mercoledì 25 agosto 2010

Sirmione: the Good

I know that normally the good is suppose to come before the bad and the ugly, but actually, our horrible experience at the hotel in Sirmione was just a bad beginning to what turned out to be a very good day, so much so as to almost wipe the memory of the morning from our minds. We found a friendly pizza place for lunch where they didn't seem to care that we were dripping wet, although the waitress did raise her eyebrows when my friend ordered a tuna and onion pizza with no mozzarella but with anchovies instead. Even the hoards of Germans who dominate the tourist business in the Veneto and have caused wuerstel to appear on every pizza menu haven't changed the idea that you don't mess with Italian culinary tradition.





After lunch, and feeling relatively dry again, we went to visit the remains of the Roman villa which lie at the very point of the peninsula. According to its name, the villa belonged to the Roman writer Catullus but in fact historians don't believe that he ever lived there. The villa was enormous, with its own baths and olive groves and even if you're not very interested in Roman history, the ruins combine with the views over the lake to make a very scenic place to wander around for an hour or so.



After the villa, we visited the castle. Despite a childhood spent running around endless old Scottish fortresses, I think this is one of the best castles I've ever visited. It has a drawbridge, a moat and interesting parts that stick out into the sea, as well as towers that you can climb to get a fantastic view of the peninsula and the lake. Highly recommended.


Sirmione: The Bad and the Ugly

For most of the week that we spent at Lake Garda, the weather was lovely and so were the people. The day we went to Sirmione, however, there was a terrible thunderstorm and we had an experience that ranks right up there with having my bags stolen at Milano Centrale in terms of nastiness.

Sirmione is tiny town located at the end of an improbably long and skinny peninsula that sticks out into the lake from the southern shore. The old town is guarded by a castle fort and only people who live there are allowed to drive over the bridge that leads inside the ity walls. The town extends the length of the peninsula, however, with houses, hotels, car parks and the odd restaurant lining the road that leads to the historic part. It's always busy, even on a stormy Thursday morning, and we had to park the car quite far from the fortress. As we got out of the car, a strong breeze was stirring in the trees, the sky was darkening and the greyish green waves on the lake were lapping hungrily at the shore. We weren't five minutes from the car when the giant raindrops began to fall.


We immediately started to get absolutely soaked and decided to look for shelter. We ducked under the awning of hotel, where several other people were also sheltering. Realising that the rain might be on for a while, we decided to do the polite thing and order coffees, rather than just standing there taking advantage of the hotel's driveway.

Our politeness, however, turned out to be entirely wasted on the hotel staff, who were pretty much the rudest waiters I've ever met (and I've been living in Paris for a year). They communicated in grunts from behind twisted lips and seemed to be entirely incapable of eye contact. We asked if we could sit inside, where we could see an almost empty restaurant with space for at least fifty people, with more spaces in a conservatory that looked out over the lake on the other side of the building. They said no, so we adjusted the position of the tables in an attempt to shelter ourselves from the torrential rain outside and the almost equally torrential drips that were coming through the gaps in the shelter.

By the time they grudgingly brought us our drinks, the puddles in the driveway had amalgamated into a flood that was rapidly encroaching on the ground around our feet. Again we asked if we could go inside. Again the waiter grunted, disappeared and refused to make eye contact. When he reappeared, I pointed out to him that the water was actually lapping at our toes as well as dripping into our coffee and again he disappeared.


A little while later, the kitchen porter appeared brandishing a brush and, to our horror, began to attempt to sweep the water off the driveway and into the road. This was clearly an impossibly task because every time a car went past, even more water would be sprayed from the gutter into the quicky expanding flood. The porter realised this and must have noticed our sympathy, because he turned round and made funny faces to express the hopelessness of the situation.

Unfortunately, this did not impress his evil overlords, who came out and shouted at him several times, grabbing his arms aggressively. I'm sure the fact that they were white and he was black had nothing to do with the fact that they thought this was an acceptable way to behave...Meanwhile me and my friends stood there feeling sick at having to watch this scene but, with the rain pouring down and nowhere to go, we couldn't really leave, so we had no choice but to stand there reformulating every opinion we had ever had about Italian hospitality.

Actually, though, this situation was unlike anything I have ever experienced in Italy and I refuse to revise my ideas based on that one horrible experience. I've had people trick me and lie to me and short change me, but I have never, ever seen anyone be so downright rude and nasty, either to a customer or to a member of staff. Eventually the rain died down and we left. My friend gave the poor kitchen porter a ten euro note as we went away and the few hotel residents who were sitting in the dining room all clapped, but if I were them, I would have been horrified to find myself staying in a place like that. I wish I had the name of the hotel but it was too wet to check as we left, but if you're ever tempted to stay in a peach-coloured hotel on the way to Sirmione with a conservatory at the back, driveway that looks liable to flood at the front and waiting staff who are unable to smile or look you in the eye, make sure that you think again.

venerdì 20 agosto 2010

Proof That I Am Definitely Grown Up (and quite possibly becoming middle aged)



During our holiday at Lake Garda, we went to Gardaland for the day. I did not go on a single scary ride. I didn't feel remotely tempted to go on a scary ride. I didn't berate myself for being too chicken to go on a scary ride. and afterwards, when my friends got off the scary rides, I didn't feel the slightest bit of regret about not having joined them. No, when it came to the rides that went upside down, looped the loop or even just spun around a little too fast, I just said “no”.

To be honest, I've never been a big fan of rollercoasters. It's just that there was a point in my life when I felt that I should try them out, if not for the fun then just to conquer my fears and prove that I could do it. But a little while before I went to Gardaland, I went rock climbing. On my way up the vertical cliff, with a river roaring down beneath me, my legs began to shake like crazy, despite the fact that my mind kept telling them everything was fine. I got them under control, climbed a bit higher and then forced myself to look down. I might easily have fallen off and if I had, it would have been painful, terrifying, difficult to get back up again and entirely my own fault. When I didn't, I knew that I had achieved something. On the Gardaland rides, I would almost certainly have got off at the end with no disasters having happened, but instead of feeling satisfaction, I would probably just have felt sick.

That's not to say that I didn't have a great time in Gardaland. My favourite ride was Mammut, the runaway mine train, which speeds at an angle around spiralling bends and lets you scream to your heart's content, but never ever turns you upside down or spins you around. That was great. I also liked the water rides, particularly the log flume, the flying island, which gives you a view over the lake and the surrounding countryside and the kiddie caterpillar train, which turned out to be quite a bit faster than any of us expected and was therefore pretty exciting despite the fact that it was really a baby ride. The only ride I didn't like was the one where you go down inside a magic tree where they spin the walls around to make you think you're going upside down. That just messed with my head and made me want to vomit, and it was in the kids section!

If I went back another day though, I'd probably spend the whole time on that runaway mine train. It was awesome.

Camping at Lake Garda


I started my trip to Italy with a week of camping with a group of friends at the wonderful Camping Lido at Pacengo, on the shores of Lake Garda. I went there last year and this year's experience was exactly the relaxing break that I hoped it would be after a week of killer hiking in the Alps. As well as a camping space, we had booked a little bungalow which was basically a little kitchen, four bunk beds and a cupboard, all in one room, with a little terrace outside. The facilities at the campsite are fantastic, so that's pretty much everything you need. As well as the cleanest toilets and showers ever seen in a public place in Italy, there's a swimming pool and bar, a restaurant, a supermarket and a long stretch of lake shore with a pier that you can jump off for a slightly wilder swimming experience. Just along the shore is the port of Pacengo, where there's a market once a week. The port is also home to a lovely restaurant which I think is called the Casa di Giulia. There's an outdoor terrace with views over the lake, they gave us free limoncello at the end and my friend's insalata caprese was so fresh and delicious that I could smell the tomatoes as they passed my nose.

There was also a farmer's market in the town centre the Friday that we were there. At first we were a bit disappointed because it was tiny, but we went round every stall, tried everything and bought most things. At the final fruit stall, my friend L. must have charmed the stallholder because he kept pressing free fruit on us. Even after we had bought everything we wanted and more, he kept cutting slices of melon and handing them to us until we could eat no more. It was fabulous.That weekend was also the Festa dello Sport in Pacengo. In the evening there were different stalls selling local food and wines and a band playing covers of cheesy songs. Many Italians, particularly if they're of a certain age, learned to do proper ballroom dancing when they were kids, so lots of people dance the “official” steps in couples at these kinds of events. My friend J., who is also a really good dancer, was desperate for us all to join in but the rest of us Brits were too uneducated and inhibited so she found an old man to dance with instead and he was delighted with the opportunity. She, on the other hand, was quite relieved when later in the evening she convinced me to dance the uncoordinated British shuffle with her!

Italian Trip Summer 2010

I was looking at my blogging statistics the other day. In one year in Paris, I've written around 70 posts. When I lived in Italy, I wrote 150. As I've said before, Italy is just more bloggable.

Italy is a land of extremes. Extreme beauty and extreme ugliness. Extreme kindness and extreme rudeness. Danger and safety. People who welcome you into their homes with open arms and treat you like royalty and people who would screw you over for your last centime. That's what makes it so interesting to write about, but it also sometimes makes it hard. Every time I criticise something about Italy, I think of all the lovely people that have made me feel so welcome there and I feel guilty. It feels like being given private access to somebody's home and then telling the world about their domestic difficulties. And yet it's impossible to spend time in Italy and not feel strong reactions of all kinds. So before I start my next series of posts about my Italian experiences, I would just like to say to any Italian who may be reading this, and also to the world, that everything I say about Italy comes from a profound interest in and love for the country that has grown so much over the past few years as a result of all the wonderful people who have welcomed me into their Italian lives and given me glimpses of what lies underneath the sunny, sparkly exterior. Thank you for that and please be assured that nothing I write here is intended to cause offence or to judge, but only to document my personal journey into a culture that fascinates, confuses and entrances but is never, ever boring.