I’m sitting in the emptiest airport I’ve ever experienced. I suspect they only operate a couple of flights a day from Tacna. Consequently my only company appears to be a bored check-in attendant for a different airline and a barman who’s mopping the floor.
And I’ve finished all my books. I have little else to do except get the phone out, take advantage of the free Wi-Fi in Peruvian airports and get blogging.
So, let me tell you about how to get from Arica in Chile to Tacna in Peru.
The two cities are only some 40km apart, but transport between them isn’t what you might expect.
The simplest way is to get your hotel to order a taxi to your destination on the other side. They will deal with the crossing, but from Chile this can be expensive, running at around £35. Similarly, in the opposite direction it’s perfectly possible to get ripped off, as I did last week when I arrived here.
You need two things…your passport and some local currency. In Arica you can take a taxi for £2 to the “Terminal Internacional” where you’ll expect buses but will actually see a huge number of USAnian cars. You find a driver going to the border pay the station fee (200 pesos, 40p) and then go to an office to do some paperwork. You then get shown to your collectivo.
These are always US cars of various vintage. I got a really seventies Crown Victoria driven by a brassy old lady whose hair waved in the wind out of the window. The car contained 5 passengers…a handy one extra than a European or Eastern equivalent, hence more profit. For her troubles you pay just 2000 pesos, about £3.
She took us to the border, made sure we were OK and left. There, waiting, were other collectivos heading to Tacna. They all pass the airport, so no problem. You go through Chilean customs and then get driven the short distance to Peruvian customs, again in a USAnian car, albeit this time I got a more modern but nondescript GM thingy. Cost here was 2500 pesos (they take Chilean money cheerfully.)
That’s it. For less than a tenner you can cross the border. Don’t do like I did the other way last time and get ripped off by a driver taking you to the airport…you should spend more than about £5 to reach the border from the airport even by taxi as it isn’t far. Ask first for the price. Also check whether it’s all the way to Arica, or just to the border (say ‘aduana.’)
Anyone who’s experienced the death of someone close to them will know that there is often a lot to do. No exceptions here, plus the added pressure of limited time. However, I’m not entirely unhappy about the time thing… makes me get things done.
Cementaria Parque de Arica
Center stage, as ever!
So, following the funeral I went yesterday to the cemetary to finish off the paper work. The tomb is owned in perpetuity by me, although a typical arrangement, that may seem strange in Europe, is to simply rent a tomb for a number of years. Once that time is up the coffin is disinterred and transferred to a shared grave. I also had to sort out maintenance again, in perpetuity. It’s not a lot each year, but with no easy way of paying fifteen pounds to an account in Chile every now and then I had no option.
I actually saw this happening on my second visit. You could see a clearly subdued couple watching as the coffin was lifted from a tomb, cleaned up, sealed in plastic, then loaded onto a hearse. It was a sad sight.
And it’s all made slightly bizarre by the music that’s piped into the cemetary. If you have a funeral it does seem to be suitably sombre, but at all other times they appear to often play cheerful music for the workers to enjoy.
Piping out the tunes
It’s tricky feeling sombre and respectful when you can hear an Abba song.
Still, at father’s tomb it wasn’t so audible.
I took some photos, walked around, paid my respects, and headed back to town for a meeting with the reverend David Hucker who carried out the bilingual service. He’s clearly a nice man, and initially refused my attempt to pay for the service. It had to be turned into a donation to his church before he’d accept. Given the service included a singer, I was amazed. The kindness of people here doesn’t cease to amaze me. We chatted about why he and his wife came here, my own background and so on. All very pleasant.
Headstones
I felt like I’d taken enough of Joaquin’s time so I decided I’d make the effort to arrange the headstone entirely on my own. With limited Spanish and nothing more than a vague idea of where a stonemason may be, I set off.
Now, this is where you have to admire the Chilean desire for efficiency. The hospital is at one end of a road approximately 1km long. At the other, lies the municipal cemetary (not the one Chris is in). Along this road are numerous funeral directors and various parked hearses, ranging from custom made examples to tired looking old American station wagons. Given this is one of the more important routes to the hospital, I can’t help wonder if it helps reassure incoming patients. Still, it’s efficient.
After some aimless wandering I spotted a suitable stone mason, went inside, and did my best. On Monday morning I’m either getting exactly what I wanted, or a very rough approximation with some crazy typeface. Let’s see. Again, Chilean flexibility and a can-do attitude helped. I explained I wasn’t likely to be around for much longer and that I couldn’t wait the usual week. He made it happen.
The House
It was very dark when I took this picture of the house Chris lived in.
The next job of the day was to visit the house where my father lived. He’d rented a room here for over ten years.
I had a real shock when the first item brought in was his suitcase. It’s the only recognisable item I saw in his belongings – the same cream coloured Samsonite suitcase he’d used throughout much of the eighties. It was a touch battered, but it even still carried a sticker for a hotel in Sluis in the Netherlands (a small, sleepy town once notorious for having the highest density of sex shops in the world) at which I remember him buying me waffles with cream and strawberries each time we visited on his tours.
From there on in it went a little downhill. There was no wallet, no photo album, no sign of his early past in South America. Apart from a couple of postcards from his days in Belgium(!) and his passports going back to the mid-eighties there was nothing. None of my letters to him were there, nor any photos of me or any of his children. I still have to visit another place where he apparently kept some stuff, but mostly I believe they were just things he sold on the market where had a small spot.
The old suitcase
So what did I find out about him?
Looking at his passports he travelled an awful lot up until around 2006 when he broke his hip-bone in a fall during a tussle of some sort. He’d been trading in clothes and, for a while, also appeared to be running some sort of homeopathy service. He was buying significant quantities of remedies from a german supplier in South America whose exact location I’ll be working out shortly. He had three books in his belongings, two of which were on homeopathy, with the other being an encyclopaedia.
The rest was mostly junk. Old lottery tickets, some snacks he sold, a collection of out of date milk cartons, old clothes (though mostly in good condition – looks like he still preferred to be smart!) and a lot of random notes. No notes, however, spoke of feelings, interestingly. There was no journal, no address book even. Just accounts of his work, routes he was taking and so on.
To a twelve year old, this hotel did the best waffles in the world. Ever.
There weren’t any signs of written correspondence with friends anywhere. I did, however, find a printout with what would appear to have been an e-mail address. So I now know that at least sometimes he went online. Maybe he did find me after all but opted to keep quiet? Who knows.
The house itself was relatively clean, with the downstairs occupied by the landlady and her son, and upstairs by various lodgers. But my father didn’t really spend much time there – as had been the case when I knew him, he preferred to be out at bars or selling at the market, using his modest room as merely a place to sleep at night and to store a few things.
And that’s really it, so far. There’s little more evidence.
The Wake
After this it was off to the bars where my father liked to hang out. He had a few acquaintances and friends there. People he would drink and play billiards with whilst arguing about sports, politics and any other subject that caught his attention. It’s fair to say he hadn’t changed much, in many ways.
Myself, Rafael, and a guy whose name is evading me right now. I’m drinking pancho.
So we’d agreed to meet up at the pool hall and have a few drinks and a game of billiards (or pool or whatever it’s called) in his honour.
It was fascinating to sit in the places my father sat, and play the tables he’d have played at. I didn’t get somber. In fact it reminded me that his life, whilst poor, wasn’t terrible. He had friends, and he had things to enjoy. That’s a big part of what we all need. So we drank a little, and I learned the favoured drinks of his friends – one called pancho, which is basically beer and Fanta mixed together, and another called hota which is a mix of wine and, believe it or not, Coca-Cola. Yes, I was surprised by that one too!
Later, as I tried to encourage one particular drunk friend of my father’s to NOT play with my camera, Joaquin told me he’d a call for his mariachi band to play a serenade. “Would you like to come,” he asked.
How could I refuse?
The bar and stools where he often sat
About two hours later I concluded that Chilenos are, essentially, completely mental. But in a nice way :o) They arrive, in their slightly too small costumes, from different directions at the specified address. And they must keep quiet outside and not be discovered. Because nobody expects the mariachi.
At the allotted moment they all pile into the house and the singing starts. The lady whose 50th birthday it was seemed bemused at first, but appeared to enjoy. Her husband, however, was a strong, surly type who looked like someone who made a living from ripping lorry tyres from their rims with his bare hands.
Still, he didn’t kill any of us so I gues it was OK for him.
And then it was off for a burger. I was granted my wish of a vegetarian sandwich, which turned out to be a chip sandwich with salad and avocado in it that tasted suspiciously meaty (cooked on the same griddle, no doubt)… but I had to chuckle at many of them ordering nothing more exciting than a cup of tea with their meal. Which was, of course, served in china, with a saucer. Don’t see that much in English burger bars at 2am in the morning…
A burger and a nice cup of tea at the end of a night out.
It’s now Saturday here and I’ll admit to a slightly lazy day. I got up late, wandered around town, had yet another terrible breakfast (they’re better in Peru, I have to say) and generally felt slightly subdued. The day before had been quite happy, really, and now it was simply about going back to normal. I have no tasks left until Monday, and attempts to find options such as teaching people how to create websites have failed to elicit much interest.
So I’ll go through the small bag of items I took from my father’s place, take some notes, and generally meander today. Don’t expect an exciting post tomorrow! I also have to decide what to do next. I still have two weeks to use up, but no clear leads in other countries. I suspect once I’m finished here it might just be time for a bit of a holiday. I just need to decide – relaxed, or exploratory? Any thoughts?
And so it came. In a way it’s weird… I always felt there were only two likely things to happen.
First, I would find my father (or he would find me) and a period of reconciliation may take place. Closeness, perhaps never, but reconciliation would be fine.
Second, I would never find him, and that would be that. Finito.
I’d actually come to the conclusion a few years ago that maybe he’d died some time ago. In some ways it was an easier conclusion… it stopped me feeling guilty for not continuing a search or trying harder.
I don’t think I was ever ready for this. And this morning I woke up very early at around 5am. Partly because I went to bed very early, but also because my mind was spinning. I decided to put some music on. And this piece came up:
And I took a moment to try and remember what was really good about my father. I’ve told the story that shows the negative in him. The curious thing is that our negative moments in life tend to be far fewer in occassion than our positives, yet they often define us.
So I remembered:
Football in the garden when I was very young.
Him teaching me pinball – and his pride when I started to beat him, and most people, from the age of about five. I still love pinball and if I ever have the space, I’ll have one!
Going to watch Liverpool play at Anfield on several occassions.
Learning about different cultures through him, that there was more to the world than the area(s) I was growing up in.
When I was 16 I met a girl in Oostende and, late in the evening, him quietly handing me enough money to take her clubbing. He then made his excuses and dragged away others to give us space. He continued in this vein all week. It was just a holiday romance, but hey…
There was more… but those are what sprung to mind. And I had my first ‘moment’ there in bed at about 6am this morning.
The next came during the funeral. But first, a little about Chilean funerals…
Culture Shift
Chile doesn’t feel wildly different to Spain, in so many ways. The climate, the landscape even… at least, when I compare it to Alicante where my family lives. Culturally it’s similar enough that you expect things to be reasonably similar. And I suppose they are. But that’s still quite different to Britain.
First things first, you arrive at the hospital with all your paperwork a little before the funeral directors come to collect the body. In our case we then had an hour or so of waiting before heading to the cemetary. I’ve already mentioned that instead of burial plots, niches are used.
And in our case, as there were only two of us at the undertakers we could ride in the hearse, up front. I was disappointed, in a way, as the hearse was simply a silver Ford Taurus Estate. With BMW hubcaps. As a car geek I was disappointed! But then in the UK we use Fords for hearses as well, so I can’t complain… but I’d still prefer to head off in a Daimler, if anyone’s listening….
In the back was the coffin, wrapped in the skin of Bungle.
I realised that if we had an accident (not entirely unlikely) the coffin was unrestrained. It would be… messy, to say the least. Still, we made it to the cemetary where I met the kindly David Hucker from the Anglican Church, his wife, a singer he’d brought along, my father’s landlady, and several of his friends.
Given that funerals tend to be arranged very quickly here, and that he had no family at all here, it was a good turnout.
We then slowly walked behind the car to the tomb, where two rows of plastic garden chairs were laid out. The Bungle-Coffin was then placed on a support, and the car left. Nearby a bell tolled.
Rev. Hucker gave a simple ceremony in both English and Spanish with accompaniment and song from the delightful guitarist. And then the moment I was completely unprepared for. Everyone who knew my father stood up to say a few words of remembrance. When it came to my turn, I fell apart. I didn’t even start talking, just sobbed.
It’s so unlike me. A few tears, sure. But sobbing? Proper, wobbly belly, heaving chest sobbing? Nope, not since I was a little kid.
Every time I remembered the good parts of my father, I went again. More than in the morning which was a single burst of tears.
After a few minutes and a few tissues I managed to compose myself to string together a barely articulate sentence. It would have to do, or I’d just be off again. I patted the Bungle-Coffin, sat down, and the ceremony was then brought to a close.
Of course, the English bits didn’t make sense, entirely, in the context, but they were familiar, which helped, I think.
Then the next new part – the coffin was then pushed into the tomb, and we got to watch the workers carefully seal it up. The flowers were then placed in front of the stone, and we took turns to quietly pay our last respects.
My thoughts have also drifted to my brother and half-sister back in Europe. The five grandchildren my father never even knew about, and the joy he missed out on with all of them.
One day I’ll explain this whole story to my new born son (and any others) and maybe I’ll be back in Arica once more.
And when we come back, I’ll give Joaquin Alvarez, the British Honorary Consul, a call. He has been amazing, taking a lot of time and trouble to help me with arrangements. He came to the funeral with us as a friend of my father’s, and has touched me with his kindness and generosity of spirit. A true giant amongst men.
The traveller on a budget faces the very real problem that airlines employ differential pricing depending on where you are. Here’s my example – the next post will explain whether I got the lower price or not!
The traveller on a budget faces the very real problem that airlines employ differential pricing depending on where you are.
Here’s the UK page for a one way flight, with the otherwise excellent LAN Airlines, from Lima to Tacna in Peru:
How much?!
And now, the price if you go the Peruvian version of the site:
Over £100 cheaper!
Same flight, same class, same airplane.
Now, I know your average Brit makes considerably more money than your average Peruvian, but here’s the thing – if a McDonalds in Lima had two price boards up and the European one had prices three times as high you can imagine how that would make the average customer feel. I have actually seen this, where an English menu and a Spanish menu had different prices (and why it’s worth learning the local lingo at least a bit) but over 3x is bonkers.
Now, let’s see if I can book through the Peruvian version of the site. If they block me I’ll just have to call a Peruvian travel agency. Simple!
It also makes me wonder – had I been flying Lima to Liverpool and back, rather than the other way around, how much less would KLM have been charging? It almost makes me think of Adobe.
Quick Follow Up:
If you click through, you get the following message on the Peruvian site:
In other words, don’t even think about it! The price is available only to Peruvian residents. The cheapest price otherwise is a good $80 higher. Still a lot cheaper than the Brit price, however.
I suppose I could try another airline, but I once had a flight on a plane that was condemned soon after following safety ‘incidents’ when I flew on a Peruvian budget carrier, so I’m not wild about shopping around too much just yet.
Europeans are considered to be the best educated, most sophisticated people on the planet. They also like diving into bogs, throwing tomatoes at one another, and chasing cheese.
I sometimes think that the British are an unusual breed when it comes to sport, but when you look around Europe you start to realise that quite possibly we don’t have the monopoly we thought we did.
If you’re thinking of a trip to Europe where you can get involved with some local sports, consider these.
Here’s a selection of videos showing some of the things Europeans do for fun:
Cheese Rolling (England)
Take cheese, a round one. Go to a steep hill. Find a group of like minded maniacs. And then chase the cheese down the hill only to be greeted by a group of similarly crazy catchers waiting to ‘rescue’ you at the bottom. That’s England’s annual cheese rolling contest. Many people will be hurt and this is proof that the insurance companies and inept Health & Safety consultants haven’t yet managed to stop people risking their own lives for no sound reason whatsoever.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KOyQBSMeIhM
Wife Carrying (Finland)
The Scandinavians are about the most equitable people you can imagine, yet it’s the men that have to do the carrying in this sport. Wife Carrying is a sport that involves running a 253.5m course, with your wife on your back. I personally find the Estonian wife-lift the easiest, but there are a number of styles.
If you’ve been to Finland, you’ll know that they’re not the most svelte of peoples. If you want to take part and have a typically skinny French wife you stand a good chance…
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PIB9UcA5iQU
La Tomatina (Spain)
La Tomatina – Public domain image from Wikipedia, by Aaron Corey
The Spanish grow an awful lot of tomatoes. This needs celebrating. What better way than to throw them at each other? Every year, in Buñol, Valencia, the Spanish enjoy nothing more than to throw tomatoes at La Tomatina And why not? Beats throwing donkeys off churches. My family happens to live in the Valencia region, and I fully intend to attend though it’s worth noting – I’ve been to a few Spanish festivals and I know that alcohol and chaos feature strongly.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QPQCH1b_LgE
Bog Snorkelling (Wales)
You might think of snorkelling as something to do at a Caribbean beach. Not the Welsh. They like nothing better than to get into fancy dress, head to a bog and get swimming in the annual Bog Snorkelling competition. There are prizes for speed, but many people enter the contest to raise money for charity and, consequently, the efforts that get the most attention are likely to raise the most money – hence the fancy dress.
I spend… oooh, lots of time in Paris. Yet I’ve never actually quite got round to writing about it on this site.
Why not? Good question. Perhaps because it’s a little personal. I’ve lived there, loved there, and so on. To talk about it in depth may reveal me more to the world at large. Although I present an open face on this site, I keep my personal and social life as private as possible. However, after a bit of thought I’ve realised that I can still write about the city without actually blowing the gaff, as it were.
Festival des Inrocks
For those that don’t know – this is a festival held annually in France, primarily Paris, by the rock magazine Les Inrockuptibles. I wangled my way in to the various shows this year thanks to carefully blagged passes and was treated to a wide range of music. A lot of it British, curiously enough. Seems a long way to go to listen to Brit-rock, but heck, it’s a nice environment to do it in!
This year’s line-up included Lily Allen, Jarvis Cocker, Guillemots, The Kooks and many more – some you’ve heard of, some you haven’t. A lot of the groups headlining were British, so in effect I’d travelled all that way to watch UK acts. Ah well… there were some good French acts too. In particular Rock & Roll, a punk-rock group (watch out, my music terminology is generally off-kilter) who put in a huge amount of energy and effort. Not my kind of music, but I could enjoy the act. And one of the lead singer’s plectrums flew off, hit Romana on the head, and was promptly bagged by me as a memento!
We also accidentally stumbled into a show by Etienne Daho. We hadn’t heard of him, but reckoning that he was one of the biggest names on the list he must be good. So we were a bit shocked when he came out on stage and acted like it was still the eighties. The music, the clothes, the dancing…. I mean, I know the French music scene is a bit mixed up and not as leading edge as in the UK, but this didn’t seem right.
Eventualy we discovered it was something like Rick Astley getting a gig at Glastonbury. Those that were of a certain age when he was about would love it and enjoy it, but anyone who didn’t realise it was a one-off comeback would be left baffled.
The City of Paris Itself
What is so hard about Paris is that it’s been written about by most of the finest writers in the world. How can I expect to add something new to the mix?
And here’s the answer… I can’t.
There is little left to write about, yet so much too. I’d rather create an entire new site for Paris, than try to sum it up in one article. After all, it’s home to millions of people, with a tightly packed centre full of museums, secrets catacombs, alleys, shops, dreams, nightmares and passion. One page here does the city no justice whatsoever.
But I’m not one to give up quite so easily. So in fact I will sum up Paris in one sentence:
It’s a better city to live, love and work in than it is to visit as a tourist.
Sadly, I never had a chance to write fully about Italy – so you’ll have to make do with this brief overview. Sorry!
I’m now back from a couple of weeks touring in Italy. Shattered, and surprised at my lack of internet access. It simply wasn’t an easy thing to sort out in some places, and I didn’t have my usual phone as it’s broken, so I was relying on an old mobile for access.
I’m struggling, actually, to give words to this country. Usually beautiful, sometimes ugly, almost always friendly…
The Statistics:
3200 miles driven; 3 new dents on the car; about 100 gallons (378 litres) of petrol used; highest speed travelled – daren’t say but speed limiters may have been touched; speed cameras triggered: 1; chats with police officers: 1
The Places – In (very) Brief
Milan
Nicer than expected. Friendly folk. Food ok. Lovely but pricey hotel in the centre appears to be something of a secret. Shall I keep it that way? Ask and I might add the name… heheh!
Parking in places could be challenging, like many Italian cities, and expensive, but at least the city itself proved easy to navigate and we found the hotel quickly.
Verona
We stayed in an astonishingly pretty campsite in the fortress overlooking the city. Food excellent where available but watch out – it would seem late eating isn’t a big thing here.
Taking a walk through the narrow streets at night is enchanting, and in the day you can visit the balcony where Juliet reputedly greeted Romeo. A lot of people rub the breast of Juliet’s statue, in particular her left breast which shines golden compared to the rest of her body. I’m still not sure why but I guess it brings luck, love, or just horniness to those who touch it.
Venice
So pretty, and (mostly) doesn’t smell as bad as some had suggested after all. Food good in one place, distinctly mediocre in another – so pays to search out a place that’s obviously popular with locals. Campsite turned out to be next to the runway at the airport – as are many of the other campsites. Watch out. Pricey too, at £20 per night including a car.
Bologona
There was something strange about this town. It was almost deserted, car hostile, and difficult to navigate. We couldn’t find a hotel in the centre that looked even vaguely approachable late at night and ended up resorting to the Holiday Inn near the airport – expensive rack rates so use Amex or a similar travel service to phone ahead and get a decent price on your room.
We discovered that it’s a student city, which may have explained the summertime desertion. Perhaps it’s vibrant in term time?
Tuscany in general
I can see why people fall in love with this area. It can be cheap, but the combination of good weather, good food, friendly people and varied landscape make it irresistable. Throw in pretty villages and girls and you have a region that begs to be explored. Sedately.
Watch out for travelling packs of Americans and middle-class English retirees who may sniff at you getting noisily drunk in their unspoilt bit of the country.
Lucca
I’d never even heard of this town before coming to Italy, but a barman recommended it to us… so why not? And it’s great! Best bet is to park in one of the reasonably priced car parks outside the old town then take a cycle to travel around the town – either hired or, as with some car parks, take a courtesy bike. You can also cycle around the city walls. Great little place, though packed with tourists so it can end up a little expensive and tiresome – but it’s not as packed or overpriced as other cities. And anyway, if there are tourists, there are facilities….
Pisa
If you approach the famous tower from the right angle it looks perfectly straight. Which could be a disappointment if that’s all you came to see. It was British engineers who stopped it falling over, apparently, and for a moment you might think they did too good a job. The plaza the tower is in (it’s the campanile for the Duomo) is very beautiful and although the tower is the reason people come, it’s a little bit more than just that. However, it’s also true that few people explore the rest of this city. We didn’t either. I feel a little guilty.
San Gimignano
This little gem of a town has a lot going for it and must have been something of a medieval Manhattan. It’s very pretty, full of towers, and has an awful lot of tourists. Lacked the charm of Lucca, but well worth a visit.
San Miniato
We stumbled upon this very pretty and friendly little town and we asked in an osteria for a room. It was at this point we learned that an osteria is just a type of restaurant. But this is Italy so phone calls were made by the proprietors and before we knew it we were checking in at a charming little B&B in the town centre. Anna makes a wonderful host – but she doesn’t speak a word of English, so take your time with bookings.
Siena
We accidentally turned up on the day of the Palio trials. The Palio is a crazy bare back horse race in the main square of the town – quite possibly the most ancient and yet least professional horse race in the world. Shame we missed anything exciting, but the main square is beautiful and ancient.
Florence (Firenza)
Florence is beautiful but, for me at least, not something that I found as beautiful as expected. What it is good for is art galleries. You can see some incredibly famous artworks in the city’s art galleries.
Genoa (Genova)
Don’t bother! Never seen quite such an ugly mass of concrete building. There are beautiful parts, of course, like most Italian cities, but they’re not necessarily easy to find. The guides say the city has a ‘gritty realism’ which I always think is travel guide speak for “you’ll be lucky not to get mugged.”
But on the whole – what a great country!
Driving in Italy
Driving in this country is actually a great experience. The road surfaces are smooth, the drivers skilled, and the weather generally good.
But there are things to beware of.
Speed bumps appear to have been randomly placed on the autostrada. Some people claim it’s down to subsidence or lorry damage, but I think it’s just to keep you awake.
The distance and direction markers towards towns and cities were the inspiration for some of Heisenberg’s greatest work. You might see that your town is 25km away. The next sign, 1km down the road, will say 20km. Then it’ll revert to 25km and you may well conclude that you’re going round in circles. Or getting closer, because as you continue the next sign will say you’re 18km away. The actual distance may be less. Or more.
If you park in the wrong place you’ll get a ticket, but working out how to pay isn’t simple so I’m ignoring my ticket and waiting to see what happens. Anyway, parking places are colour coded – white means you can park there freely, except when the signs say you can’t, yellow means you can park there freely except when the signs say you can’t and blue means…. well you get the idea. I think blue is pay, white is free, and yellow is residents but the reality is that you need to check as different towns have different rules.
Italian Food, In Italy
I’m a vegetable, as many of you know, so obviously can’t eat meat. Italy at least has a good range of vegetarian food available so there’s no need to spend too much time scrutineering the menus.
The food itself range from great to mediocre but there was nothing so amazing that I’m going to make a special mention. I did enjoy the white truffle and artichoke tagliateli I had in Verona – something I’ve never had before and which was delicious.
Next Time
It’ll be Rome and the south. And more slowly – the furious pace we set meant we covered a lot of ground, but it was tiring sometimes. Still… we had a great time.
