• Italy
  • June 17: Milan, Verona
  • June 18: Verona, Bologna
  • June 19: Bologna, Florence
  • June 20: Florence
  • June 21: Florence
  • June 22: Florence
  • June 23: Florence
  • June 24: Florence, Brindisi
• Greece
• Turkey

The flight from Boston to New York/JFK was uneventful, but the flight from there to Milan was delayed for a half-hour while they looked for a passenger who had checked in but not boarded. Apparently he appeared and we were on our way.

As trans-Atlantic flights go, it was not too bad at all, and I actually slept a bit (I am usually too excited at the prospect of traveling again). Sally's contribution of some NyQuil caplets helped out greatly. I was in a Q-induced haze for most of the flight, but I was woken once or twice by a small, fluffy white drop-kick dog who had been set free by a guilt-ravaged owner. It was surreal really, to wake up in a plane to find a dog licking my ankle.

Landed in Milan at 8AM and we hooked up with a first-time backpacker from New Orleans who was meeting his girlfriend in Verona, which happened to be our destination too. Turns out, he was the schmuck who had held up the plane back at JFK. He had lost track of time getting piss drunk in the airport bar, trying to calm his nerves. We missed the first bus to the Stazione by a hair, and had to wait a short while for the second. Sally and I exchanged the usual rounds of "Holy shit, we're in Italy!" and the like. The bus came, and we enjoyed a fine ride into Milan proper.

Once at the Stazione, our pal hooked up with his girlfriend, who had come from Verona to meet him. She wasn't too thrilled about us being around. Sally and I were trying to be friendly and help them find the right train to get back to Verona, but they were indecisive and so we left them to their fate. We just barely caught the train out to Verona, and boarded sans tickets. I am glad we didn't pay, seeing as how the entire train was packed out and we had to keep moving the entire time, mostly sticking to the end of the cars and the boarding steps for the entirety of the two-hour ride.

Where is it written that taking a train directly after a long plane ride guarantees that said train will be bursting at the seams?

We pulled into Verona Stazione and boarded Bus 72, which was going in the direction of the hostel I had staked out (the same one I stayed in in the last trip, I figure the first day in it's better to be sure than adventurous). I had more confidence in my ability to recall the location of the hostel than perhaps I should, and the closest bus stop was not so close after all. We had a healthy 20 minute walk uphill in the mid-day heat with our packs, and by the time we got to the Ostello Villa Francescati, we were soaked in sweat.

When we arrived we found out, much to our chagrin, that this being an official-type IYHA hostel, they had a 9-5 lockout, the bastards. It was 1:30 when we arrived, so we had 3.5 hrs to kill before gaining merciful sleep. Remember that we have been up for like 36 hours at this point. So we trudged out into the noonday sun, niether one dressed for the heat, and made our way over the river and into Verona proper.

I remembered liking the Coliseum last time, so we each paid 6000 Lira to enter the Coliseum. We walked around the arena for a while, but the stone steps were like a giant reflector dish and we decided to duck into the cool corridors underneath. We poked around and found an alcove underneath the ancient stone steps where we could catch our breaths. We dozed off a bit on the chill stone floor, and after a while we collected ourselves and made our way to a gelateria, where we acquired some delectable (and tourist-priced) frosty refreshment. We milked our time in the shade for all it was worth, and finally moved on, much to the relief of the waiter, who was starting to give us bad looks.

We became very adept at the Cafe Campout over the course of the trip, developing a strong resistance to waiter-induced guilt trips.

It was about 4:15, and we figured we might as well make our way back up to the hostel to camp out and wait for the lockout to end.

God, I hate lockouts with a passion.

I entered room A1 gladly and plopped down on my assigned bunk. I got into a friendly and comical discussion with some Brits about whether or not the hostel people really were fascists. We left it undecided. We all went down to dinner and were joined by Sally and another Brit, this one a frumpy girl who went on at great length about her affinity for the goth lifestyle and the merits of sado-masochism.

As dinner drew to a close I brought up the "Celtic Pub" which I had noticed a block or two downhill from the hostel, but this girl was insistent that we visit a "really happening bar" all the way over by the Coliseum (well over a mile's walk). OK, we were open to it, and we all followed her all the way to what ended up being a harshly lit, bad-music-blaring cafeteria, which could be called a "bar" only in the sense that it happened to sell beer.

The Englishman's frustrated cry of "Fuck this!" made its way across the plaza and echoed back at us from the ancient walls of the Coliseum. We turned around and headed right back up to the Celtic Pub, silly Goth girl in tow. The beer was pricey, but good, and we had about four rounds before racing back up the hill to make the 11:30 deadline. Sally and I would have been pretty cross if we had had to sleep in the street our first night over.

Today we awoke early, had breakfast, and checked out of the hostel before setting out to see some of Verona's sights. We had seen some sights yesterday, but were not then in the mood to appreciate them.

We followed the river around Verona to the Castelvecchio, an impressive fortified structure containing a decent art museum. In the courtyard, we encountered an affable Brit from the night before, who joined us as we toured the museum. The art was predominantly Crucifixions and Madonnas and Child, so we accelerated rapidly through the galleries. Still, as it was midweek, we pretty much had the place to ourselves, and reveled in the feeling of being alone in the presence of greatness. Further on, there was a neat weapons room, and many adjoining winding passages which either led out over a courtyard, or, in one case, out above the rushing waters of the river.

We emerged from the fortress and meandered across the medieval bridge to the other side of the river. Once there, hunger quickly took hold, and we re-crossed the bridge to visit a bakery and secure some sandwich makings. We crossed the bridge yet again, found some stone steps, and plunked down to relax with our munchies. Somehow we all got into a discussion about the Iran and Contra affairs.

At one point we noticed a man with a camcorder following a woman who was wearing the definitive Italian hotpants, the ones so tight you swear they must have spray-painted them on. Anyway, this guy just walked right behind her for the length of the bridge, camera pointed down and zoomed in on her ass the entire time. I thought it a little strange and somewhat predatory, and as we were to learn it was unfortunately representative of a certain percentage of the Italian male populace.

We made our way back to the hostel and grabbed our bags, just in time to make the bus back to the Stazione. The bus came to a stop at a park and everyone got off, including the driver. Sally and I just sat there for a bit until I realized belatedly that I had gotten us on the 32 bus instead of the 72.

Eventually we got to the station and actually bought tickets this time. Something made me decide to call ahead and make advance lodging arrangements in Bologna. We hopped the train, and let me tell you, we hit the motherlode. I don't know who we kissed up to by buying those tickets, but somehow we found a second-class car with seats to rival first-class airline seats. I actually asked an Italian couple "Seconde Classe, si?", somewhat incredulously, and they nodded, also happy to have found this gem of a train car. Luxury! This time the conductor was actually coming around for tickets, and this time we actually had tickets to give!

We seemed to defy the age-old principle that says that a conductor will always come around when you haven't bought tickets, and vice versa. We knew there would be a reckoning.

We seemed to stop along the way several times for no perceivable reason, but nevertheless pulled into Bologna on time at 5PM, and hopped the tiny Bus No. 50 for Piazza Verdi, near our place. We checked in and collapsed into a well-apointed double room where the skylight looked out over the city. We slept until 8 or so, and set out to quiet our grumbling stomachs.

Unfortunately for us, Bologna is predominately a student town, and since school was out of session at the time, eating spots were few and far between. We walked and walked and walked, looking for an inviting place to set down, but it was pretty dry out there. Adding to this frustration was the insufferable brashness of the Italian men, who clucked and whistled at Sally wherever we walked. We tired of the walking and the pestering and sat down at a little sandwich place. We fumed over the time we had with the leering men and hoped that Bologna would be more welcoming in the daytime. Thank goodness we went right back to the Albergo, as I was coming to a slow boil and might have either told someone to fuck off or tried to start something. However, I say, when in Rome.... (which happens to agree with my aversion to pain).

Tomorrow we will tour Bologna a bit and then head out for Florence, where we will make excursions into Tuscany and also meet up with our travel agent, Patricia, who happens to be in Florence right now.

This morning we slept in a little too much, because we stayed up half the night tossing and turning from all the street noise. I had dreams of sniper rifles and downed mopeds.

Had a great time trying to cash a traveller's check at a third-rate bank called Banc Bispo or something like that. We have Amex Traveller's Checks for Two, which either person can sign and cash. Well, this schmuck lady insisted that both signatures were required to cash the check. I wouldn't have gotten mad had the Exchange sign not had an Amex logo on it - I mean, you're supposed to get an info packet with that sign. I got into a big argument with them, basically along the lines of "Non, uno signature! / Non, due signatures, capische?"

Eventually sorted the mess out (at another bank) and collected Sally from the Albergo. We dropped the bags off at the Stazione before heading out for a brief tour of Bologna. We started at the Due Torri, two imposing towers built by competing families in a classic "mine is longer than yours" contest. One family won out and the main tower is 400-odd feet tall. We know this because Sally and I gleefully hiked every step up to the top. It had started to drizzle when we first entered the staircase; when we emerged, it was a driving rain with 20-30mph winds, which made being on the roof quite a thrilling time. We got happily soaked, and made our way over to the huge Duomo of Bologna, which was grand and dark and relatively untouristed.

We hopped the train for Florence, glad to be leaving Bologna. Something just did not sit right with us there.

Not the case at all in Florence. Despite only one previous visit, I had strong memories of Florence and was immediately at ease, as was Sally. We hiked across the river and found our hostel almost without using the map. Once there and settled, I called Patricia to let her know we were in town. We agreed to meet on the steps of the central Duomo at 7:15. Sally and I dressed casually, but in a European style, and made it to the Piazza il Duomo by 7:20 or so. Patricia and her crew (of fellow South Carolinians) arrived at 7:45, looking confused (they had gotten lost) and we looked for a trattoria in which to dine.

Patricia and crew were almost funny in the extent of their American appearance; loud questions posed to waiters in horrible pseudo-Italian accents, plaid shirts, alligator shirts, Duck Head trousers. Sally and I looked continental in comparison, as much as we could. Dinner went well, but was a bit on the expensive side for our budget. Oddly enough, Bobby O'Dell, our family doctor back home, and I pulled out the exact same kind of Visa card from a small Southern bank. I'm sure the waiter loved the extra confusion that ensued.

Came back to the hostel and talked for a long while with some Canadians about this and that, and once again had trouble falling asleep. I have got to cut out those late-night cappucinos.

Sally woke me this morning and we went our separate ways for the day in order to preserve our sanity. I wandered around south of the Arno, in the area east of our hostel, and across a market (which I remembered from my visit in '94) to the Pitti Palace. I spent the morning wandering through the Museo Specolo, a zoological museum with specimens of the largest insects I have ever seen. There was a wide variety of life on display, including a crab that must have been over two feet wide. Most impressive was the extensive display of early 18th-century wax replicas of the human anatomy. Literally dozens of rooms full of display cases containing every imaginable part and system of the human body. Some of the displays were wax musculatures on real skeletons, and evoked the same creepy feeling you get around real cadavers. There was also a represenation of what a uterus looks like when it contains twins, which an Italian woman and I both boggled at.

Outside of the museum was a lovely courtyard garden adjoining the Boboli Gardens. This locale was serene and provided a great place to sit and take it all in for a while. I headed out across the Ponte Vecchio and wandered for a few hours before returning to the hostel. In the arts district, I was called in off the street to hold a piece of wood for an old carpenter as he sanded two pieces together.

That night, we went out with three girls from Sally's room and made a night of it. Two girls were American and of a very immature, sophomoric temperament. The third girl was a Toronto resident of Hong Kong descent named Evelyn, who was far more mature. We went to a great little trattoria down the street where I came off looking good because I got us 10% off just by talking to the headwaiter. Of course, I went a little too far with it and thought I would be able to be naturally charming for the rest of the night. Unfortunately, I think I was a little too smarmy, and the two American girls started cracking on me, with Sally's help. We had good food and bad wine. Later, we descended into an underground jazz club, where we had a few beers, and all the girls save Evelyn drooled over a guy up near the stage. I bought a bottle of Chianti and we just made the curfew at the Pensione. Finished off the wine and headed to sleep.

This morning we were both slightly hung-over, and we took our sweet-ass time getting up and ready for daytrip to Siena. Our plan was to get there and take some mopeds into the Tuscan countryside. Of course, due to our slackness, we didn't actually end up in Siena until 3:30 in the afternoon, and we were cranky due to our hangovers, so we were in no mood to hear from the only moped place around that it was going to cost us each $30 to rent a moped for three hours. We stomped out and sulked in the central Piazza, until we thought about it and realized, hey, we're in Siena, might as well do something while we're here. We visited an impressive town hall/ fresco museum, walked around town for a bit, and headed back to Florence for the night. Once back at the Stazione we decided that since the day was a write-off anyway, we might as well give in and visit the McDonald's in the station. Hey, I'm not proud, but that tasted gooood.

Today we awoke lazily and went to find lunch. We were royally ripped off by one place near the Stazione, but didn't take it to heart. We regrouped and walked up into the hills south of Florence, intending to come back around to the Boboli gardens. These hill roads were very prestigious, and we passed mansion after mansion. We were creatively wandering (read: dead lost) and had a grand time marveling at the estates along the San Giorgio road. Finally, we happened upon the Boboli gardens, where we got back in touch with nature (the landscaped variety) for an hour or so.

Finally we returned to the hostel and went out to find some supper with Pascal, a French-speaking Swiss guy, and another Francophone, this one an animated gent from Quebec. Good night to brush up on my rusty French. We had a hard time finding a place to eat on a Sunday night, and once again we paid a little too much for what we got. Brought some wine back to the hostel, finished that wine, got some more, etc.

Messed around in Florence. Found a really cool, out-of-the-way, good value trattoria, where I fell in love with gnocchi. Failed again to procure a motorbike.

Set off Tuesday morning from Florence to Brindisi via Bologna. We were quite comfortably furnished on the 8-hour trip to Brindisi, during which much reading was accomplished, and we met a classic old Italian gentlemen who attempted to educate us on the finer points of Italian wine.

Arrival in Brindisi was the usual flurry of ferry ticket purchasing and money exchange. I have raged against Brindisi greatly in my previous journal, and because of this and the natural amplifying effects of memory, we were mentally prepared to find true Hell on Earth, and viewed our arrival with some dread. It was due to our extremely low expectations, as well as our fortunate timing (we didn't have the usual 14-hour stopover) that we actually were in a pretty good mood when it turned out that Brindisi wasn't as bad as memory recalled. I could see, however, that there were some people who were doing the all-day stay in purgatory, and were so, so ready to board that ship.

Before we knew it, we were on board the ferry and on our way to Corfu, Greece. We were of course traveling deck-class, and we entertained for a long time the notion that we would just sleep up top, but our lack of jackets and sleeping bags in the face of the cold Adriatic night wind put an end to that notion, and we ended up sleeping in the crowded deck-class lounge. I actually slept on the floor under one of the wooden benches (occupied by another hapless backpacker).