Good sleep, woke to near silence from the wild animals, although still a few faint rumblings to assure me that the world hadn't ended.
Later discovered that the chief-expectorator was my Cashmere-e friend - he was in the cubicle next to me showering (i.e. the cubicle adjacent to mine - we weren't that friendly...) and sounded like he was trying to 'cough up' a lung through his right nostril.
After that torment I was then kicked out of the room early by the cleaners despite my insistence that they were early (which they were, did I mention that?) and walked to the station with Cashmere Man (TM).
Arrived at Genova after picturesque train ride through tunnels (the joy of darkness) and out into mountains and hillside towns. The guidebook gave me the qwrong directions to my hostel so I got off the bus at completely the wrong time, but I asked a girl in Italian what was going on and she directed me to the right bus which I just about got on. It was crammed full and with my sunstantial luggae, the slightest movement sent ripples down the bus resulting in hard stares for the locals. But it'll take more than that to stop me, oh yes. (OK, stop kicking me in the shins you bunch of miserable so and sos - I give in.)
Spoke Italian perfectly at the hostel reception after some Chinese chaps before me had no clue but the receptionist automatically switched to English. How dare she. Supposedly she wanted to practice, not that she needed it. Maybe some manners and understanding wouldn't go amiss but the English was perfectly understandable.
I ask you eh, I don't know. Oh Arthur...
Opted for the cheap 'home-cooked' food offered at the hostel 'restaurant' but was somewhat more than disappointed to find that it was hard, dry, microwaved pasta with a pesto sauce (ok the sauce wasn't too bad) and a sald drowned in vinegar and oil.
Welcome to Genova!
Wednesday 15 April 2009
Tuesday 7 April 2009
Pavia on a Sunday
Woke to sounds more akin to a cave full of wild animals than a youth hostel, such was the din coming from my dorm mates. I really don't know how it was possible.
Day trip to Pavia today and when I asked the railway man if it was the right train for Pavia he pointed out in no uncertain terms that it was pronounced Pavia. That was me told good and proper.
Pavia was a very quiet and peaceful town, accentuated by the shops being shut and hence not many people around. Sunday, Bloody Sunday. The shops are shit, there's nothing to do...
However, after strolling through the many narrow medieval streets, lined with cobbled together buildings and leading into squares without warning, I had a lie down in the sun by the river and collected my thoughts. I soon lost them but for a fleeting moment I felt like I had it all together.
Back in Milan for aperitivo time and Napoli v Milan on the big screen. The match wasn't great but food and beer for €7 saved the day.
In the hostel I met a bloke from Cashmerrrre (as he pronounced it). Still can't be sure of his name but I have his email.
He was saying all European cities were the same, despite admitting to having stayed in the hostels for most of his trip. He really wants to come to England. And get a job as a golfer or something.
He talked about cricket and how England haven't had any good players since 'Iron'. What? Turned out to be I-an Botham. OF course. I pointed out that he was talking complete tosh in the nicest of ways, he suggested exchanging emails and coming to visit me in England, and then I made my excuses citing good night's sleep requirements and headed for bed/away.
Day trip to Pavia today and when I asked the railway man if it was the right train for Pavia he pointed out in no uncertain terms that it was pronounced Pavia. That was me told good and proper.
Pavia was a very quiet and peaceful town, accentuated by the shops being shut and hence not many people around. Sunday, Bloody Sunday. The shops are shit, there's nothing to do...
However, after strolling through the many narrow medieval streets, lined with cobbled together buildings and leading into squares without warning, I had a lie down in the sun by the river and collected my thoughts. I soon lost them but for a fleeting moment I felt like I had it all together.
Back in Milan for aperitivo time and Napoli v Milan on the big screen. The match wasn't great but food and beer for €7 saved the day.
In the hostel I met a bloke from Cashmerrrre (as he pronounced it). Still can't be sure of his name but I have his email.
He was saying all European cities were the same, despite admitting to having stayed in the hostels for most of his trip. He really wants to come to England. And get a job as a golfer or something.
He talked about cricket and how England haven't had any good players since 'Iron'. What? Turned out to be I-an Botham. OF course. I pointed out that he was talking complete tosh in the nicest of ways, he suggested exchanging emails and coming to visit me in England, and then I made my excuses citing good night's sleep requirements and headed for bed/away.
Monday 6 April 2009
Beer Festival Italian Style and a Big Arena to Watch Football In
Italy has a beer festival, yes it's true.
However, before that I was conned by an African selling me some dodgy wristband. The problem was my Italian must have been better than his and he didn't respond to my questioning and just persisted with his hand cupping. I gave him some shrapnel and fobbed him off - my little bit for charity.
So to the main event. I stumped up my cash and was presented with a beer glass and a yellow pocket holder to hang round my neck. With that I marched in and was greeted with a whiff of beer in a delightful setting of a sports hall. Isn't that where all beer festivals are held?
I sampled as many beers as my ten tokens would allow (which funnily enough was 10) and during which had several successful conversations in Italian with the various purveyors, including a chap who genuinly was interested in exporting his beer to England (I have his card) and a man with a rather distunguished curly moustache. I was complemented on my Italian which came as a bit of a shock especially as I was struggling to string a few words together, but then the miracles of beer happened and soon as was regailing the young ladies with my stories of made up nonsense.
OK so a fair bit of blagging must have gone on but I was dashed pleased with myself. And perhaps a little tipsy.
The next appointment after the festival was the relatively nearby San Siro stadium. It turned out to be in the arse end of nowhere, as most fooball stadia are I suppose. Unfortunately Milan weren't playing that weekend (and I wasn't going to pay to see Mourinho's lot) but I got to see the stadium nonetheless. And it's big. And concretey.
However, before that I was conned by an African selling me some dodgy wristband. The problem was my Italian must have been better than his and he didn't respond to my questioning and just persisted with his hand cupping. I gave him some shrapnel and fobbed him off - my little bit for charity.
So to the main event. I stumped up my cash and was presented with a beer glass and a yellow pocket holder to hang round my neck. With that I marched in and was greeted with a whiff of beer in a delightful setting of a sports hall. Isn't that where all beer festivals are held?
I sampled as many beers as my ten tokens would allow (which funnily enough was 10) and during which had several successful conversations in Italian with the various purveyors, including a chap who genuinly was interested in exporting his beer to England (I have his card) and a man with a rather distunguished curly moustache. I was complemented on my Italian which came as a bit of a shock especially as I was struggling to string a few words together, but then the miracles of beer happened and soon as was regailing the young ladies with my stories of made up nonsense.
OK so a fair bit of blagging must have gone on but I was dashed pleased with myself. And perhaps a little tipsy.
The next appointment after the festival was the relatively nearby San Siro stadium. It turned out to be in the arse end of nowhere, as most fooball stadia are I suppose. Unfortunately Milan weren't playing that weekend (and I wasn't going to pay to see Mourinho's lot) but I got to see the stadium nonetheless. And it's big. And concretey.
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