Gondola Ride in Venice (Bucket List #120)

Venice, Italy • June 2019 • Length of Read: 5 Minutes

In days gone by, gondolas were used as the primary means of transporting goods and individuals around the waterways of Venice in northern Italy. More famous than the vessels themselves, however, are their smooth operators. Instantly recognisable in their red striped tops, dark trousers, and straw hats, gondoliers now operate as tour guides as opposed to truck drivers, but the profession is no less noble. Around 400 licenses are in circulation at any one point and these can only be granted once a lengthy apprenticeship has been served and a comprehensive exam passed. Not only do individuals have to master practical boating skills, but also foreign languages and Venetian history. The result of all this: a magical, romantic ride through the city’s antiquated canals against the backdrop of a beautifully unique tapestry.

Eva and I picked up one of these grand vessels from a jetty just under the Rialto Bridge, at the edge of a piazza where dozens of tables sprawled out from compact restaurants and offered fatigued travellers the enviable opportunity to rest their weary feet and enjoy some al fresco drinks and dining. Our gondolier for the standard half-hour time slot was a long-haired silver fox who, before even picking up his oar, offered to take our photo sat on the pillowed throne. A man who definitely knew his audience. Pictures snapped, he then took up a standing position at the rear of the boat and, with a twizzle of the paddle, effortlessly backed us out the parking space; the gondola rocking left and right as we slowly floated our way into the busy thoroughfare where dozens of other copycat boats crisscrossed in an organised web of bedlam.

Navigating down a narrow side street, we were given a brief history of the grandiose buildings that slowly passed us by, but for the most part, our gondolier kept quiet and allowed Eva and I to hold hands and bask in the tranquillity of the lagoon. It was romantic in the most clichéd manner and would make a remarkably tacky wedding proposal, but the cheesy nature of the ride took nothing away from the pleasantry of the experience and the short but sweet trip marked my first bucket list item of 2019 being ticked off.  Most importantly, however, it was the first of what I hope will be many more experiences shared with Eva by my side.

Following a tourist-trap dinner, we made our way to Piazza San Marco as the sun eventually set, guided through the narrow streets by the ethereal sound of classical music that rose peacefully over the curt choir of American families on their European summer holidays. In the city’s vast main square, we cut through the pods of camera-clad visitors capturing the remarkable Venetian architecture an took a seat at Caffé Florian. The second-oldest café in the world, this establishment has had gentlemanly waiters in pristine white jackets and bowties serving up drinks and cakes since 1720; a live concerto playing soundtrack to the guest’s unique dining experience. Ordering a glass of wine for Eva and a Venetian spitz for myself, we settled down to enjoy the late-night entertainment as the music and setting transported us back in time.

The elderly couple at the table next to us were incredibly well turned out, the bottle of champagne on ice sat atop their table, glistening necklace around the lady’s neck, and well-pressed suit jacket on her husband’s back the most immediate clues that they were living out their retirement in the upper echelons of society. During a break between compositions, the man shuffled his way to the front of the stage and handed the clarinet player a 50 Euro note before uttering a few muffled words in Italian. Upon returning to his seat, the band then burst into a timeless rendition of Happy Birthday, much to the overwhelming delight of his wife. In the city of romance, chivalry certainly isn’t dead.

The accordion player was a cute, white-haired Italian man; hunched over his instrument with pride and a seemingly permanent smile across his face that made his crow’s feet laughter lines a permanent feature. It was clear that he performed for the love of the music, which is how it should be. “Is anyone here from France?” he asked the audience, attempting to drum up an atmosphere. A few ‘whoops’ came from the tables at the back in response. “Germany?” A smattering of claps from left-of-stage. “China?” A solitary cheer from one couple at the front. “USA?” Raucous applause, what else.

After what felt like a laundry list of nationalities, the entire UN membership having been called upon besides Greece, much to Eva’s annoyance, the band started the second act of their setlist. “No matter where you’re from,” the accordion player continued, “You’ll all know this one. Feel free to sing along.”

With Frank Sinatra and the theme from Pirates of the Caribbean having already been showcased from their repertoire, I was excited to hear their classic take on a blockbuster smash, but what came out the piano and violin was not only foreign to Eva and myself, but seemingly every other nationality represented in the audience that evening. One woman stood at the rear appeared to be unsurely humming along, but even this was more in support than in any great excitement for the song. Nevertheless, the band carried on unperturbed.

As the evening passed in a blur of music and wine, I looked at Eva, raised my glass and smiled. “Thanks for making this bucket list item so magical,” I toasted. “To many more adventures further on up the road.”

“To many more adventures further on up the road,” she smiled.

Bologna - A Little Slice of Heaven

Bologna, Italy • July 2017 • Length of Read: 9 Minutes

Catching my breath, I gazed in wonder over the bronze and rust coloured city that stretched out before my eyes; the bright, mid-morning, sun illuminating the terracotta rooftops of the buildings below as the sidewalk-arching porticoes cast shadows out over the cobbled streets, providing welcome shade for the throngs of tourists and locals who were presumably perusing the myriad high-fashion shops; exploring the boutique cafes; or simply enjoying some al fresco dining whilst taking in the melting pot of architecture and culture that can be found on every corner in Bologna.

Along with the lovely Polish guy who I’d met at the tourist information centre in Piazza Maggiore, this northern Italian city’s main square, we’d just climbed 498 steps up the spiral staircase of the medieval Torre Degli Asinelli, and were taking in the panoramic vista we’d been rewarded from the top. The taller of the Two Towers, which together act as the symbol of Bologna, it has been standing strong for over 1,000 years, surviving the aerial bombings of both world wars as well as numerous lightning strikes. This tower’s shorter sister leans adjacent to it at a precarious 4-degree slant, even more squint than the 3.6-degree tilt of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and together they are among only twenty towers that remain standing in a city that used to boast more than one-hundred such constructions. With no suitable ground or space on which to build a castle, stone towers were constructed in Bologna by the region’s wealthy families, the height of the structures said to have correlated to the extent of their power. When these families had disagreements that led to bloody feuds, however, the towers would be demolished as a sign of defeat.

Back on terra firma, my calves burning from the descent, I took a stroll down the primary shopping street of Via dell’Independenza before cutting off towards the University. Founded in 1088, the University of Bologna is the oldest in the world, and unbeknownst to me upon pulling into the main train station the previous evening, I’d timed my visit for the exact week that the students’ graduation ceremonies and coinciding festivities were taking place. Entering the walled city-centre, passing a number of beautiful monuments and sculptures from the medieval, Renaissance, and Baroque artistic eras, I was astounded to be confronted with hundreds of young people laughing and drinking in the packed streets as if it were a carnival parade. Crossing a small graffiti-covered square towards the fantastic Dopa Hostel, my recommended accommodation, I’d had to duck in between a pair of students playing drunken badminton wearing Mario and Luigi costumes; a more stereotypical Italian sight one would struggle to find.

The summer temperature was peaking in the mid-thirties and with not a lick of breeze in the air for comfort I found myself taking refuge in one of the quirky little lunchtime restaurants that ran up the street from this square back towards the Two Towers. One of the beautiful things about Bologna is how compact the city centre is. Due to the walled boundaries, there is little room for expansion, so every place of interest is just a short walk apart. At no point do you feel like the place is too crowded or crushed, however. Having checked in to my hostel, I’d befriended a group of pretty Brazilian girls and a separate group of cool Austrian guys. Together, we’d all bought some beers and wine from the local liquor store and spent the evening sat in a small circle at the edge of this square; talking nonsense, trading stories, and taking in the joyously absurd student traditions. As midnight hit, we’d then sidled into a nearby pizzeria for a bite to eat, and where the chef working the large stone stove took quite a shining to the South American quartet. When I then joked to him in broken Italian that they were all ‘la mia ragazza’ he bowed to me like I was a Roman God. Either that, or he was bent double with laughter at the possibility of such a pale, skinny, ginger man being able to get away with such elegant, foreign, girls. Alas, chi non bate non scopa.

Ordering a salad and coffee for lunch, I took the seat in the restaurant with the best view of the street and gazed out at the tranquil goings on around me. Mediterranean life is chilled out in a way that would be described as lazy back home in the UK. Having spent a fair amount of time this past year with a gorgeous Italian, however, I’ve come to the realisation that clock-watching, agenda-planning, and list-making is just a great way of running yourself into a stress-induced mess. She made me realise that, I myself, needed to become more laid back and less regimented, and just being present in the atmosphere of Bologna was helping me with this. One specific observation I made whilst watching the locals go about their daily activities, was the large number of people reading books. There wasn’t a smartphone in sight. Instead, those dining alone or waiting on companions were digging into famous literature or exam notes. It only seemed fitting of an environment which oozed such class and simplicity. I’ve become a big fan of the Mediterranean life.

The waiter, a young guy called Cosimo, came over with my food and we got chatting about travel. At this point, I was seven months into a backpacking world tour that had taken me through Oceania, South East Asia, and Central Europe, and he was fascinated to learn more about my journey. Whilst eating, he quizzed me on specific places I’d been, working holiday visas, and the general grind of living life on the road. When it came to paying my bill, we exchanged numbers and I happily agreed to give him any further advice he might require in relation to his dream of moving to Australia. I left the restaurant not only captivated by the architecture and atmosphere of this city but with people as well.

Returning to the hostel to drop off some things, I found the bunk below me to be occupied by a charming American dude who had just got off the phone with a prospective new college roommate for the forthcoming fall semester. “Sorry for eavesdropping,” I said, having caught the tail end of his call, “but I couldn’t help overhearing you asking the guy on the other end of the line about his sexual escapades.”

“I’ve learnt to just be blunt about these things upfront,” he laughed shaking my hand and introducing himself. “Last year I had the unfortunate situation of living with a gay guy that was in a number of polygamous relationships and at times our flat more resembled a brothel than student accommodation.”

‘That’s hilarious,” I laughed, picturing this very normal looking dude trying to eat his breakfast in peace whilst flamboyant visitors took over the kitchen. “What are your plans for tonight?”

“I’m actually heading out right now for a date with an English girl I met online to the open-aired cinema that’s been put up at the back of Piazza Maggiore,” he said, putting on his shoes. “They are playing all English language films this week and tonight is going to be a showing of Woody Allen’s Annie Hall.”

“Good film,” I nodded. “Hope it goes well. It’s a beautiful setting for a date.”

“Fingers crossed,” he smiled, checking his hair in the mirror before leaving the room.

After writing a short article in the hostel’s common area and then taking a quick nap, I headed out as the sun set for a late dinner. There was only one dish on my mind: spaghetti bolognese, but there was no shortage of awesome eateries to go to. Wandering around the back streets, bustling osterias spilt out into the open-air, with wheels of parmesan, dangling meats, and hearty pasta dishes drawing in my nostrils with their fresh smells. I took a table at one called Osteria dell’orsa, the bear, and ordered a jug of white wine alongside the dish named after the city it originated. Tucking into it a short while later, the sun came streaking through an archway at the end of the street and gave the surrounding area an angelic feeling. ‘That’s heaven’ I thought to myself. ‘Everything about Bologna is heaven. Further on up the road, I want to establish a hostel here; to dine to my heart’s content; to drink the best coffee during the day and the best wine by night; to learn the language of the beautiful locals; to never return home.’

Trieste - Italy's Crossroads to the Balkans

Trieste, Italy • September 2016 • Length of Read: 12 Minutes

The following extract has been adapted from my self-published paperback travel book, We Ordered A Panda: Tales of City-Hopping Around Europe. If you enjoy this post, then please visit my online bookshop for more details.

I was sat in London Stansted Airport, minding other peoples’ business, when the noise started. A hawking blare that turned the bustling departure lounge into descending chaos. My headphones were snug tightly into my ears to give the illusion that I was listening to music, a million miles away from the happenings around me, but in truth, they weren’t even plugged into my iPod. The four lads sitting along the bench opposite were dishing out some serious banter and when they started mixing it with pieces of highly intellectual conversation I considered asking if I could join them on their trip. I do this quite a lot, the not-actually-listening-to-music thing. I don’t know if anyone else does. I’ve never been so inclined to ask. From the meaningless information that is now fed to us through tabloid journalism and reality television both day and night, however, I can’t see myself as being in a minority here. Curiosity did indeed kill the cat. The shutters of all the shops were pulled across as an automated voice of calm broke out over the speakers:

“A fire alarm has been activated in another area of the building. Please remain where you are and await further instruction. Feueralarm wurde in einem anderen Bereich des Gebäudes aktiviert. Bitte bleiben Sie, wo Sie sind und warten auf weitere Anweisungen. Avertisseur d'incendie a été activé dans une autre zone du bâtiment. S'il vous plaît restez où vous êtes et attendre d'autres instructions.”

What did everyone start to do? Freak the fuck out of course. I felt like a mind reader as passengers rushed to the gates of their respective flights already displayed on the departures board. Each brain was computing the exact same question in its native language: ‘How will this affect the ability for my flight to board and leave on time?’

Well, that’s not entirely true. There was clearly at least one person who wasn’t at all phased by the commotion and that was because she had managed to sleep through the entire thing. Although we effectively had an air raid siren blaring like there was a B-52 bomber overhead, and the old woman to my right was snoring away like she was a bear in hibernation. With a Fanny pack strapped awfully tightly around her midriff, drool slithered down her chin and stained the pink t-shirt which barely covered her droopy tits and fat folds. Whether consciously or not, the automated voice was telling her to remain calm and she was doing just that.

My flight took off on time of course and I landed in Trieste Airport fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, at 14:30 on Friday 23rd September 2016. I scooted through passport control and past the baggage carousel, following the car rental signs. Trieste is less an airport and more an airport hangar; or rather, the shed which is situated next to an airport hangar where spare parts and tools are kept. I approached the service desk and handed over my driving licence, passport, and credit card to the smiley Italian local behind the counter. Lara, the Italian princess from the book and Vienna, had invited me to her hometown. From here, we planned to commence a whirlwind road trip through the Balkan states that would eventually result in us visiting five countries, and crossing seven state lines, in one weekend.

Being that we would be mainly on her turf, I had left my road trip buddy to organise the majority of the logistics. This included sourcing a vehicle for our journey, which in hindsight may not have been the best idea when she convinced me to book a Fiat Panda because it was ‘the best deal’. Only as I was filling out the mandatory paperwork did it dawn on me that I was stupid to have gone along with this logic. It may have been the best deal, but there isn’t much glamour to be sourced from trundling along economically in the slow lane. Was a purple Lamborghini really too much of a budgetary constraint?

As this thought was festering, my partner in crime snuck up behind me and jumped on my back in excitement. We hadn’t seen one another in three months and it was a delight to finally be reunited. Ever since a sad departure in Vienna’s Landstraße train station I’d been looking forward to the next time I’d see that cheeky smile, and there it was. Her eleven-year-old sister, along with her best friend Michela, had chauffeured her to the airport, but it was myself that would take the wheel from here on in.

“Excuse me, Sir,” said the car rental guy, holding out his hand. “All the paperwork seems to be in order. Here are your keys. Have a very pleasant trip.”

I took them and started to laugh. “Thank you so much.” The keychain sign indicated that it was an Opel Corsa we’d been allocated. That cheeky smile on Lara’s face quickly faded.

“Sorry, but I think there has been a mistake,” she blurted in fast Italian. “We ordered a Panda.”

I made a slit-of-the-throat gesture behind her back and the guy at the counter seemed to get my message.

“Unfortunately there are no Pandas available,” he responded, winking at me when Lara glanced away for a brief second in disgust. “If it’s any consolation, the Corsa is clearly an upgrade, though.”

She turned to me and glared. “You changed the booking, didn’t you?”

“Not at all,” I said, unconvincingly, picking up my bag and walking with her sister to the car park. Lara shuffled along behind us, trying to maintain her best smirk but failing to do so in the happiness of having me present.

Never having driven on the right-hand-side of the road before, I got into the driver’s seat of the car and just stared in bewilderment. The foot pedals felt familiar, as did the steering wheel, but having the gearbox and rear-view mirror to my right seemed alien. I manoeuvred slowly onto the main street, following Michela’s beat-up purple Clio, and kangaroo hopped my way into second gear. It was all rather surreal, but having successfully navigated a couple of roundabouts and imagining I was back cycling my stolen bicycle around the streets of Maastricht, where I’d spent six months on ERASMUS, I soon got the hang of it. As we hit the mountainous coastal road that wound its way down towards the city centre, I rolled down the windows and let my own road trip mixtape blast from the speakers.

“Pull the sheets right off the corner of the mattress that you stole; From your roommate back in Boulder. We ain’t ever getting older.”

Trieste is a seaport city that is tucked into the North Eastern hook of Italy and occupies a narrow strip of land between the Adriatic Sea and Slovenia. We stopped sporadically along the way to admire the blue water views and catch up on life, before eventually broaching the city limits. Here I faced navigating through a maze of cobbled streets that spiral up the hillside and then back down. Most are barely wide enough to fit motorbikes, never mind hire cars driven by someone more used to a mirroring perception of a vehicle’s dimensions. After numerous laps, close calls with brick walls, and miraculously avoided encounters with other drivers, I eventually just abandoned Ben at the side of the road. I had been initially confused as to why the car had been given the name Benzina, it even having been written like a name badge on the fuel cap, until Lara pointed out that it was actually just the Italian work for petrol. I may have blushed at the time, but that soon faded. The name Ben, however, was to stick for the entire trip.

Convinced by Lara that Ben wasn’t going to be sitting on four breezeblocks when we got back to him the next day, I grabbed my bag, locked the doors, and we headed down a meandering staircase to the high street. Her flat was situated right above the Apple store on this shopping boulevard and the plan was to dump our stuff, quickly change, and then head out for dinner and drinks. Lara would be moving to Ljubljana for University the following week and this was the last time she would be seeing her hometown friends for a while. Not that an excuse was needed to party in Trieste. The place has so many bars and pubs you’d think it was run by alcoholics.

“It's Mardi Gras up in the clouds. I'm up so high, I may never come down. I'll try anything to drown out the pain. They all know why I'm getting drunk on a plane.”

I was under the impression that I’d be meeting her mother and maid, which was making me apprehensive enough, but halfway down the flight of stairs, Lara decided to drop the bombshell that these two ladies were out of town. My initial sigh of relief was cut short, however, when she informed me that her father had returned back from a business trip that very afternoon.

“I’m not meeting your dad,” I said, stubbornly. “Nope. No. No.”

“You don’t really have a choice,” she responded, sympathetically. It was clear Lara wasn’t too keen on the situation either. “He knows you are coming, but just remember that he thinks we are going away with my German friend also and is under the impression we are picking her up from Ljubljana Airport tomorrow morning. Go will that and it will be fine.”

These last four words were less than convincing. I entered the flat and immediately found myself face to face with a stern look of mistrust and suspicion.

“Hello, Sir,” I said, squeezing his outstretched hand in more of a vice grip than the firm shake I was going for. “I’m Chris. Nice to meet you.”

“Hi,” he responded, the glare in his eyes switching from that of suspicion to that of pure, vile, hatred. The sole word that came from his mouth seemed to linger for eternity.

“I hear you just got back into the country today then?” I continued, trying to clear the stale air of awkwardness with some generic shit chat.

There was further silence. Then, instead of responding, the Serbian-born man turned away and picked up a knife. Thoughts ran through my head of waking up in a dumpster the next morning with missing limbs. I instinctively checked my vital signs. All clear. I then thought he may have picked up the knife as a metaphor for how he planned to cut the thick layer of tension which had built up to suffocating levels. It was no use in hiding my intentions. The man was reading me like an open book. A book he may have wished to have ripped the pages from and throw on a blazing bonfire.

To his credit, therefore, he simply turned around and got back to chopping vegetables on the kitchen worktop. I breathed a sigh of relief, dumped my bags in Lara’s sister’s room, which had simply a cot-like structure surrounded by Barbie dolls, and we headed straight back out. Her sister was going to be rooming with her so that I could be kept out of harm’s way. I put up zero protests.

“How was the typical Balkan Father?” asked the bespectacled guy opposite me, an earring glittering next to his matted brown hair. I would have initially pinned him as gay were it not for the cute girl on his arm. “Lara told me you were coming to visit.”

I was sitting at a table outside a late night café near the main square, having just been introduced to a bunch of Lara’s friends from school and God-knows-where-else. The girl seemed to have more connections in the city than a news reporter.

“It seems like the whole city knew about my arrival,” I laughed, taking a large gulp of beer. I still felt a little shaken from the ordeal. “If I had been walking on eggshells in that apartment, then there wouldn’t be a single yolk left in the coop that hadn’t been burst. Do Balkan fathers have a reputation for being so stern?”

“You can say that again,” he nodded, taking a sip of his white wine spritzer. I again took a glance at the girl to confirm that they were indeed a couple.

“I thought he was going to stuff me in a duffel bag and toss me out to sea, only for my decomposed body to be picked apart by crows weeks later.”

“That sounds about right. Pretty much par for the course. Don't sweat about it.”

Knocking back the rest of my pint we then dispersed and headed to the bar where Michela was working. It was owned by this shifty Chinese dude and looked more like a fast food takeaway than a watering hole. I attributed this to the fact that it was probably acting as a front for some law-evading operation. I’ve seen enough gangster movies to know that this guy was far from a Mafioso, but definitely covering something up. I was being given free beer, though, so decided to just keep my mouth shut and roll with it. The owner even humoured me with some Japanese alcoholic tea when I asked why there wasn’t any rice wine on the spirits menu. Sat at the bar stool and chatting to Michela’s boyfriend, who had coincidentally done his ERASMUS at my home University, I became rather drunk. When it was suggested, therefore, that we head to a club that overlooked the sea, I was nothing but game.

“Can we go back, this is the moment. Tonight is the night, we’ll fight ‘til it’s over. So we put our hands up like the ceiling can’t hold us. Like the ceiling can’t hold us.”

Paying a fairly steep €10 entrance fee, we danced up to the bar and exchanged our free drinks tokens for beers. The dancefloor itself was literally the pier from where boats used to dock, with a raised platform at the back housing the DJ and his hired dancers. Lara spent the time bidding farewell to a number of her friends whilst I danced around like a lunatic to the mix of Latin and chart music. Knowing that we had a long weekend of driving ahead, as things started to wind down we wandered back along the shorefront, hand in hand and casting a gaze to a distant green light across the bay.

“That’s Gatsby’s American dream right there,” said Lara.

“It’s also the green light to the start of our little journey,” I responded. “Tomorrow we head further on up the road... and further away from the typical Balkan father.”