A few days ago, upon logging onto Facebook after a wearying day of tearing my hair out over my year abroad essay, my eye was struck by a piece of correspondence sent to me by a relation of mine. This relation – whom I had assumed long lost to the snowy climes of the Himalayas – was keen to bring to my attention the fact that I have been remiss in my blogging duties, and exhorted me to take up my laptop again. Admittedly he didn’t say so in so many words – in fact the general tone of the message was decidedly threatening, and a lesser person than I might have been troubled by its intimidating nature. Fortunately, seasoned traveller that I am, I have seen worse, and it helps that I’m also certified taserproof. But I am not so foolish as to ignore such an ominous hint, and it is with this in mind that I write this, in an endeavour to sate his thirst for insight into my life, and the hope that it might sate his thirst for my blood.
All’s good in the city of bicycles. I think the biggest news is that I can now ride my bike with no handlebars (no handlebars, no handlebars). After three humiliating months of watching children and adults cycling smugly past adjusting their hair, playing candy crush, and making a variety of complicated hand gestures, I can now join their exalted ranks and consider myself a true citizen of Ferrara. Interestingly though, on neither of the two occasions on which I’ve fallen off my bike was it because I was trying to ride it senza mani. On the first and more damaging occasion it was because of a very intense race and an unexpectedly sharp corner; while the second was because I was trying to ride it using both feet on the same pedal and, in the excitement of this revolutionary endeavour, forgot to include balance in the equation. Remember children, it’s quite difficult to prevent yourself from falling right when both your feet are on the left.
Over the past few weeks I’ve also found myself entertaining quite a few guests. I say I entertained them – in truth it was probably fair to say that Italy did most of the entertaining, and I just happened to be present at the time. Regardless, they all seemed to enjoy it, be they sisters, aunts, or a group of people I used to hang around with last year in Cardiff and occasionally dress up as cartoon characters with. Italy is quite an entertaining country.
One of the nice things about my sisters (Sarah and Amy, for those who haven’t had the, uh, pleasure) coming was that it was an excuse to do a bit of travelling, and I’ve decided to make our trip the main focus of this blog. I say ‘one of the nice things’ – of course it was also quite nice to catch up with two siblings whom I hadn’t seen since August (I have to write this. My mum reads this blog.) but the enjoyableness of that experience was certainly amplified by its taking place in part in Fair Verona (copyright W. Shakespeare), and in Fair Peschiera del Garda (copyright pending) on the shores of Lake Garda. Both of these are beautiful places – alike in dignity, you might say.
Verona is world-renowned, as everyone knows, for being the historic city of love that was birthplace of the two star-crossed lovers, who served as protagonists in a middling 16th-century play later credited as the inspiration for the hit animated movie Gnomeo and Juliet. There we stayed at a slightly strange youth hostel which turned out to be a mansion on a hill north of the city centre. Breakfast was jam, bread, and a bowl of coffee. In fairness the bowl of coffee was a useful source of energy, as we only had twenty-four hours in the city and were therefore determined to see everything we could. We went to the Duomo, the Castelvecchio, the Ponte Vecchio, a variety of churches, Juliet’s house and balcony, and topped it off with a trip up the Lamberti Tower. Despite fears over potential vertigo suffered by some of our number, we all made it to the highest storey, and never was there a storey of more ‘whoa’ – it offered some spectacular views of the city.
Mind you, I was quite disappointed by Juliet’s house, chiefly because it was very sparsely furnished. There was one room which was entirely empty, save for a jug in a sort of alcove. My understanding of Juliet is that she’s a fictional character, which should have meant that they could put anything in there, so quite why they skimped out on an entire room doesn’t make any sense. If I were in charge of Juliet’s house I would have filled it with all sorts of stuff. Tourists would travel from far and wide to see Juliet’s floor to ceiling lava lamp and goose sanctuary. I voiced these concerns to Sarah and Amy, neither of whom seemed particularly interested and even went so far as to suggest that I was “ruining it”. I was then told off by a security guard for sitting down on one of Juliet’s chairs, because apparently it was very fragile. It didn’t seem particularly fragile, but the guard was keen that I maintain a safe distance. Presumably this susceptibility to collapse at the slightest human contact is the cause of the absence of furniture. In hindsight one can’t help but wonder whether the constant anxiety she suffered over the structural integrity of her possessions was a factor in her long-lamented decision to take her own life. I was tempted to suggest this theory to the guard, but instead elected to bite my thumb tongue.
After that was a short bus ride to Lake Garda, which was equally marvellous. We stayed three nights there in a lovely hostel in Peschiera del Garda on the south-eastern shore of the lake, which we felt was a perfect amount of time to spend there. We cunningly planned our days to ensure that we got as sunburnt as possible (as with the abovementioned vertigo, some of our group proved more prone to it than others, but I won’t namy name amy any namys names) and used the rain and clouds for more adventurous pursuits. Our intended walk to the next town along, Sirmione, ended up being a trip to Lidl and back on account of Sirmione’s being several kilometres further away than we’d anticipated. Fortunately the day was saved by a lovely pedalo trip in which we cruised up and down the same thirty or so metres of the shore eating crisps and trying to work out which of the buoys demarcated the shipping lanes. Our intended circular bike ride was likewise derailed when it turned out that it would cost €42 to take our bikes on the ferry across the lake from Sirmione to Bardolino. Fortunately that day was saved by quick calculations that revealed you could buy, like, a ton of gelato for that money, or that we could ride the miniature train to the patrician’s villa fourteen times each. Needless to say, a trio of half-loss’d tourists did not take their bikes.
Our proudest day, however, was when we climbed the hilariously-named Mount Baldo. As children we were often dragged reluctantly off on many a walk, over the course of which we tended to prove that just the one house is more than enough for any number of ancient grudges and new mutinies to develop and fester. Yet as you can see from this picture:
… wait no sorry, this picture:
… we were all still happy and good friends by the end of it.
As usual with Italy, I have to give the food a quick mention for being on point. My favourite food moment was definitely when Sarah bought what was basically a bowl of pure melted mozzarella and then choked on it in the middle of a crowded restaurant (I had to include this story because I know the certain relative of mine to whom this blog is dedicated will appreciate it). But pizza, pasta and gelato were eaten in great quantities, and overall it was more than satisfactory (although I must admit none of them quite topped the home-made Lidl-sourced cheese-and-salami sandwiches we ate victoriously atop Mount Baldo). At one restaurant a very charming gentleman painted my picture, which he then let me keep for a mere €5.
I think it looks the spit of me. Having spent almost three years struggling with Italian I also enjoyed listening to Sarah and Amy struggle to pronounce the names of pizzas to the restaurant. But then, what’s in a name? That which we call a capricciosa by any other name would taste as delicious.
All things considered, it was a very successful holiday amidst the essays and exams. I was sorry to say goodbye to my siblings afterwards, although admittedly it had been nice to see them. I wish there was some kind of Shakespeare quote pertinent to the situation, but nothing springs to mind.
Anyway, it’s time for me to close my tab on ‘famous Romeo and Juliet quotes’, nervously peek through the blind to see if my cousin is still standing outside holding a machete, and offer my customary warm regardas to all those who stopped by ferraread – whether they were forced to, or did so of veronaccord.
Ciao!
Alex's Inappropriate Adventures 