With somewhere like rome, it's hard to know where to begin -- so I will try and relate it in some kind of chronlogical order.
Our holiday began when we arrive at the airport, an hour before check-in was supposed to open. The holiday gods smiled benevolently on us, and we were able to check in right away and ditch our bags. My rucksack with all its loose straps and buckles had to go to oversized baggage, but we were unfazed. Security was no problem, even with my steel toe-capped boots, I just x-rayed them with everything else, and we were on our way.
By this time, we were starting to get hungry, so we found a restaurant and decided to treat it as our own private depature lounge -- taking up residence there, and staying for hours, making everything drag out as long as possible. While seated, the girl noticed it begin to snow outside -- but I managed to convince her that her suggestion of it might be dust and not snow was a good one, so as not to see her upset at missing it.
We boarded at a reasonable time, the flight took off without delay, and almost before you know it, the plane was landing again.
The other end was again without drama, through customs we went -- the girl having a much shorter queue for a change, coming from outside the EU -- and our bags turned up almost right away. We had booked a transfer from the airport to the B&B where we were staying, and had to watch out for a man holding a sign with my name on it. Except he was nowhere to be seen.
He eventually arrived about 8pm -- half an hour after we landed -- and I can't decide if he was just lazy, relaxed and roman about time, if he had expected us to be late and got caught out, or if he was deliberately late on purpose so that we would have to pay 50 euro instead of 40. Either way, he was friendly and helpful and we were on our way though the dark, Italian night.
As is so often the case with these drivers, his taste in music was pretty dodgy at times -- and we were reminded of The Big Lebowski when the driver started playing the Eagles. I wanted to ask him to change the channel, tell him I'd had a rough night and I hated the fucking Eagles. He probably wondered what we were laughing about in the back seat.
Traffic in Rome is probably just as you've heard -- road markings are less of an instruction and more of a gesture, but we arrived in one piece at the B&B and were shown to our room. All rooms were themed, and ours seemed to have a very far east feel to it -- especially with the Hindu wall hanging. I celebrated being in a new place by almost immediately breaking something -- I was a little over-zealous, picking up my rucksack from the floor, and attempting to swing it onto one shoulder, hit the full-length mirror hanging on the wall.
I didn't just crack it, though, I knocked the mirror crashing to the floor where it shattered into a thousand pieces of barious sizes. Luckily our transfer hadn't left yet -- we got the impression perhaps his other half owned the place, since he gave us a business card and said we could call any time -- and he was totally unfazed by it. He saw the funny side as he swept up the shards of glass, reassuing us not to worry and even saying it was "good". We never established if he literally meant it was a good thing I had broken the mirror, of if he just meant "it's all good" as in "don't worry, it's fine". To this day, I have never been asked to pay anything for it -- so consider myself very lucky indeed.
So, yadda yadda, accommodation was clean and comfortable, with breakfast included and in a not-too-dodgy part of town. An area that seemed to consist of Chinese clothes shops, that is clothes shops run by -- at a guess -- Chinese immigrants, which had barely any stock, and never any customers. The girl insists they were merely fronts for dodgy dealings. We had heard not to stay near the station from various sources, and when you got near the station you saw a world of difference to where we were staying. We were still a good 15 minute walk from the Colliseum, but it was worth it, plus there was a supermarket up the road we frequented with broken Italian phrases.
Next post: day one; the rain, the Roman forum
(sorry about infrequent updates, I can only udpate here if I visit my parents)
Showing posts with label holidays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label holidays. Show all posts
Sunday, 7 December 2008
Sunday, 30 March 2008
Sevilla (part two)
extracts taken from my moleskine journal, a work entitled "stay out of circulation 'til the dogs get tired"
And so our first day in Seville was started abruptly with a parade -- and I'm glad it was, standing in the mid-morning sun on the balcony and watching the crowds of people in the street. When eventually it was all quiet again, Dune headed out to see the sights in daylight and started with a short trip on a boat down the Guadalquivir river.
We sat in the sun near the city's Alcázar, listening to a man playing simple Spanish guitar, and made plans to return on Saturday to see the cathedral and the Alcázar.
Friday, March 21
Good Friday, Seville's Semana Santa
Woke this morning to the sounds of drums and trumpets and very Spanish music. Still so tired from last night, I wondered if this was normal behaviour for Spain. I eventually got up around 11ish and took a shower -- I came back to the room to find a parade was filling the streets below; this more than made up for being stranded in the city last night, watching the parade circling endlessly.
--
A day started with tapas and "un grande cerveza" can't be all bad. We found a bar tender who spoke perfect English and who was amused by the few snatched Spanish phrases I knew. I take great pleasure in saying "muchas gracias señor" and "buenas dias". We wandered the city streets, drinking in the smell of orange blossoms, finding hidden patios and fountains.
And so our first day in Seville was started abruptly with a parade -- and I'm glad it was, standing in the mid-morning sun on the balcony and watching the crowds of people in the street. When eventually it was all quiet again, Dune headed out to see the sights in daylight and started with a short trip on a boat down the Guadalquivir river.
We sat in the sun near the city's Alcázar, listening to a man playing simple Spanish guitar, and made plans to return on Saturday to see the cathedral and the Alcázar.
Friday, 21 March 2008
Sevilla (part one)
extracts taken from my moleskine journal, a work entitled "stay out of circulation 'til the dogs get tired"
Even though it was already late when we arrived, we were hungry and eager to see some of the parades of the Santa Semana -- which apparently didn't even begin until 12.30 that night. Fearless explorers as we were, Dune and I struck out into the city to first find tapas. Food quickly was a priority so we weren't in the mood for taking our time -- that's why when we stopped at a bar and Dune thought it looked a bit dingy, I suggested we went inside and had a look anyway.
As it turned out, the bar was less dingy than it was local. We stood at the bar itself, ordered a couple of drinks in broken Spanish, and with great difficulty that involved a few English words, a few Spanish, much pointing and much repeating of "no intiendo" we agreed with the bar tender for some tapas. As we stood at the bar talking and laughing and feeling alive in this foreign country, we helped ourselves to bread from a basket on the bar. After munching our way through several breadsticks, the bar tender noticed, and with a deliberate gesture produced for us our own basket. It was only then we realised the bread we had been eating belonged to the man stood next to us, who luckily had his back turned and hadn't noticed the bread thieves that we were.
Dune's meal was a traditional dish of what seemed to be potato and peppers, with a fried egg on top. Mine took a little longer to produce, but appeared to be a grilled chicken breast seasoned with balsamic vinegar and potatas fritas. Once we finished we thanked the bar tender very warmly -- "Mi Español es un poco" Dune told him, "Inglés? Nada." said the bar tender. And so we headed out into the night -- trying to remember from the cab ride the way to the city.
After an indeterminate length of time, wandering down dark and empty streets we felt we had definitely gone wrong somewhere -- and Dune being the hands-on person she is (rather than the "if I keep walking maybe I will magically find my way" person I am), stopped a Spanish couple to ask them for directions. Their English was almost non-existent, but they wanted to help so they eagerly called out to a young woman named Sarah to come back. Sarah turned out to be an east Texas journalism major, spending a semester studying in Seville -- she was lovely and obliging, and didn't just point the way, but took us with her into the city. Once we had parted company with the lovely Sarah, I told Dune I betted she was a blogger. Dune disagreed, she didn't seem the type -- but I insist then (as I do now) a journalism major studying in a European city so far from home could hardly fail to want to write and be recognised. I said I would google her and see what I could find, but I have so far come up short. I think this is inconclusive -- I don't think googling key points about my life would find my blog, either.
The city was almost electric with anticipation for the night's festivities -- and in key spots vast rows of wooden seating was set out for spectators. Unfortunately, these vast rows of wooden seating were also reserved for ticket holders -- not only did we not have a ticket, we had no idea where one might get such an elusive prize.
Our cunning plan of just standing in a spot with a good view seemed to be working well for the first couple of hours -- but the time of the parade got closer and more people shared our idea, and eventually the local policia moved us all on. Anywhere good to see from was either seated, cordoned off with barriers, or already staked out -- but we were not to be put off. We had not travelled this far and waited this long to be so easily put off. Didn't they know who we were?!
We did eventually find a spot suitable to view the parades from -- and we weren't disappointed. Solemn, ghostly figures in pointed hoods and costumes slowly marched along the streets, silently carrying their candles. They would be followed by others in a different colour costumes, carrying crosses and flags, and still more figures with candles. Eventually you would see a glow coming from round the corner, and without fanfare an elaborate float would appear, carried invisibly from underneath, depicting Jesus, crucified on a cross, or the virgin Mary.
What we didn't realise at first -- and not for several hours -- was that these Nazarenos and Penitentes actually seemed to be circiling the city. A couple of times the floats just looked very familiar, until Dune hit upon the idea that the reason why didn't seem to be able to escape them, despite our best efforts to at this point, no matter where we went was that they had no end. It was just going to go on and on and on... After much effort we finally found our way past the processions, out of the city and across the Triana bridge back to our own bohemian corner of Seville, falling into bed about 4am. Even now, I think I am going to wake up from nightmares of these figures carrying candles in never-ending processions I am unable to escape.
It was truly amazing, and I don't fully appreciate how different these European cultures are until an opportunity to really experience them. But this was only the first night, so there is more to come from "stay out of circulation 'til the dogs get tired".
Thursday, March 20
Triana Backpacker´s Hostel, Seville
Already I am excited to be here -- just so thrilled to be in a different country. Outside in the street, I can hear groups of people all talking and laughing in a language I don´t know -- it feels refreshing to be in a place so unlike home.
The flight over passed almost without noticing. We left the howling wind and rain of England behind, and less than three hours later we touhced down in Spain. I must have slept for some or all of the flight, I remember nothing more than about 30 minutes of it. Who needs to teleport when you have travel narcolepsy? Our bags came quickly.
On the drive to the hostel, the taxi driver spoke very little and listened to electronica -- while we gazed out at the architecture and palm trees, interspersed with familiar billboards. In between pointing out elaborate feats of architecture, or someone dressed in the traditional Nazareno costume, Dune and I would nudge each other to point out Vodafone or Starbucks.
Even though it was already late when we arrived, we were hungry and eager to see some of the parades of the Santa Semana -- which apparently didn't even begin until 12.30 that night. Fearless explorers as we were, Dune and I struck out into the city to first find tapas. Food quickly was a priority so we weren't in the mood for taking our time -- that's why when we stopped at a bar and Dune thought it looked a bit dingy, I suggested we went inside and had a look anyway.
As it turned out, the bar was less dingy than it was local. We stood at the bar itself, ordered a couple of drinks in broken Spanish, and with great difficulty that involved a few English words, a few Spanish, much pointing and much repeating of "no intiendo" we agreed with the bar tender for some tapas. As we stood at the bar talking and laughing and feeling alive in this foreign country, we helped ourselves to bread from a basket on the bar. After munching our way through several breadsticks, the bar tender noticed, and with a deliberate gesture produced for us our own basket. It was only then we realised the bread we had been eating belonged to the man stood next to us, who luckily had his back turned and hadn't noticed the bread thieves that we were.
Dune's meal was a traditional dish of what seemed to be potato and peppers, with a fried egg on top. Mine took a little longer to produce, but appeared to be a grilled chicken breast seasoned with balsamic vinegar and potatas fritas. Once we finished we thanked the bar tender very warmly -- "Mi Español es un poco" Dune told him, "Inglés? Nada." said the bar tender. And so we headed out into the night -- trying to remember from the cab ride the way to the city.
After an indeterminate length of time, wandering down dark and empty streets we felt we had definitely gone wrong somewhere -- and Dune being the hands-on person she is (rather than the "if I keep walking maybe I will magically find my way" person I am), stopped a Spanish couple to ask them for directions. Their English was almost non-existent, but they wanted to help so they eagerly called out to a young woman named Sarah to come back. Sarah turned out to be an east Texas journalism major, spending a semester studying in Seville -- she was lovely and obliging, and didn't just point the way, but took us with her into the city. Once we had parted company with the lovely Sarah, I told Dune I betted she was a blogger. Dune disagreed, she didn't seem the type -- but I insist then (as I do now) a journalism major studying in a European city so far from home could hardly fail to want to write and be recognised. I said I would google her and see what I could find, but I have so far come up short. I think this is inconclusive -- I don't think googling key points about my life would find my blog, either.
The city was almost electric with anticipation for the night's festivities -- and in key spots vast rows of wooden seating was set out for spectators. Unfortunately, these vast rows of wooden seating were also reserved for ticket holders -- not only did we not have a ticket, we had no idea where one might get such an elusive prize.
Our cunning plan of just standing in a spot with a good view seemed to be working well for the first couple of hours -- but the time of the parade got closer and more people shared our idea, and eventually the local policia moved us all on. Anywhere good to see from was either seated, cordoned off with barriers, or already staked out -- but we were not to be put off. We had not travelled this far and waited this long to be so easily put off. Didn't they know who we were?!
We did eventually find a spot suitable to view the parades from -- and we weren't disappointed. Solemn, ghostly figures in pointed hoods and costumes slowly marched along the streets, silently carrying their candles. They would be followed by others in a different colour costumes, carrying crosses and flags, and still more figures with candles. Eventually you would see a glow coming from round the corner, and without fanfare an elaborate float would appear, carried invisibly from underneath, depicting Jesus, crucified on a cross, or the virgin Mary.
What we didn't realise at first -- and not for several hours -- was that these Nazarenos and Penitentes actually seemed to be circiling the city. A couple of times the floats just looked very familiar, until Dune hit upon the idea that the reason why didn't seem to be able to escape them, despite our best efforts to at this point, no matter where we went was that they had no end. It was just going to go on and on and on... After much effort we finally found our way past the processions, out of the city and across the Triana bridge back to our own bohemian corner of Seville, falling into bed about 4am. Even now, I think I am going to wake up from nightmares of these figures carrying candles in never-ending processions I am unable to escape.
It was truly amazing, and I don't fully appreciate how different these European cultures are until an opportunity to really experience them. But this was only the first night, so there is more to come from "stay out of circulation 'til the dogs get tired".
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