It's a Beautiful Life

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Do not go to Milan.

Actually, let me rephrase. By all means, go to Milan if
1) you are a fashion model - then please, strut these uninspiring streets in all your grasshopper glory
2) if you are simultaneously a fashion obsessist and made of money (in which case you JUST might be a fashion model anyway). Shoppers Dee and I may be, made of money we certainly are not.
3) you are using Milan as a stopover, your gateway into one of the most beautiful, exciting and exhilarating countries in the world

We flew into Milan from Malaga, Spain, a cheap flight that would get us out of Spain and into Italy. It was a full day of travel before we checked into our Milan 'hotel' at midnight. A bus from Granada to Malaga station, a bus from Malaga station to Malaga airport, a plane from Malaga to Milan and then a bus from Milan airport to Milan city (oh, how familiar I am with the Spanish and Italian bus system now. When in doubt, there will always be a bus.) From the centre of Milan, we caught an extortionate cab to our hotel. Which leads me to my next point.

If you are ever in Milan (going against my advice, because I know none of you are fashion models, and I question to what extent made of money applies) do not stay in Adellci Hotel. Do not be fooled by the word 'hotel' tacked onto its name. It may be the cheapest thing on hostel world.com, because, in Milan, it costs to breathe (unless you are a fashion model, I would imagine it is free then, and probably comes with a complimentary hit of coke) but do not be sucked in by its soothingly cheap price tag. In fact, do not be sucked in by the word hotel. It is not a hotel, it is a horror movie set masquerading as a hotel. It may have a few sheets of foolscap paper scattered across the school desk which moonlights as reception on the odd occasion customers actually check in, but this is simply a guise of professionalism. It would have been ok, if our door actually locked properly. I could have even overlooked the fact that the toilet across the hall didn't sport the, I would have thought, necessary appendage, of a door. The one next door to our room did though, because Satie locked herself into it ... she could be heard to wail, as we jostled to get her free, 'this is how I die, isn't it.'

Do, however, go to Venice. If you do anything in your lifetime, make it Venice (or Florence, or Rome, or Siena ... or, really, just Italy). Venice is beautiful. Venice is picturesque, photogenic, ridiculously charming and hopelessly romantic. It banished the horrors of Milan, and practically whipped out a picture book of What Italy Should Look Like and flipped through the glossy pages saying 'prego prego prego'. It is the only city thus far, thats central station has been situated in a pretty part of the city. In Venice's case, you step out, and fall head over heels with a literal postcard image. It takes about 30 seconds to progress from infatuation to full blown love affair. Then a tourist steps on your foot, or sneezes in your face, and a man hassles you to buy a fake prada bag ... and, as it always does in these touristy cities, reality prevails for the moment.

We were staying in Australia ... I mean, a campsite (it's ok, not in a tent, I couldn't pitch a tent if my life depended on it, nor do I have any interest in it) which was (as all campsites through Europe are) a drop off point for everyone's favourite brand of traveller, the Contiki/Topdeck breed. Needless to say, our nights were spent lying in our bunkbeds listening to Aussie C words pick fights with other Aussie C words. I mean, really, can we not think of another word? Is vagina the best we can do? Surely, if our generation continues travelling, in five years we will cease to be known affectionately as Aussies (we will cease to be known affectionately at all) instead, simply as the C word. Not because we are them (well, most of the time) but because it is the only word we seem to spout with any sort frequency. That and 'fuck'. And occasionally 'mate'. Long gone are the simple days of g'day and kangaroos, we now have far more sinister things defining us, and they include derogative references to the female anatomy. Makes. Me. So. Proud.

But I digress. The backdrop to this Australia vocal and verbal ablution, was the delightful Venice. We spent our days eating head-sized pizzas (always go to the back streets for the cheaper and more authentic food) sipping lattes at checkered cloth covered tables, from chipped mugs with cows on them and stalking gondola men for the perfect action shot. All you need to do in Venice is walk, the city does the rest for you, purely by existing. And if you can find a tiny cafe, in one of the narrow back streets, untainted by the massive tourism market that seems to drive this city in the summer, then you can get a pretty cheap (and delicious) coffee and watch the world go by. And get leered at by Italian men. Whatever.

Bologna was next, a train trip (and a fine, who knew you had to validate your ticket after buying it) and a rather long cab ride, and we were at our hotel (smugly booked as one of the cheapest accommodations on hosteworld.com) in the Bologna countryside. Bologna was to be our campsite reprieve, we fashioned it as a hotel retreat, so as to make our campsite stints in Venice, Florence and Rome seem more bearable. At first, it seemed, we had fallen for the Horror Movie Set Moonlighting as a Hotel ruse once more ... then fellow patrons trickled in, the lights went on in reception and we exhaled. The novelty of having our own bathroom, and a buffet breakfast every morning was enough to buoy our campsite and train-fine dampened spirits, as was the fact that Bologna is just lovely. It is the sweetest little university town (since the 1200s or something insane like that) with endless bars, trattorias, cafes and fresh fruit stalls lining the cobbled, arcaded streets. It is worthwhile making time for this little town, even if only for a couple of days - particularly as a stopover in between the hectic Big Cities (Lonely Planet Cities). You feel less like a tourist and more like a local, and if nothing else, the spaghetti bolognaise sauce is superb.

From Bologna, we caught the bus to Florence, yet another campsite, and yet more Aussies. This time, however, we were mercifully more thoroughly dispersed throughout throngs of bronzed European backpackers and skimpily clad Poms who go nuts at the sight of the sun. Again, I will wax lyrical on yet another Italian city. Florence is; artistic, scenic, grand in its old age and rich with art history. It is also bloated with tourists and so, as in Rome, you are hard pressed to find a bona fide Florence-ian, and more likely to engage in any sort of interaction with an American than you are an Italian. That aside, it is wonderful. And again, the perfect city to find a tucked-away cafe, and get out of the throngs of sweating tourists. That being said, a whole lot of sweaty shoulders were rubbed in the queue waiting for David, which is located in an art museum that literally makes no pretences as to why it exists - for David. About 4 paintings hang on the wall in the first room, to the left is a bizarre room of busts and sculptures and then, standing there, framed by an arch and godly light filtering through, is the man himself.
And he is breathtaking.

Nearly as breath taking as the freak rainstorm that hit Florence, the worst in 20 years, as we were skipping through the city. And yes, we were skipping, fuelled along by caffeine, in our calico frocks, perhaps yelling bonjourno to cafe owners who, in their spare time, stand on the steps of their store fronts and talk to passersby. At first, it was a rumble of thunder, then the clouds closed in and boom. Lightening, thunder, gale force winds (of course, Dee and I were perambulating along the bridge at that point, and yes we stopped to take a photo. Ever wonder what kind of people get photos of natural disasters? Why they are standing in the midst of a freak storm photographing flying houses? That's Dee and I. Anything for a good photo.)Aaaanyway, we ran for cover (stopping to photograph and entire row of scooters that had toppled in a domino-esque fashion) only to find most archways occupied by shivering tourists and, by this point we were so wet anyway we saw it only fit to continue. The walk to our campsite involved a narrow set of incredibly steep stairs (the hilltop view comes at a price) which, as we approached them we noted, had turned into a veritable waterfall. When we reached the top, the cafe housing smugly dry Italians (the men are such girls, one actually screamed when he got wet) laughed in our (bedraggled) faces, and so we had no option but to continue to the campsite, rather than endure the humiliation any longer. And so we got back to the campsite, having crossed uprooted trees and waded through flooding gutters, to discover our cabin flooded. The window was open. Dee's bed was soaked through. Satie's bag had puddles in it. Our floor was a wave of mud.

For a couple of nights, it was a not so beautiful life.