Buongiorno (from Trent),
This email comes from Krys’ email address; my blackberry has died and despite doing everything I can to get ‘preferential treatment’ it seems that being in a relationship and travelling with someone in IT actually gets your level of service kicked backwards on ‘fairness’ grounds. I feel cheated…..
Anyway, the last week has been eventful. But when in Italy, what else can you expect. When we left you last time (Travel Day from Hell email aside) we were just getting to the Amalfi Coast of Italy. And what an amazing place it is. It is similar to Cinque Terra except more authentically Italian. Again you have the tree and vine covered mountains that rise sharply from the coast. And the pastel coloured buildings dotted along the landscape, wedged into thin benches of land carved at irregular intervals. Again you have the coastline whereby the land falls away so sharply that the ocean floor can’t be seen a few yards from the shore line. But it is more beautiful and more Italian than Cinque Terra making the experience here richer.
Getting to our hotel was an adventure. Mainly due to the road (loose definition applied) that runs between the towns. It is barely 1.5 lanes wide, but is two way. On one side are the mountains that climb almost vertically above you. The other side is a sheer drop of over 100m onto rocks and the ocean below. Stopping the fall in the case of driver error is a little rock fence all of about waist high. And the bus drivers are crazy. The driver that we had on our way in must have been auditioning for driver no 2 at Red Bull Formula 1 team for next year. And the audition was being done after a fight with his wife and a mouth full of amphetamines. His driving would have been nuts for a normal highway let alone what he was driving on. The bus was actually swaying around corners, effectively stopping all conversation outside of mumbled prayers and goodbyes to loved ones. As he approached corners you wondered how it was possible under the laws of physics for the bus to make the turn. As for cars coming the other way, this was dealt with by the bus driver tooting his horn wildly about 50m from each corner. As if to say ‘I’m about to come around a blind corner at very high speed. You must make your car invisible or I will hit you and it will be your fault’.
So it was a relief (and surprise) to finally get to our bus stop and into the hotel. Once we got settled we went to explore the nearby cliff top town of Ravello. Gore Vidal rates the view from Ravello as the 3rd best in the world (behind Rio de janeiro and Hong Kong); gee Rio must be good and unless Gore had a view through the bathroom window of Jessica Alba’s hotel room while in Hong Kong I’m not sure what he was thinking putting that city at number 2. The view from Ravello is breath taking.
We timed our visit well, as it co-incided with the ‘Ravello Festival’, which seemed to be based around lemons and music. This included a symphony conducted on a platform overhanging the cliff top. We were convinced by the ticket man that it was a ‘casual affair’ so rather than go back home to change, we hung around for the afternoon, had a few drinks and waited for the concert to start. I became somewhat concerned as the crowd that began to thicken around the concert entrance was dressed primarily in suits and elegant dresses – a far cry from my old shorts, sweaty t-shirt, scruffy beard and thongs. Not sure what the ticket-man’s definition of casual was. But I’d be interested to see his formal wear.
The inappropriateness of my attire (and probably the fading of the effectiveness of my deodorant) was confirmed as we found our places for the concert. An immaculately dressed lady in various shades of white seemed quite taken aback to have to move her Prada bag to allow me to take my designated seat. Then just before concert started, the ultimate indignity – she got up and moved away from me. Now I know how smelly man from our flight must have felt. Krys found the whole situation quite amusing, and provided such calming words as ‘you don’t look THAT scruffy’.
One of our Amalfi days we decided to head across to Capri, and explore the Blue Grotto, which is a famous ocean cave that throws the bluest light people claim to have ever seen. But I think the Blue Grotto experience best encapsulates the Italian ability to screw you until you don’t think it is possible to be screwed anymore, only to find them sneaking around behind you for one final go.
— The concept: catch a ferry to the island of Capri to have a look at the Blue Grotto
— The process: catch a ferry to Capri at EUR30 each return. Then have to catch a ‘shuttle boat’ to the Blue Grotto which is only 5mins away for another EUR14 each. Then have to pay a Blue Grotto entrance fee of EUR11 each to a floating little boat near the entrance for the right to go inside. Then have to pay a ‘service fee’ to the row boat man which is the only method by which you are allowed in. All of this for 2mins in the actual Grotto while crammed in a little row boat with 3 other people. When it comes to squeezing travellers for money for sites, the Italians never miss.
Having said all of that, the Blue Grotto was amazing and we would do it again. The blueness of the water was unimaginable. Everyone has a goal when in the Blue Grotto – to swim in the water. But this is frowned upon and strictly forbidden by Blue Grotto rules. Apparently this wasn’t going to deter an American man on our shuttle boat, who could be heard loudly exclaiming ‘I’m just gonna jump in when I’m in there – what’s the row boat man gonna do – leave me there?’. Krys and I decided on a more subtle approach – to discreetly and cheekily harass our row boat man from the time we got in his boat, while also slipping him a small ‘tip’. It seemed we were getting nowhere as our row boat man was resolute in terms of swimming being ‘not allowed’. So it came as a surprise that as we slipped into the cave, the row boat man gave us a cheeky look and said quietly ‘ok – get out’. Krys and I could not clamber out of the boat quick enough for a dog paddle around the grotto.
On getting back to our shuttle boat it was obvious that our Greatest American Hero had folded on his threat – he was bone dry and telling everyone that it was impossible to swim. Seeing two drenched Australians clamber back on board seemed to suck the last shred of bravado from him. Was like seeing a boisterous horse castrated before your very eyes. We were the stars for the trip back to port with people siding up quietly and asking in excited tones how we managed to swim in the Grotto, and what it was like, while our newly castrated friend watched on with his tail between his legs.
So fresh from our Grotto experience we decided to hire a boat for the afternoon and explore Capri for ourselves. The boat hiring process could best be described as ‘loose’, even for Italian standards. It is little more than negotiating a price, showing a drivers license and being given a 20sec run through before you are handed the keys to a little Zodiac with a 40hp motor on the back. My initial attempt at getting out of the dock probably had them rethinking the process – a touchy accelerator meant I almost ran straight into another boat. So it was with nervous smiles that our hiring friends pointed us in the direction we should take, and recommended we take it easy.
I think ‘taking it easy’ lasted about 5 minutes before we were bouncing violently from wave to wave skirting around the Capri coast. We eventually found a little quiet cove to settle in, and with my new found boatie skills was directing Krys how to drop the anchor and tie it off. After ‘frolicking’ for a little while we noticed that our boat seemed to be drifting quietly but quickly away from us. Like the ninja-esque escapes I make from movie cinemas showing Bon Jovi films. Before I started to chastise Krys for her inadequate anchor tying skills I thought I should at least check why the anchor wasn’t holding. When I got under the boat it was obvious that our boat’s attempted escape was my fault; there was our little anchor swinging forlornly in the water, only about half way down to the ocean floor. From the little about boats I do know, anchors only really work when they are allowed to reach the bottom. So with our anchor skills sorted out we spent the after skipping from cove to cove until having to give the boat back to some relieved owners.
Our final day in Amalfi brought with it probably the silliest decision of the trip – to take an organised day tour to Pompei. It went against one of the key travel rules – that organised tours are for labotomy victims only. Well with forehead scars still fresh from our brain removal, we had signed up. The thinking was simple enough; a bus to and from Pompei along with a guide to give a description of the ruins on the way through. Pompei is a fascinating place, being an ancient town that was buried for centuries by a huge eruption from the nearby Mount Vesuvius. How bad could it be?
Within 30mins it was clear why every other tour group we have seen on this trip just shuffles past with a defeated emptiness. It truly was soul destroying. It is a day following around a little old man carrying an umbrella high in the air for his docile herd to follow. It was so hot it felt like you would melt, but any lingering in shade would bring a rebuke from the tour guide – like you were naughty school kids not paying enough attention in class. Then the tour group specialities; the designated restaurant stop for lunch complete with average, overpriced food followed by a ‘coincidental’ trip to a souvenir shop where you can buy necklaces made of shells. It honestly feels like you are just in a school of dopey tourist fish caught in a barrel, being wheeled from Italian to Italian to take pot shots and extract your cash. By lunch time we had realised the gravity of our error, and were trying to work out the Napoli transport system to get home. Sadly it was well beyond us, so we just had to grind the day out, which was completed with a visit to Mount Vesuvius. Just for fun/boredom we decided to climb to the top, only to be gouged again by an Italian entrance fee, then yelled at for starting up a trail that was reserved for guided tours (which you could do for another fee). Yes the Italians can even charge you twice for walking yourself up a steep hill of brown dirt in excessive heat. Their creativity knows no bounds.
Sadly our Pompei day was the end of Amalfi for us, and it was off to Santorini. It was this trip that was the subject of the ‘Travel Day from Hell’ email, so not much more to say except that Krys does look great in pizza stained gym shorts. Catching flights again also exposed us to that unique brand of traveller, the ‘I’ve seen the Schapelle Corby telemovie too many times’ traveller. These are the people that feel the need to have their bags wrapped in metres and metres of cling wrap before check-in, wandering around with luggage that looks like a deformed bratwurst that screams paranoia. The sooner they accept that ‘poor Schapelle’ was from a drug dealing bogan family from the Gold Coast, the sooner the global cling wrap supply can start to recover.
So we finally arrived in Santorini. Again a very beautiful place, with clusters of white washed buildings peppering various edges of a volcanic rim. And again a completely impractical place to decide to develop a community. Day 1 was all about getting the basic wardrobe items for Krys; a couple of dresses, a swimming costume and a towel. Again what we thought would be a simple exercise proved to be anything but. It seems that Santorini women have a fascination with the Brazilian cut bikini. By Brazilian cut I mean a bikini where the base design is tied loosely around two band aids and a piece of string. The other more ‘modest’ options come complete with pastel designs that look like they were created by an 85yr old arthritic, blind woman having a go at bikini design for this week’s arts and crafts session. Eventually we found something that wouldn’t have Krys stoned in conservative countries, or that resembled pensioner vomit and the ‘backpack rebuild’ was underway.
Santorini also revealed Krys’ little known fascination with donkeys. We would be mid conversation and I would see her eyes glaze over (although this is normal when I talk to her) before her head would spin around and she’d cry ‘oooh. Donkeys’. Sure enough there they’d be – the poor donkeys with little bells around their necks that were used as public transport for the people too lazy to walk the 300 steep steps to and from the ocean. They’d come around corners in packs, clomping and tinkling their way along with those sad, docile eyes. Then again, why wouldn’t they have sad eyes given a life of carrying fatties up and down hills, while draped in mini cow-bells. Almost as pointless and soul destroying as being a hairdresser for Peter Garrett.
The donkeys, along with the volcano setting of Santorini, did manage to provide me with some much required cover. I had picked up an illness somewhere between Rome and Santorini, with the effects being some pretty horrible machinations in my stomach. So for the first day or so, the terms ‘peeww those donkeys smell’ and ‘can you smell that sulphur from the volcano baby’ were getting quite a work out. Although it wasn’t long before Krys realised that the ‘smelly donkey’ was somewhat closer to home.
Santorini is quite big, and the roads poor so the only logical thing to do of course is to hire a motor bike for a look around the island. Again it was a day of Krys holding on tight, and providing useful pieces of advice such as what side of the road we should be on. While Santorini itself is beautiful, the surrounding beaches where we were staying are only average and a little hard to access, making Santorini beautiful but impractical. Kind of like a 9ft Scandinavian model – nice to look at but you’re not sure what to do with it.
So with our Santorini time at an end we had one more destination to figure out. Croatia was the initial plan but was proving hard and expensive to get to. So given the past week we decided to head back to the place we loved most but had too little time at – Amalfi. But I’ll save that for the final email (which like Italian postage will probably get to you after we do).
Ciao.
Trent, Krystal and a bikini barely suitable for family bbq’s
Clarifications:
* Liselle’s contribution in the ‘Travel Day from Hell’ email was not sufficiently acknowledged. It was Liselle who eventually navigated the CBA phone system maze to get the cards put on hold
** The old lady on the bus from Venice not only said that Krys was lucky, but that she was envious too. So if things don’t work out here it looks like a have an opportunity for early dinners and bingo nights with a lovely little Italian pensioner in Venice who would really appreciate me.
smallthoughts 