holiday '08
So... Paris was pretty good, my personal highlight was the Cinématheque Francaise which has a small treasure trove; outfits worn by Louise Brooks, Mae West, Mrs Bates' skull from Psycho. There's a section about l'Affaire Langlois which has telegrams of support from Bunuel, Orson Welles, Chaplin and others, which I found quite moving. The temporary exhibtion was a comprenhensive, but still magical, look at Melies' silent films.
Because it was a one-night stay we booked a 2* place that turned out to be the area where Sacre Coeur ended and Dalston began. I was surprised how steep a drop in quality there is between 3* and 2*, but the TV was showing Celtic v Porto so I could ignore the holes in the ceiling.
We also walked along the Seine, found the promenade plantée from Before Sunset fame, and visited the largest flea market in Europe, and drank Pastis and ate very nice food. Our second afternoon was spoilt by the left luggage that we'd checked out the night before being 'en panne', meaning we were left with a giant suitcase on a 35 degree afternoon when we couldn't go out in the sun. Had planned to do Shakespeare & Co and the Jardin du Luxembourg, but we ended up sitting in the nearest green space to Gare de Lyon with a few meths drinkers until the depression of it outweighed the discomfort of suitcase-in-heatwave.
The night train from Paris to Florence was a bit of a rum do. We're told how superior European trains are and the Eurostar is quite state-of-the-art so I was expecting something along those lines. It was an Italian owned train and it was a bit third world, actually; grubby and redolent of 1970s British Rail- the lights and the blinds were broken. We paid extra to be in a carraige of 4 instead of 6, 4 was still quite "intimate" though. We were on the top bunks and the seats we all sat on folded into beds. You want to be polite and allow the others the opportunity to get some sleep so we missed the most spectacular scenery in the Alps (though I guess it was all pitch black anyway). Journey was 8pm-8am and I woke just before Bologna at about 7am. Despite all the austerity, it was still jolly exciting and we had Carabiniers in full uniform who took our passports at the start then woke us up to hand them back, and I really felt like I was Tintin on a secret mission to stop Mussolini from getting the plans to Professor Calculus' nuclear rocket or something.
Florence I would recommend, Florence in July I would not. It's surrounded by hills, the sun is scorching and there's no breeze at all; you sweat as much at 10pm as you did at lunchtime. However, we made the best of it by planning carefully- doing the more ambitious marching about between 8am-11am, having long lunches and short stops at the hotel; where the wonderful air-conditioning kept the room as cool as a tomb.
The city centre is one big museum; you can wander around aimlessly, and at every other turn you'll be confronted with some jawdropping cathedral the size of St Paul's. The narrow gothic streets mean everything's a short walk from everything else. There are plenty of places (around the hills, and up the Duomo and its bell-tower) that give a stunning view of the city. Walk along the river Arno at sunset, and Ponte Vecchio and all the other bridges look to beautiful for words. The churches bowl you over as does the procession of masterpieces in the Uffizi. The Boboli Gardens are an oasis in the mayhem and could definitely sue Portmeirion for plagiarism. All the history and splendour made me feel that Florence was, hopefully, my dry-run for Rome.
This is all very desirable but it has an undesirable flip-side, which is the unmistakable realisation that you're on a tourist conveyor belt, and the experience of living in Florence like a Florentine would is slipping through your fingers. We see the Japanese and Americans congregating in Leicester Square as sheep, not people, and it's weird to be on the other side of that. Very hard to interact with people- I'd spent so many hours trying to learn some Italian, but you get the Parisian thing of trying your very best and having them snap back at you in terse English. One place that had been talked up on the Internet gave out English-only menus. We looked very out of place with our milk-white skin, big sun-hats and heat rashes all over our legs, and a common feature was men on market stalls pointing, laughing and shouting "Hellooooo! Where YEW from!". When you've done all the recommended places and had some good food experiences, there's also the danger of letting your guard down and being ripped off. A random ice-cream parlour that didn't have prices in the window stung me 9 Euros for an ice cream. Yep, £7.20 for an ice cream cone.
Some of the best bits, then, were getting out of the tourism claustrophobia and into the Tuscan countryside. Seriously, it is so beautiful out there that you could almost believe in God. We took a bus as high up into the hills as you can go, to a little camping town called Saltino and had a great big walk in a forest. Another day we took a bus into Chianti. Greve was sold to us as the quintessential Chianti town but I was underwhelmed; there were apartment blocks being built all over the place, and the fantastic triangular piazza in the centre was being used as a bleeding car park. We followed a little dirt track up the hill, however, and found an ancient hamlet called Montefioralle. This was one of the most fantastic places I have ever been. There's an 11th century castle and about 80 little houses in a high circular wall behind it- the main street is a circle round the middle with little cobbled alleyways going off under arches either side. Gorgeous. When we headed back to Greve we found an outdoor swimming pool and a wine museum that did Oyster-style 'winecards'. Put some money on, and there were scores of local wines and olive oils in vending machines, about 1 euro for an inch-and-a-half of bloody nice wine. The food was uniformly lovely -even the tourist traps will do you a first class pizza- and I recommend the stalls in Mercato Centrale for a cheap quality lunch.
Flying back to Gatwick, we had an evening crashing at Kasia's mum's. To my delight she had every back copy of the Times for the duration of my absence, and to my alarm Spurs had sold 75% of their squad and spent the lot on 9 attacking midfielders. Next morning it was back to Gatwick and hence to Bilbao. We didn't get to see much of Bilbao but I guess all of Spain was on holiday as the town centre was deserted and all the shops shut, at 2pm on a Saturday. The shop at the bus station was full of pic-n-mix and porn mags. Good old Spain, I thought as I loaded up on pic-n-mix. In the surprisingly lavish Abba Parque hotel I tried to iron my wedding shirt by squashing it into a Corby trouser press whilst watching Real Madrid v Hamburg. Soon we had to meet the coach for the wedding party. As already documented by Rhodri, the pastoral setting for the wedding was quite beautiful. Rolling green hills, much gentler sun than in Italy, cows grazing peacefully, Basque musicians in traditional garb working their magic on the accordion, and a lovely cottage/restaurant where we were to be fed. Toutes les sons et les parfums de la nuit. Then you walked round the other side of the cottage and you saw smoke pouring out of a gigantic Soviet-style power station. Hilarious. I doff my hat.
Neil and Laura had their ceremony outdoors and, in a nod to Le Charme Discret de la Bourgeoisie, a plane flew overhead during the vows. Waitresses starting filling us with langoustines and champagne the moment it ended. The reception was lovely; not a trace of bible-bashing, the speeches were first-rate, and the food was indisputably one of the top 5 meals I have eaten in my whole life (and I skipped the beef course, which Kate is still pining for a month later). We had brandy, moet and Montecristo cigars and then staggered outside for the disco and the whole thing was phenomenal fun.
If you're desperately bored there are photos of all this on my Faceboke.
Because it was a one-night stay we booked a 2* place that turned out to be the area where Sacre Coeur ended and Dalston began. I was surprised how steep a drop in quality there is between 3* and 2*, but the TV was showing Celtic v Porto so I could ignore the holes in the ceiling.
We also walked along the Seine, found the promenade plantée from Before Sunset fame, and visited the largest flea market in Europe, and drank Pastis and ate very nice food. Our second afternoon was spoilt by the left luggage that we'd checked out the night before being 'en panne', meaning we were left with a giant suitcase on a 35 degree afternoon when we couldn't go out in the sun. Had planned to do Shakespeare & Co and the Jardin du Luxembourg, but we ended up sitting in the nearest green space to Gare de Lyon with a few meths drinkers until the depression of it outweighed the discomfort of suitcase-in-heatwave.
The night train from Paris to Florence was a bit of a rum do. We're told how superior European trains are and the Eurostar is quite state-of-the-art so I was expecting something along those lines. It was an Italian owned train and it was a bit third world, actually; grubby and redolent of 1970s British Rail- the lights and the blinds were broken. We paid extra to be in a carraige of 4 instead of 6, 4 was still quite "intimate" though. We were on the top bunks and the seats we all sat on folded into beds. You want to be polite and allow the others the opportunity to get some sleep so we missed the most spectacular scenery in the Alps (though I guess it was all pitch black anyway). Journey was 8pm-8am and I woke just before Bologna at about 7am. Despite all the austerity, it was still jolly exciting and we had Carabiniers in full uniform who took our passports at the start then woke us up to hand them back, and I really felt like I was Tintin on a secret mission to stop Mussolini from getting the plans to Professor Calculus' nuclear rocket or something.
Florence I would recommend, Florence in July I would not. It's surrounded by hills, the sun is scorching and there's no breeze at all; you sweat as much at 10pm as you did at lunchtime. However, we made the best of it by planning carefully- doing the more ambitious marching about between 8am-11am, having long lunches and short stops at the hotel; where the wonderful air-conditioning kept the room as cool as a tomb.
The city centre is one big museum; you can wander around aimlessly, and at every other turn you'll be confronted with some jawdropping cathedral the size of St Paul's. The narrow gothic streets mean everything's a short walk from everything else. There are plenty of places (around the hills, and up the Duomo and its bell-tower) that give a stunning view of the city. Walk along the river Arno at sunset, and Ponte Vecchio and all the other bridges look to beautiful for words. The churches bowl you over as does the procession of masterpieces in the Uffizi. The Boboli Gardens are an oasis in the mayhem and could definitely sue Portmeirion for plagiarism. All the history and splendour made me feel that Florence was, hopefully, my dry-run for Rome.
This is all very desirable but it has an undesirable flip-side, which is the unmistakable realisation that you're on a tourist conveyor belt, and the experience of living in Florence like a Florentine would is slipping through your fingers. We see the Japanese and Americans congregating in Leicester Square as sheep, not people, and it's weird to be on the other side of that. Very hard to interact with people- I'd spent so many hours trying to learn some Italian, but you get the Parisian thing of trying your very best and having them snap back at you in terse English. One place that had been talked up on the Internet gave out English-only menus. We looked very out of place with our milk-white skin, big sun-hats and heat rashes all over our legs, and a common feature was men on market stalls pointing, laughing and shouting "Hellooooo! Where YEW from!". When you've done all the recommended places and had some good food experiences, there's also the danger of letting your guard down and being ripped off. A random ice-cream parlour that didn't have prices in the window stung me 9 Euros for an ice cream. Yep, £7.20 for an ice cream cone.
Some of the best bits, then, were getting out of the tourism claustrophobia and into the Tuscan countryside. Seriously, it is so beautiful out there that you could almost believe in God. We took a bus as high up into the hills as you can go, to a little camping town called Saltino and had a great big walk in a forest. Another day we took a bus into Chianti. Greve was sold to us as the quintessential Chianti town but I was underwhelmed; there were apartment blocks being built all over the place, and the fantastic triangular piazza in the centre was being used as a bleeding car park. We followed a little dirt track up the hill, however, and found an ancient hamlet called Montefioralle. This was one of the most fantastic places I have ever been. There's an 11th century castle and about 80 little houses in a high circular wall behind it- the main street is a circle round the middle with little cobbled alleyways going off under arches either side. Gorgeous. When we headed back to Greve we found an outdoor swimming pool and a wine museum that did Oyster-style 'winecards'. Put some money on, and there were scores of local wines and olive oils in vending machines, about 1 euro for an inch-and-a-half of bloody nice wine. The food was uniformly lovely -even the tourist traps will do you a first class pizza- and I recommend the stalls in Mercato Centrale for a cheap quality lunch.
Flying back to Gatwick, we had an evening crashing at Kasia's mum's. To my delight she had every back copy of the Times for the duration of my absence, and to my alarm Spurs had sold 75% of their squad and spent the lot on 9 attacking midfielders. Next morning it was back to Gatwick and hence to Bilbao. We didn't get to see much of Bilbao but I guess all of Spain was on holiday as the town centre was deserted and all the shops shut, at 2pm on a Saturday. The shop at the bus station was full of pic-n-mix and porn mags. Good old Spain, I thought as I loaded up on pic-n-mix. In the surprisingly lavish Abba Parque hotel I tried to iron my wedding shirt by squashing it into a Corby trouser press whilst watching Real Madrid v Hamburg. Soon we had to meet the coach for the wedding party. As already documented by Rhodri, the pastoral setting for the wedding was quite beautiful. Rolling green hills, much gentler sun than in Italy, cows grazing peacefully, Basque musicians in traditional garb working their magic on the accordion, and a lovely cottage/restaurant where we were to be fed. Toutes les sons et les parfums de la nuit. Then you walked round the other side of the cottage and you saw smoke pouring out of a gigantic Soviet-style power station. Hilarious. I doff my hat.
Neil and Laura had their ceremony outdoors and, in a nod to Le Charme Discret de la Bourgeoisie, a plane flew overhead during the vows. Waitresses starting filling us with langoustines and champagne the moment it ended. The reception was lovely; not a trace of bible-bashing, the speeches were first-rate, and the food was indisputably one of the top 5 meals I have eaten in my whole life (and I skipped the beef course, which Kate is still pining for a month later). We had brandy, moet and Montecristo cigars and then staggered outside for the disco and the whole thing was phenomenal fun.
If you're desperately bored there are photos of all this on my Faceboke.