Viva la Cuba Libre (y viva Mojitos)

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Cuba is an odd place. It’s a land of sun and sand but also a land of rules and regulations. It’s a curious mix of backwards and forwards, of old and older and of sudden hints at rejuvenation. There’s an air of anticipation (and indeed some fear) at the thought of another impending American invasion. While this one may bring investment and renewal many wonder if Cuba will ever really be the same again. This travelogue encompasses my impressions as a first time visitor (and longtime travel junkie,) some contrast/comparisons from others as well as a pretty lengthy diatribe against Sunwing Vacations with whom I hope to never travel again (part of the reason for the delay on posting this is my ongoing complaint submission with them.)

Arriving in Cuba is a different experience than most other holiday destinations we Canadians seem to frequent. It was dark when we arrived but even seen through the window of our 737 the airport looked very old/communist derived to me. It reminded me strongly of some of the train stations I’d visited in eastern Europe, and impression only reinforced once we’d deplaned and gone inside. Thanks to Sunwing’s ludicrously tight flight scheduling we arrived fairly late into Varadero itself. We deplaned to the tarmac then walked across, up two flights stairs and across a jetway into the terminal only to go back downstairs. (I’d originally thought that because we were late our jetway was in use, but in fact when departing we left from one that wasn’t in use when we arrived.) The warsaw pact vibe was reinforced inside as we passed a number of revolutionary slogan posters before even reaching the arrival hall.

Unfortunately (thanks Sunwing!)  our late arrival (and I suspect that of another large plane) made the arrivals hall into a packed cattle yard. You know the queue system(s) most sensible airports have to ensure immigration control moves along at a reasonable and fair pace? Not so much here. Let me paint you a picture…

You arrive at the bottom of a flight of stairs, to your left and right stretch a guide rope parcelling off the front section of floor for some unknown purpose. On the other side in the distance is a wall made up of individual customs booths. In front of each booth opening stretches a line of 50+ weary looking tourists. It’s instantly clear that the line is moving at a snail’s pace and indeed many people are sitting on their suitcases and fanning themselves (it may be midnight local time but this is a huge mass of people and there are no air conditioners.)

Back home sitting at our gate we’d become aware of a very hilarious group of Portuguese people. There were at least five of them, all seemingly in the same family, all (I’d guess) over 50. They were loud. VERY loud. One particular seemed beyond bitchy and would begin violently gesticulating and shouting every few minutes. Even the normal conversation was at the volume you would expect from a three year old tearing around a McDonald’s play area. This became markedly less entertaining as they were seated near us in the plane and started up again. It became beyond tiresome as they ended up immediately behind us in the customs line. They simply did not shut up ever and the yelling grandma got increasingly shrill. As someone who speaks French and some Spanish I think I found it especially grating as I could understand words and phrases here and there but it was just on the edge of intelligibility to me. It took everything I had not to turn around and shout “INSIDE VOICES PLEASE” at them. Adding to their annoyance factor was the two women leading the group who seemed to feel that unless they were pressing right up against us the line wasn’t going to move. I lost count of the number of times I was smacked by the woman’s sharp tote bag and it eventually got to the point where I stuck out my elbow a little knowing that eventually  she’d smack her head on it… (sure enough.)

Before we’d left my mother had warned me that Cubans are big about obeying the rules and often had arbitrary and stupid ones. I got my first taste of this as we waited in line as some poor Quebecois had the gall to go to the restroom. Upon emerging he made to cut under the rope line and head back to his spot in line with his wife and child. You’d think he’d pulled out a gun based on the shriek he got from the people dressed like nurses who seemed to serve no purpose at all. He was called back, berated in Spanish and made to walk the twenty feet to the gap in the rope line, then back down as though it made any difference (as mentioned the rope seemed to merely define the area that wasn’t the bathroom area… he was in no way inconveniencing anyone.)

Inevitably we’d chosen the wrong line at customs (we always do) and the processing was taking eons. There was little signage and indeed no clue why some of the people we saw that go into the booths went in groups and some solo. It turns out that if you have dependent children or a senior in need of aid ONE adult can go with them. How you are supposed to know this I’m not certain. In the end we chose lines so poorly that not only did everyone (probably 60 people) in line before us move to other lines and get through first, but in fact we ended up among the last 10 people processed in the entire queue. Our customs lady was beyond bitchy. I get that you hate your job miss but don’t mumble into your chest as you type and expect me to hear you while  standing against the far wall so you can take my photo. I was yelled at for:

  1. Not hearing the initial mumbling
  2. Being too tall and not sliding down far enough for their shitty webcams to take a photo
  3. Daring to put my glasses back on after she’d clearly had enough time to take 5 photos

Eventually cleared I found myself in yet another queue, this time for a security style metal detector. I suspect this one is mostly focused on not bringing in military grade radios and sat phones (though a lot of the things people claim you can’t take are myths) but with the amount of attention they were paying to the screen I could have brought anything in. It was very clear this was the end of their shift and in fact I ended up having to call them back to actually move my bag out of the machine.

In the end by the time we were parked on the bus we were fully 3 hours behind where we were supposed to be. Half the bus had grabbed beers from the hawkers outside the door (at a ridiculous markup) and it was a boisterous crowd of unfunny drunks that pretended to listen to the tour guide spiel as we headed out to Varadero. The young university student giving the intro guide talk was kind of hilarious. Her English was quite decent but for whatever reason she’d obviously used the words “well so you know” as a memory phrase so as she finished each memorized paragraph she’d revert and every single new paragraph went something along the lines of: “Well, so, you know, the oil industry is very important in Cuba…” Unfortunately due to the hour my first impressions of Cuba (non-airport division) were of a few poorly lit towns, a few spots with waves crashing that promised great views in the morning  and stop after stop dropping people off at hotels that weren’t mine. In the end it was after 2 am when we finally staggered up to the front desk of our hotel and tried to check in only to hear some of the most dreaded words in travelling: “I can’t find your reservation…”

 

To be continued…

 

 

Sunset

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In 2002 Puerto Vallarta was hit by the edges of a fairly large hurricane. Though no one was killed a large chunk of the waterfront was severely damaged by the storm surge and the gorgeous malecon (seaside walkway area) had to be more or less rebuilt to be safe. Though it’s no longer new to the locals I was curious how the waterfront had changed compared to my memories from my first visit in the late 90s. The answer surprised me…

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This is the rhythm of the night…

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My past few trips have definitely instilled in me a deep thankfulness for my lack of susceptibility to seasickness. I don’t want to tempt fate by claiming imperviousness but between several sailing trips, a few larger boats in very rough waters and the truly epicly sickmaking journey back in from the great barrier reef it seems as if it takes a fair bit to make me motion sick (at least when I’m not simultaneously heat stroked.) I definitely feel pity for those who feel ill even on the most gentle of crossings as we saw on our way to Rhythms of the Night.

Yet even before hopping the boat for our excursion I got a little thrill. Vallarta Adventures has meet the dolphins adventures on offer. While the marine conservationist in me doesn’t enjoy the fact that these dolphins are in fairly tight captivity and I likely wouldn’t have felt comfortable paying money to do the ‘adventure’ being there at closing time for most of the other tours meant we could sit there and watch as they were fed and played as the day wound down. (Note: I do think aquariums and sea world type attraction when done well are a good thing as a visit to one helps instil a knowledge and understanding of the ocean world in people young and old. I just think if you can’t do it right, don’t do it. That whole area is a discussion for another day though.) Since we had a while til our boat left I sat there and took far too many photos.

Hola señor, ¿tiene pescado?
Hola señor, ¿tiene pescado?

Rhythms of the Night is a package tour put on by the biggest tour company of the area that has converted a secluded beach cove formerly owned by Hollywood director John Huston into a private retreat of sorts for their tour groups. It’s apparently only accessible by boat and that’s why we found ourselves on a cruise across Bahia de Banderas as dusk fell. Other than a few minutes as we cleared the harbour the cruise was remarkably gentle yet several of the 40 odd people on our boat were feeding the fish for most of the first half of the cruise. It must have been terrible… not to mention that spending 100+ usd on a package that includes open bar and great food then spending the first half hour spewing kind of sucks. On top of that the boat ride itself had some quite delicious apps and an open bar.

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Marketable Skills

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I’m honestly not sure I’m ever going to get married. The fact that a seeming requirement to find me attractive is a diagnosed mental illness doesn’t bode well for the chances of it. I can’t pretend I’ve even thought about the concept of my own personal wedding much. On those occasions when I have, and when I’ve thought about a destination wedding, I think I’ve always assumed it would be small. My parents, her parents, a couple close friends for each of us and done. Ceremony on the beach, nice dinner and drinks, bing, bang, boom. Party at home to follow. Our bride and groom in this case took it up a few levels. I think the final number of guests was somewhere in the 75 person range from all across Canada. In the end the wedding group was big enough that there were usually multiple sub parties going on at all times over the course of the trip.

Wedding!

The wedding itself was performed with the waves rolling in in the background. The hotel had done a lovely job setting things up, though their carefully smoothed sand left us all reluctant to mar the perfection until we saw the bride coming. Rather adorably we were given hand fans with the names of the wedding party. Given how hot it was this little touch was rather appreciated, especially by the few people who had actually worn pants. After a fairly short bilingual ceremony we were all swarmed with waiters bearing cerveza and picture time began.

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The sun set spectacularly that night as we ate and drank. The usual speeches and chitchat followed and the dancing began. In the end we had a number of other guests trying to crash the wedding to get in on the dancing and an outside dance floor eventually began near the nearby pool bar.  In the end the main party shut down fairly early (it wasn’t far from the rooms of course) but most of the younger crowd continued on in the resort’s little disco/sports bar. I stuck it out for a while but as the team started to dwindle as a day of heat and booze took their toll I headed to bed.

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Of course, enforcing the rules would help too.

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Airports bug me, they always have. I’ve never been one for enjoying the departure or arrival process. Mostly I think the issue is one I have faced with any large gathering of people. I have a pretty low tolerance for stupidity and lack of forward planning. This unfortunately manifests itself in a lot of ways with regards to air travel. For example:

  1. Have your reservation ready. – You’ve been waiting to check in for half an hour, why when you get to the front of the line are you having to check every pocket of your coat/bag/suitcase for the printout.
  2. Have your documents ready at all times. – Seriously, you need your passport and boarding pass until you board the damned plane (and your pass slip til you sit down) stop putting them away behind three zippers every single time you pass a checkpoint.
  3. Have your liquids ready for security. – The liquid restrictions have been around so long at this point that they’re fodder for hackneyed comedy routines and bad sitcom plots. Even if you haven’t taken a flight in the past fifteen years there are at least 10 different signs, a table with plastic bags, and a stern eyed tsa type person pointing this out to you as well. Yes this includes your coffee even if you “just bought it in the airport,” as well as sealed bottles of any type. If you are surprised by this after passing through the scanner you are a moron, I hope that bottle of perfume cost $200 (seriously, why are you bringing that much perfume on a one week holiday?)  – In a bit of happy news apparently new MRI tech for airports may soon allow them to scan and pass liquids. That will be lovely for those of us travelling home from wine regions.
  4. Have your laptop ready to take out for security (and for that matter just plain know where everything in your bag is for quick presentation.) Just common sense, again this rule has been around forever at this point.
  5. Look ahead at security, if everyone else is having to take off their shoes, take the flying leap that you might have to as well.

This 30 seconds here and there may not seem like a lot but it all adds up. It’s the willfully ignorant that consistently ignore all of this that cause us all to have to get there 2-3 hours before our flight.

Number one rule of air travel: HAVE YOUR SHIT READY!

Reading this article on plane loading brought to mind my other pet peeve though. That loading process is always such a colossal clusterfuck and whatever the airlines do it’s the morons back in coach that make things worse. First we load the first class people, the old and infirm and those travelling with small children. You know what I’m fine with that, provided that…

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Life is much better, down where it’s wetter…

I'm very sneaky...
I’m very sneaky…

I learned pretty quickly that diving can make a person hungry. When I certified in Australia the cook always had the galley counter filled with sweets and cheese when we came back from a dive.  The quick burst of energy from the sugar helps you readjust quickly to the topside world and is especially crucial if you’re diving again in a bit. That’s the route I went on the morning of our dive. A bowl of fruit loops, a couple croissants with jam and some random custard donuty thing. Carb load ahoy! I wanted to avoid my usual omelette though lest I get burpy or worse on the ride across the bay. Besides I’m never that inspired to eat a big breakfast early and this was by far my earliest morning of the trip.

By the time we arrived at the Marina it was still only 8:30ish and the crew was loading the boat for our trip out to into the Bahia de Banderas. Thankfully my friends Chris and Jodi had already been out the week before so I knew it was a good crew. In our case we had our local boat captain Carlos, and British ex-pats Sue (who I believe was the company’s head instructor), other Sue (a relatively new instructor I believe) and Marc. All were knowledgeable as well as chatty and personable. On a sidenote though I do wonder why I seem to always get Brit dive leaders. My pool instructor in Cairns being a Frenchman is the only exception.  Also on board were three people from Washington state an experienced diver and his brother in law who was certifying as well as a 16 year old family friend with a regrettable Mike Tyson henna face tattoo. I’m not sure if the young man was certifying or doing a discover scuba dive.

 

We dove with:

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Website | TripAdvisor Reviews

Boat leaves from the Marina Vallarta docks near the Airport. Variety of tours available and discounts for booking online in advance. Private tours available.

Cost: $105 USD for a two dive trip inc. equipment and tanks

My Rating: 5/5

There’s little question in my mind that diving with a smaller crew like this makes for a far superior experience. Horror stories of the big boats leaving someone behind aside you can still feel like part of a swarm. You have no guarantee of partners of similar skill, in fact you may end up in a group of people who take half of your air supply just to get to the bottom of the anchor chain. Add on the fact that you’ll usually have your equipment moved and assembled for you (and in this case even lifted out of the water for you) and I have no idea why you’d go out on one of the cattle boats.

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The Miss Marie heading towards Los Arcos

The boat itself was a comfortable 30 odd foot vessel with decent stability and reasonable speed. Despite all the gear on board there was plenty of room for the 10 of us and our personal stuff and the seats were well cushioned for the ride. Mostly importantly for us pale assed northerners there was a canopy to give us some respite from the sun. The trip out of the marina was the usual exercise in yacht gaping that one general indulges in a tropical port. First there were the yachts. Gorgeous forty foot boats, some older but all gleaming and gorgeous. Then came the super yachts with their fancy flying bridges and mounted sea-doo’s. Of course the truly impressive (and outright sickening) mega-yachts came into view soon after that. Ships so large that they contain garages for three jetskis and a launch as big as our dive boat. Ships so large they have smartly uniformed staff cleaning everything in sight and a Robinson on the helipad. In other words ships so large that they cost more than I (and my entire family, any children I might have, and their children as well) will ever make in a lifetime.

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In which I escape from a frigid hell…

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Words can’t really describe the unending horror of this winter. As I write this post the temperature is hovering just under the zero and there is a strong chance of flurries at some point over the coming weekend. It is April the sodding 11th, what exactly did we do to deserve this torment? It was inevitable that this winter would be feel harsh after the mild reprieve of 2013, but months of -30 temps and snow quite possibly lingering in spots until May seems like massive overkill on the part of the weather gods.* Is it any wonder then that I was looking forward to this Mexico trip with a slavering anticipation that approached apple fanboy at a new product launch levels?

Anticipation of warm weather, sun and girly drinks (and parlor games) aside, early morning flights are the devil. 4:15 AM wakeup, at the Airport at 5 for an 8 AM flight (also not really necessary imo.) I must say my first experience of the new airport was a mixed bag as well. Everything’s very pretty but also very stupidly laid out. Only restroom in the departure area is at the far opposite end of the hall from the security entrance and the Stella’s café that many people have breakfast at pre-security. This means everyone uses the private stall family restroom located here instead of what it’s actually for. There’s plenty of space for another restroom here but the architects went for style over substance. Oddly enough I ran into my friend Kymberly leaving for another destination wedding at the same time in PV. I’m fairly sure she was even more of a zombie than I was at that point though. The flight itself was quite surprising. I hadn’t flown with Air Transat in probably fifteen years and I was really surprised to walk on to an A310. As far as I can remember it’s the only time I’ve flown on a widebody out of Winnipeg direct. A quick check of Wikipedia tells me that they’re planning to phase out their A310s by the end of next year as well so I suppose I’m way behind the times. I definitely missed having the seat back tvs of all my other recent trips, things are obviously never going to be Air NZ or even Westjet quality on a charter airline though.

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The Life Aquatic

Andrea my scuba buddy checking out his gear on the back of the boat

I’ve been in love with the idea of scuba diving since I first really understood the concept. I’ve always loved the water and even as a small child thought about becoming a marine biologist and living on the coast somewhere.  The thought of being able to stay underwater for hours (tanks last for hours right?) floating weightlessly and chasing fish was something to strive for. I didn’t let the fact that it wasn’t recommended for asthmatics get in the way of those dreams

Somehow that dream got lost along the way. Perhaps it was the fact that I didn’t end up the coast, or perhaps the fact that I ended up in computer science that kept me from diving. More likely it was the fact that diving training in West Hawk or Lake Winnipeg has very little appeal (and still doesn’t really.) I was never going on a warm weather holiday with anyone who wanted to dive so why bother taking the training? Suddenly I was thirty and something I’d been planning to do as soon as I was able to had sat on the life list forever (damn you Mme. Plamondon.)

It wasn’t until Australia came around that I had zero excuses. Suddenly my dreams came back and learning to dive on the Great Barrier Reef as my friends Chris and Jodi had was of paramount importance. I booked a class that started in the classroom and ended with a three day liveaboard course out on the reef. Yet as it came closer I have to admit I started to get nervous. I knew I’d have to pass a medical and all those warnings about asthmatics kept rising in my mind. I can swim reasonably well but I’m no endurance type, would I pass the swimming tests? Even if I passed, what if I freaked out and couldn’t handle it. I had one friend who had bailed on his training the first time he tried to go under the water with a regulator. He wasn’t one to wimp out from a challenge but something about the experience just wasn’t for him and he knew it instantly. Lastly of course despite the fact that I love sharks this was Australia after all.  All these worries (minus the shark/jellyfish thoughts really) were weighing on me as I arrived in Cairns. This was supposed to be highlight of my trip, the culmination of years of dreaming. What was I going to do if I couldn’t get in the water, sit around Cairns for a few days being taunted by all the dive shop signs? I couldn’t help but check out the prices for a quick trip to Alice Springs on the way back to Sydney in case I “suddenly found myself with the time.”

The dive school was fantastic. I’d sprung for probably the best in Cairns and it showed. The instructors were funny but serious when needed and the class was structured well mixing pool and class time to best focus attention. I aced the classroom stuff, passed my medical (required by law in Queensland) and was starting to feel a bit more confident until my first time I the pool with a regulator. Most people who have dived will know what I mean but the feeling of having to train yourself to breathe in and out regularly, mouth only, through this contraption was incredibly weird. I felt weird, and for the night afterwards I considered taking the out and getting the rest of my money back. I think the mask exercises were what really threw me. I was having serious issues doing the exercises to clear my mask of water while still breathing regularly. I was worried that if I was having that much trouble in the pool I’d get myself hurt out on the reef. After a (couple) beer(s) that night I managed to talk myself into going back.

That next day I got over the hump. I can’t remember the exact moment it happened but by the end of the day the instructor was telling people in my half of the group to watch how I was controlling my breathing (and depth level as a result) and my dive buddy and I were having fun practicing the “oh my god I’m out of air” manoeuvres without any worries at all. That night a few of us went to a lecture on some of the creatures we might see out on the reef and I absolutely couldn’t wait. In the end I loved every minute of every dive (see my travelogue for more details) and didn’t feel a bit of panic out there. I would have enjoyed actually having my wetsuit though dammit Pierre. The deep dive got a little cold in just a stinger suit.

Despite my promises to myself to the contrary I haven’t been diving since. Again, despite having plans to maybe finish off my next level of certification the lure of diving the icy waters of West Hawk Lake just isn’t there. My lack of funds while freelancing combined with my lack of vacation time while starting my current job more or less kept me without any options for other dives as well. Thankfully that will be changing this coming week as I head down to Bucerias Mexico for a wedding. We’ve got a couple dives booked, I got a shitty generic dive enclosure for my camera for some new photos (hopefully) and for a few hours at least I’ll get to be that wide eyed kid once more.

 

European Adventure: Sixteen countries later…

I’ve been home for two weeks now and it’s really only just begun to sink in just how great of an adventure this all was. Sixteen European countries visited at least briefly, a ton of kilometres by air and train and litre upon litre of alcohol sampled. Am I happy to be home? Absolutely. I don’t regret trying to pack as much in as possible, but it does wear you out after a while. It’s really nice to be able to sit back and process the amazing things I’ve seen over the past few months. In fact given that I was so busy during the brief month or so I was home in June it still feels like I’m recovering from both trips. If nothing else it’s absolutely glorious to not have worn hiking boots for two weeks.

The trip to the airport was as painless as I had hoped, a quick subway ride back to Termini station then onto the Da Vinci express out to the airport. It’s about a half hour trip as the airport is near the coast and the train was absolutely crammed. Once I arrived I managed to find the Air Canada desk relatively easily. Eager to make absolutely no effort towards improving their customer service in my eyes they had all of one person checking in a 767 worth of economy passengers, though thankfully once it was clear most of the first class/pre checked people were gone the other staff did help. I always precheck at home, but without access to a printer or a smartphone I was forced to wait in the long line.

For such a major airport Da Vinci is pretty terrible, our entire wing of the airport had no jetways. I understand loading 737s or CRJ’s etc by stairway if your airport is busy, but not full sized airliners. On the upside you got to see all the morons who bring carryon bags too big for the overhead bins actually get yelled at for once. The flight itself was pretty uneventful except for being next to an ancient Frenchman who didn’t understand the concept of keeping his elbows on his side of the armrest. Unsurprisingly given the loading process we did get off late. My connection in Montreal was fairly wide, but there were at least 10 people who missed regional connections as a result.

As mentioned I had several hours until I continued on to Winnipeg so I have no idea why I was rushing but  I decided to jog up some stairs forgetting that I’d been sitting in an airline seat for the better part of nine hours. Two steps from the top I stumbled and cranked my kneecap against the concrete edge of the steps above. Later in the week I’d find out I’d injured my bursa, the sack that keeps bone and tissue from rubbing and causing pain. Figures… As it was I could barely walk and I waited through the long line for customs fighting back curses and feeling like the joint had exploded. Eventually I made it through, threw my bag into the connections belt and was sitting in Tim Hortons with an apple fritter and a sandwich all of 60 mins after arriving on Canadian soil. Given that I don’t drink coffee it seems odd that this is the first place I’ve gone after arriving home both times, but they’re usually the only place in an airport that charges remotely fair food prices.

It felt very odd to be home at first but it was wonderful to see my parents, then the dogs and subsequently my shower and a warm bed (with two freshly bathed dogs as hot water bottles no less.) I decided to hold off on this last post for a while to marshal my thoughts (and because my schedule somehow ended up completely jammed for the first little bit.)

People have been constantly asking me what my favourite place was so here’s a quick snapshot of favourites by type:

City: Prague    Runners up: Edinburgh/Rome

Region: Cornwall RU: Dalmatian Coast/Cinque Terre

unexpectedly awesome: Dalmatian Coast, Croatia RU: Munich

Food: Florence RU: Vienna

Booze: sub-euro beers in Budapest/Prague RU: West Country Cider in England and Munich Beer Halls

Activity: Canyoning in Interlaken Switzerland RU: Hiking in Cinque Terre/Cycling through Amsterdam

Museum: British Museum RU: Accademia, Florence and Van Gogh Amsterdam

 

I’ve already had a few people ask me for tips for the cities I’ve visited and I’m more than happy to do so.

For those few interested this blog will go back to being random rants and stories, but I’ll likely take a bit of a break from writing for now. Back soon, and probably back on twitter at least sooner.

 

 

 

 

European Adventure: Roman Holiday

I think I can say that I hit the ground running in Rome, but it wasn’t without some awkward moments to begin with. Arriving into the train station and finding the metro area was painless, and thankfully I’d been warned about the unpleasantness to come.

When you reach the subway ticket machines in Rome you’re instantly struck by A: a long line and B: lots of shouting. Each machine has someone standing next to it, usually of a gypsy looking persuasion, who tries to choose the options on the machine for you. You basically have to instantly and forcefully wave them off or they’ll do the work for you (despite the machines having an English button) and demand payment for their efforts. I quickly bypassed the gauntlet as I’d been told the machines downstairs are usually free of them, but I guess because it was a Friday afternoon every machine was “staffed.” I pushed in,  quickly got my ticket and headed for the train keeping a careful hand near my wallet since Roma Termini has a terrible rep for pickpockets and few things make you stick out as a tourist like a giant backpack (though at least you look poorer and a poorer target than the Americans distracted and pulling 8 wheelie bags.) Thankfully I quickly arrived at my amazing little hotel. Double bed with ensuite bathroom and A/C for 58 euro a night and only about five minutes from the Vatican museum. Unfortunately it’s also a small place so I had to wait 20 minutes or so for someone to be back to open the door. Once in though I happily threw everything into the closet, grabbed my rome specific guidebook I’d grabbed from the bookshare in Florence and headed out for the ancient city.

A metro ride later I popped out above ground and boom, there was the Flavian Ampitheatre. Following the advice in the guidebook I grabbed a pass for the sites from the Tabbacheria in the metro station and crossed the road, getting to skip the sizable line as a result. The amphitheatre (or Colloseum as it’s broadly known after the giant statue that used to stand near the spot) was probably the thing I most wanted to see in Rome, but I didn’t mind doing it first. The place just feels ancient and gets into your blood. It’s hard to look anywhere into or out of the Colloseum without seeing something amazing. The structure itself stretches far overhead even in its current battered form and it’s easy for the mind’s eye to reconstruct it to the full shape. As you climb upwards there are displays of the statues that used to line it and demonstrations of how the hoists ran to pop up animals, combatants or pieces of scenery for shows. Apparently the originally floor substructure was wood and could be disassembled to flood the place and have naval battle shows. The higher vantage points let you see most of the later permanent stone substructure and also have terrific views out at the arch of Constantine and the Roman Forum/Palatine hill area. Apparently the long term plans are to open up the tunnels to the public. It would be neat to see it up close. Basically everything that you see in Gladiator with the pop open tiger cages and the like is possible, though probably on the tamer end of what they could do.

I probably spent more time than most people in the Colloseum, but I was really enjoying it despite the annoying tour groups being pushy. Since it was still relatively early I headed over to the Roman forum next, exploring the grounds thoroughly and again trying to imagine what it looked like in the past. The sheer volume of ruins from various roman eras somewhat threatens to overwhelm you as you explore. The massive arches of the basilica are particularly impressive when you consider that it would cover a sizable chunk of the forum if in one piece today. More than anything there was just a feeling of history. Pretty much anything in sight was at least 1800 years old and filled with stories. The tiny area where Julius Caesar’s corpse was burned, the roman senate buildings, Caligula’s palace above, all these places from the stories I’ve read since childhood. Of course it’s more of a visual thing than anything, see the photo album on facebook for more.

After exploring a bit of Palatine hill (until they got ready to kick us out) I headed up the street and passed the Vittoria Emanuel II or wedding cake monument that many Romans (rightly) feel looks kind of stupid and out of place near the ancient roman ruins. On the other side was Trajan’s column then on a few streets over to probably my second most anticipated sight: The Pantheon. Originally a pagan temple to all the gods of Rome, it has been coopted like so many other things by the Catholic church. I’m really not sure how you make a giant pagan temple into a cathedral simply by slapping a few crosses on it, but I supposed I should be thankfully they didn’t tear it down. Built by Hadrian it was the largest dome in the world for over 1000 years until Il Duomo in Florence I believe. It was massively influential on the St. Peter’s dome (and other domes in the Vatican) and is a marvel of architectural skill. Basically half of a giant sphere perfectly nested its base, it has an opening called the oculus at the top that lets in the only light (and rain when it comes.) It also once had bronze statues including what was supposedly an amazing imperial eagle on the pediment, but one of the popes melted it down for doors and cannons and various fittings for St. Peter’s. Way to go yet again papacy.

Since I’d read about a tasty sounding pasta place near the Pantheon I hunted it down and had a delicious meal before heading onward to the Fountain of Trevi. I’d heard it was busy at night, I suppose it makes sense that Friday night is the busiest. Approaching the square I heard the noise of the crowd but was still blown away by the number of people enjoying the fountain and the people watching. The fountain itself is quite impressive as well, the contrast of the figures with the unfinished stone really makes it pop. It really was incredibly packed though so I found a place to toss in a coin (legend has it this will bring you back to Rome) and headed onward to the Spanish steps. I’ve got to say, I really don’t see what the fuss is about the steps, they’re nice and all but basically just a mass of people sitting on a stairway… It’s also one of the new hotspots for gypsy pickpockets. Since I was exhausted and it was just before 9 with the A-line of the metro shutting down I hopped aboard and back to my hotel.

The next day was Vatican day since everything there would be shut down Sunday. I walked south from my hotel and got in the line that snaked round the Vatican wall but thankfully didn’t look too crazy. It wasn’t and within about 30 minutes I was inside the museum and my last new country for the trip. The museum was on and off great, certain parts were fantastic but far too packed with people all pushing towards the Sistine chapel, other parts seemed to be roped off just because the Saturday crowds were too large to risk people crowding through them. The entire Egyptian area was closed off to my disgust. Highlights were definitely the Etruscan section, by far the best collection of their artifacts I’ve ever seen and really neat in showing the base for a lot of Roman art (most of what wasn’t influenced by the Greeks was Etruscan instead essentially.) Because it took a slight detour off the main route it was also mercifully less crowded. Unfortunately the massive crowds combined with the markedly worse air conditioning that characterizes Italian museums meant that everyone was basically a giant puddle by the time we got to the Sistine chapel. The last approach to the chapel is an unending hallway of glitz and glamour and lets you know where the collection plate money has been going for the last two millennia. I’m glossing over a lot of this but this post is already turning into a “first I saw this, then that” type thing and that’s kind of boring. Suffice it to say I saw some lovely paintings and sculpture. The Sistine Chapel itself really is incredible and if I had one suggestion for friends visiting Rome it’s to prepare for it before you go into the room. Read up on the orientation and structure of the ceiling to get the most out of it because even on a slow day I’m sure it’s full of people all staring upward and elbowing you in the spleen. The relentless calls of no photo, no video (why? If you don’t use a flash?) and SHHHH, silencio get incredibly annoying as well. Personally I think a large hum of conversation about the ceiling is far preferable to someone shouting every 20 seconds for contemplation but they didn’t ask me.

Unfortunately the shortcut from the Chapel to St. Peter’s was closed that day, but I decided to go see what the line for the Basilica looked like regardless. Again it wasn’t too bad (I think everyone had just gotten into the museum ahead of me since I did sleep in a bit) and I went to have a look. Every single guidebook mentions the dress code for the Vatican (covered shoulders and knees, pants for gentleman and at the very least a long skirt for women) yet there were still people being turned away at the checkpoint. I mean seriously, you couldn’t have at least done a web search on where you were going? Imagine turning back at that point on summer days when you waited in line for 2.5 hours in the blazing hot 38 degree weather. The church itself is incredibly vast and ridiculous inside and truly seems to be a monument to the avarice of the papacy over the centuries. Little wonder that the funding of the place by papal indulgence was one of the causative factors of the Reformation. It must have represented everything that the reformers thought was wrong with the Roman church. It’s truly ridiculous inside, gorgeous but so over the top as a place of worship that it makes the palaces of even the most deluded emperors and kings look drab by comparison. Walking back to my hotel for a shower I stopped randomly at a delicious looking gelataria and later found it listed in both guidebooks as a top pick for quality and massive portions.

My last day in Rome was a little harder to plan. It was unfortunately Sunday which meant a large number of the religious sites as well as many restaurants and stores would be closed. I decided to do a bit of a walking/museum tour and started at the Piazza de Popolo before heading southwards. I ended up passing the Spanish steps and fountain of trevi again as well as the fashionable shopping area between before heading over closer to the train station. Thankfully the National Museum of Rome wasn’t and I was able to check out a wonderful collection, mostly of sculptures that had once been scattered around smaller museums but were now consolidated here.

After the museum I visited a few smaller piazza, hit the Pantheon to see the light shining in it properly instead of the dusk of my first visit then headed south to see the sacred area with some of the oldest ruins in Rome. The south end of the area is now a cat sanctuary of all things so as you watch the ruins there will be at least 5 cats in view most of the time. After I’d been past it the previous night I realized that behind the Vittorio Emmanuel II monument was the Michelangelo designed plaza of the Capitoline so I backtracked to see the reproduction of the Marcus Aurelius cavalry statue now housed in the museum. Sadly by this point I was fairly museum saturated and I knew I wouldn’t get much out of it in the hour or so remaining til closing so I skipped this one and just enjoyed the view over the forum.

Rome has a reputation as a city of petty crime. I’ve loved the city since setting foot in it but I have to say it’s entirely deserved. The terrible crap at the metro machines, pickpockets everywhere and scam artists galore mean that anytime you’re anywhere remotely touristy you’ll feel like the other 25% of the people in sight are trying to rob you blind. Even the restaurant annoyances that plague Italy come to a new level in Rome. While most places in the country will refuse to serve you tap water and insist you buy a bottle at 2 or 3 euro, many places in Rome sell you tap water at 2 or 3 euro a bottle. In addition you’d best be prepared to pay a large cover charge, even if not sitting on the patio. One Dutch couple I talked to the other night mentioned a restaurant they’d been to where any tourists that sat down were immediately brought multiple 8 dollar plates of antipasti and everyone pretended not to understand English when they tried to say they didn’t want them, of course the moment they tried to leave without paying for them English was spoken by all. Tales abound as well of scam cabs that will take you to different hotels than you asked for, miles from the metro or other cabs. Locals that “help” you then ask you to buy them a drink in a bar in return and when you get the check it’s for 100euro or more. And gypsies that will trip and drop a baby into your arms and as you grab it your pockets are rifled. Though I dismissed a lot of these at first as rumours a check of reputable travel sites on the net backs many of them up. Common sense saves you from most of these scams of course, but there is definitely a large section of the Roman population that sees visitors as prey rather than guests. Sitting in the Piazza Navona later on I saw more than a few of these lovely people, mostly pickpockets. While sitting by the fountain there I managed to scare off one guy eying a Canadian woman with MS’s purse by talking to her while staring directly at him. Given that I was probably a foot taller than him he decided not to take the chance that I was with her and went looking for other targets. Luckily she was meeting friends a bit later so I just told her to keep her bag turned inward and tight to her for the time being.

By this point I’d walked across most of the ancient city and back and was getting close to calling it a day. Most things were closing down early for Sunday so I walked back via the Vatican by crossing the bridge to the Castel Sant’angelo a building that started life as Hadrian’s tomb before being converted into a last bastion of defense for the papacy in times of invasion. It’s a squat, imposing little castle approached by a pedestrian bridge lined with Angels sculpted by Bernini. It was closing for the day as I approached so I simply snapped a few photos. From there I took the long path up towards St. Peter’s in the distance and realized that unfortunately this route would take me past the “Old Bridge” gelateria again so I was forced to get another double scoop. It was a lot busier this time but still worth the wait, I’m fairly sure that much gelato other places I’d been in Europe would be in the five euro range.

As I write this I’ve been out for my last meal, I’ve said my goodbyes to Rome and Europe and I’m packing my bag for the last time. I won’t miss living out of a backpack and kind of hope not to be doing it for a while. As much fun as I’ve had I’m definitely hitting the “time to go home” point as I think it’s time to process all that I’ve seen and file it all permanently away in the memory before it becomes a blur. I will miss discovering new places and things, but I’ve certainly had a proper introduction to the rest of Europe now and I definitely have a list of places to visit again and near misses that I would like to correct. It’s going to be weird being surrounded by people speaking English again, of being able to turn the tv on and hear english on every channel (indeed of being able to see a tv more than once a week or so.) I miss my dogs (oh, and family,) friends,  good thai food and affordable rum and cokes. I miss being able to stretch out on a queen sized bed every night and not having to worry about hot water or squeezing under a shower tap designed for a midget. In short, it’s been a great time and it will be great to be home. See you all soon.