Just time to ruin one last table cloth before we leave Rome.
Thursday, 14 July 2016
Tread carefully.
On the 13th June 2007, a man who'd had several Chiantis tried to drive his Toyota Celica down the Spanish steps. He didn't hurt anyone but several of the 200 year old steps were chipped and scuffed. Steps have now been taken to make sure it doesn't happen again.
Wednesday, 13 July 2016
Cardinal sin.
At the Vatican we became mightily interested in the purchase of a bust of Julius Caesar when we realised it was going for the lowly price of 245 yourOhs. The lady of the Vatican shop and her mate Antonio were strangely doubtful of the sale and put many obstacles in our way. Their first offer was for us to order one online, when we didn't immediately bite at that. They said, we'd never get it in a suitcase - to which we said - we'd take it as hand luggage - Nigel is used to carrying heavy foreign bodies through customs (usually his own after a very long holiday) but this suggestion was also met with narrowed eyed suspicion by the Italians. There then ensued a stream of conversation between them, two or three telephone calls and many dark looks thrown at us until it became clear to us that the 'busts' for sale were not actually kept in the shop. To be fair this only became clear when a fella the size of a house came running in, swearing and sweating bullets with Julius in a crate on his shoulder. We both took one look at the size of the crate and realised we'd never get that on board - Dreamliner or no Dreamliner. As we ran shame faced down the Vatican exit plug hole, we saw Julius being unceremoniously carted back to the Vatican dungeons. Our guilt and disappointment was short lived as we emerged into the sunshine to see if we could find a really good Caesar salad instead.
Tuesday, 5 July 2016
When in Rome.
Rome. Cafe Greco. Tiramisu. Old masters all around you. But... Much better to see what Kim Kardashian is up to.
Trifling matter.
Best tiramisu in the whole world - Cafe Greco - Rome. Though you have to be super careful of all the cocoa on top or it can kill you (via choking).
Changing lanes.
We nearly met our maker today on the outskirts of Rome - pity we're not Catlicks as that would at least be auspicious. The Italians drive like they're all in a Ferrari on a race track even if they're in a Fiat Bambina on a side street. Anyway we were on the autostrada going like the clappers (120kms) in the middle lane, which meant them in the fast lane were going like the clappers times ten. One car roared passed and Nigel was moved to say "they're going at least 200kms" and let's face it, he would know all about that, because one time he was driving home and was stopped by the PO-leece. They'd clocked him at 198kms which meant straight to the courthouse. As befitting his strategic self, he wrote a fabulous letter in advance, which not only got him off with a mere warning but as they called his case up and the speed he was going was read out, all of the bored clerks who'd not raised a hair at the GBH case prior ,were all moved to look up and see who it was that had managed to get that kind of speed out of a Peugeot. Anyway yesterday he needed all his Ayrton Senna skills as without warning a car transporter with about 20 Fiat Bambinas on it, decided it wanted to be in our lane immediately and in the fast lane beside us was an Audi with a bad case of diarrhoea hellbent on getting to the gabinetto ASAP. What this meant was for an agonisingly long time, we were forced to drive in the middle of the two lanes - me with my eyes closed and clutching Nigel's driving arm for all I was worth. There were blasting horns all around but miraculously we got out of it without a scratch (well only a tiny one on Nigel's arm).
Monday, 4 July 2016
Sunday, 3 July 2016
Absolutely Positano Wellington.
My new Italian friends told me that everybody in Positano works 7 days a week, 24 hours a day for 8 months of the year and then they take 4 months off and Positano closes down almost completely - only 1 restaurant open and even their fags have to be bought from a vending machine at the top of the bay. All in all these guys were as miserable about Positano as I am about Wellington but at least we could agree they had something in common - both places are way pasta their best.
Si.Si.
Back in the magnificent town of Wellington, I have recently taken up swimming. It is fair to say that I'm not a very good swimmer as I have become a big chicken about going underwater. I didn't learn to swim until I was 13, when a very close friend of mine had a birthday swimming party and taught me to swim right then and there at the party. However the minute I could swim - my overly competitive gene kicked in and I went from lagging around in the shallows to taking my bronze, silver, gold and life saving medals. I went on from there to high diving. But sadly all that was many many many moons ago and over the years I've swum less and less and less until finally even getting in the bath was a challenge. However on a holiday last year in Tokyo, I started going to the hotel pool and found it to be a much less boring way of moving than pounding away on a stupid treadmill. So I made a little pact with myself that I'd start going regularly and I have kept that promise and I now go almost every day though I am truly a pathetic sight in my black bathing cap as I look just like a black boiled egg. I have not yet regained my former water prowess but I remain convinced that sometime soon I will book some lessons and will then turn ideally overnight into Ian Thorpe. So my point to all this rambling, is that the hotel 'pool' is - the sea and to get into it - you have to go over rocks and onto a very precariously placed open ladder and although, we're talking about the Mediterranean - because of the nature of the geography and the number of nutters in speed boats the swell under the it is not exactly millpond. The steps are also dead slimy and go right under the sea giving me a horrible sinking feeling as I descended.
Buona Notte.
Three drop offs from our water taxi last night. 1. A rather battered pizza delivered to a luxury yacht. 2. A gang of Italians to a remote beach where their mate waited for them - tele switched to Sky Sporta for the Italian/Germany game and a lasagne in the oven. And 3. An inebriated Kiwi despatched to her hotel for a tiramisu and a late night limoncello.
Let's be Frank.
We are staying at the Villa Treville where Kevin Spacey stays when he fancies a plate of rigatoni and a caprese salad. I am seriously convinced that we are in the actual room he stayed in. For a start there are no hairs on the pillow, a Marie-Claire on the coffee table and a deck of cards in the bedside drawer. They probably never let house keeping in this room - preserving it just as he left it.
Saturday, 2 July 2016
Elbow room.
Driving into Positano was nail biting last night. The roads are so narrow that now and again I could actually read a menu on the side of a restaurant as we went by. Everyone was driving like madmen - including Nigel - nobody wanting to slow down or geeeeva an incha to anybody elsa. But the worst thing was that there were also actual people walking in this mayhem. Twice I had to cover my eyes as I thought we might actually take someone out on the side of the road. Finally I heard a loud bang and I realised Nigel had clipped an old nonna's elbow with his wing mirror as we'd roared past her. The whole scene went into that Jaws dolly zoom effect whilst I imagined the legalities of sorting this lot out with Avis. Anyway hardy as an old donkey, she just rubbed the elbow a couple of times, shouted a few choice Italian words at the car and plunged back into the traffic.
Tiers.
For the second time in Spain I was moved to tears - firstly because it took 4 hours to get in and secondly real tears of pure 'appiness at seeing Gaudi's Sagrada Familia. Seriously it is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. The inside is a bit like being inside one of Ridley Scott's aliens. It took Gaudi 40 years of his life and it's still not finished, there are still cranes all over it and visiting is a lot like being on a building site. But let's face it, he blew the budget, extended the timeline and never quite finished, in other words he was just like any other architect.
Shut your big Boca Grande
It's amazing how many of our friends are swirling around Europe at the same time as us and even more amazing, is that occasionally we find ourselves at exactly the same place, at the same time. Recommended to us was Boca Grande which is one of the top spots to eat in Bath-alona. It definitely did not disappoint. Boca Grande means big mouth and after the amount of food and wine we threw down our throats, we also left with big stomachs and very small wallets.
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