do partake they nurse their alcohol for hours.
Not like us.
We're on holidays, so a drink at lunchtime, mid afternoon or early evening seems normal.
But not to the locals who stare at us Aussies sucking on our GoldStars like we are freaks from outaspace. And the bar staff - more adept at frothing milk than pulling beers - just about fall over when we order a serve of the amber nectar at lunchtime. It's all very entertaining really. Who ever thought that drinking during the day could be so scandalous?

First stop Tel Aviv

2006-08-23T15:36:00.001+10:30

After an easy 24 hour flight from Sydney, we arrived at Ben Gurion airport at 4am and were met by Yael holding a bag of delicious flaky pastry berekas and signaling the beginning of a week of extraordinary hospitality from Sam's old school friend.

Yael is a lawyer in a top international firm here, but could establish a thriving sideline in tour guiding if our experience is anything to go by.

After greeting us at the airport she took us back to her apartment in north Tel Aviv which has fast become our home away from home.
Not only do we have a fully stocked fridge, but have access to high speed internet thanks to our silent benefactor (and Yael's unsuspecting neighbour) Eilon.

Yael is at work during the days, but picks us up at night to take us to all manner of impressive Israeli nightspots for drinks and dinner.

On our first day, after a mid morning shloff, we headed off to Tel Aviv port - a redeveloped restaurant and shopping precinct of north Tel Aviv which was crammed with Israelis on Friday (the first day of the weekend here) where we had a champagne brunch at Gilli's gazing out at the Mediterranean and chowing down on about the best omelet and brioche we'd ever had.

We are getting around so easily here during the day with the help of the legendary number five Eged bus (which stops right outside Yael's place) and which is supplemented by numerous sheroots (maxi taxis that run the bus route for the same price as the bus).
We're also getting to know lots of new and exciting places in Tel Aviv and really getting a feel for where the locals hang out, meet, drink and eat.

We spent Shabbat in Jerusalem with Yael - visiting the Old City, including the Kotel (Western Wall), Jewish quarter and the Arab shook (market) at Jaffa Gate.
We went back to Jerusalem (about 40 minutes south of Tel Aviv) a couple of days ago by bus to spend a few hours in Yad Vashem - the largest Holocaust museum and memorial in the world.

Today we are off to Neve Tzedek - the oldest Jewish neighbourhood in Tel Aviv - and then will stroll around the ancient port of Jaffa this afternoon and eat a traditional Israeli dinner there.

Bags packed - well almost

2006-08-08T18:08:00.000+10:30

With the last day of work served, the farewell party done with, the hangover (almost) over and the final yum cha eaten, we are now focused on the not-so-fun part of moving overseas for an unspecified period of time .... packing.
Our normally well-ordered flat is now littered with a series of stuffed and half-filled boxes.
In the corners are piles of keepsakes we're not quite sure what we should do with, while what we know are the heaps of detritus we've been holding on to for years, fight their way toward the front door and freedom.
So it's all there, trying to bust its way out, and we want it to go. It's just that there's actually so much you can't do, when it comes to packing, until the very last moment before the movers knock on the door.
In the meantime we are getting through the mess and clutter as best we can. It's a hard life this packing it all in and traveling lark - but wine does seem to make it better. Crackers and cheese also seem to help a bit.
L'chaim!

Backpackers? Us?

2006-07-08T14:15:00.000+10:30

Here's the challenge: Everything we need for the next year and one backpack each.
It's been eight years since either of us have done the backpacking thing, but memories of shoving in clothes, toiletries and books are still vivid.
All we can remember from last time is how heavy our bags were.
This time we've vowed to limit the cargo and avoid the excruiating bouts of wrestling with pack zips and clips.
This time things will be different.
But, well .... just between you and me, an extra pair of jeans won't hurt. They can just snuggle up next to the other clothes.
Oh and perhaps I can just squeeze in a hairdryer and maybe a back-up pair of summer shoes, since they're so light.
The computer doesn't really count as luggage since we've got to take that otherwise how will we update this blog..... and did I hear someone say ipods, oh, and don't forget the charger and spare batteries.
We've got to get the microphone head-set in there too so we can skype our friends at home, not too mention the digital camera so we can download evocative images of the tuscan countryside.
And where would we be without the three Italy guidebooks, two Spain guides and then, of course an Italian language dictionary each for when we start studying......
Yep, things will definitely be different this time.

Crunch Time .....

2006-06-27T17:03:00.000+10:30

It's just a matter of weeks before we swap this chilly Sydney winter for the European late summer sunshine.
But first, there's much to do.
Storage, packing, updating resumes, changing postal addresses and applying for international drivers licences are just some of the less romantic requirements needed to pack up and move to the other side of the world.
Still, we'll soldier on and do our best to somehow get it all done!

dates dates dates

2006-01-14T10:34:00.000+11:00

On a very hot New Years Day we sat in the pub and came up with these tentative dates. So here they are as transposed from a beer coaster........

Wednesday August 16, 2006 Depart Sydney for Tel Aviv
A week in Israel

Tuesday August 22, 2006 Depart Tel Aviv for Roma
Travel Southern Italy

Friday September 8, 2006 Depart Roma for Madrid
Meet M&D in Seville for a week then travel in Southern Spain

Monday September 25, 2006 Madrid to Roma
To Perugia to begin three months studiare di lingua italiana

Alla Prossima Volta

Allora

2006-01-13T21:42:00.000+11:00

Here we are in Roma back in 2003 tossing the obligatory euro into La Fontana di Trevi sealing our return to the Eternal City.

And they're off

2006-01-13T20:39:00.000+11:00

In the spirit of the new year we have finally started some meaningful planning.
It's still too early to talk plane tickets and trial packing runs, but it's not too early to start getting our house in order so to speak.
We have been helped along in this endeavour by Alex's purchase of her first laptop (there are some things one just can't get away with doing on the office computers...)
So armed with our technological know-how, it's well and truly time to start thinking paperwork. Just our luck I suppose that we want to go and live somehow that prides itself on having one of the most accomplished bureacracies in the world. Ahhh Italy, Land of Red Tape.
We'll now have to start the process of hunting down original copies of university and highschool transcripts before we psych ourselves up to make seven, yes SEVEN copies of the scholarship application form for the University for Foriegners in Perugia.

So many forms, so little time.
A presto