Tour Di Italia 3. Pisa & Rome

“This is how it started in Taken,” Kelly says.

“As in Liam Neeson?”

She nods and we stare at the glasses of champagne we’ve been given, looking for signs of drugs at the bottom of it.

We’re in a dingy back room of a nail parlour somewhere in Rome with no windows, champagne in hand and people coming in and out given us sparrow-like started looks. They’ve clearly mistaken us for someone else, fussing over us with drinks and appetisers, the beauticians asking to take pictures of us and insisting we add her on Instagram, while the other one disappears and returns wearing full make up and sticky lipgloss. I’m a bit worried about all the whispering and the never ending bubbly, but it’s free and more importantly there’s wifi, so I play along until I finish the bottle, leaving Kelly to her fate and her pedicure as I escape to wander the Roman roads in the evening warmth.

**

Whoever the mad Roman women thought we were, we survive to tell the tale without being kidnapped, having travelled from Florence through Pisa to the Capital, stopping to take the obligatory Pisa poses in the gorgeous sun and lounging the shade of the tower, befriending a guy travelling from Miami as we sunbathe and eat ice creams on the grass. He is the chosen one today for two important reasons; A. he has a GoPro and B. he can help us with our bags. Pisa is a wonderful illustration of the unaffected Italian attitude. With the first brick laid in the 12^th century, they stopped and started construction for 200 years unable to correct the famous tilt until it was officially completed, the foundations in soft sand & soil meaning it only officially stopped moving in 2008.

Pisa is an easy one hour and 8 Euro journey from Florence, spending the day in the pretty town before taking the evening train onto Rome. The sunset train is a must see; comfortable, cool and an unforgettable sight from the window, watching the sky turn the ocean into a fiery orange horizon, the light disappearing as we arrive in a city I have waited so long to see, Roma! Mi Roma!

**

How do you describe Rome? It’s like living two lives, the old and the new so intricately intertwined you’re on the flipside of a coin. This other life is so clearly visible it feels you are almost intruding on the Roman’s; every corner you turn there are jaw dropping ruins and remains, cars and vespers winding around the screaming roads that have popped up around the columns and marble, the Italians living in perfect synchronicity alongside their ancestors. What is so enticing about this city is how life has built itself around its past, new buildings using the groves and spaces between ancient columns, reclaiming it the way a jungle reclaims a once inhabited land. Life pushes forward no matter what the fall, and here the scars of time are beautiful and exposed.

I’ve been drinking the fountain water, which I thought was a perfectly good money saving idea as I’ve seen the locals do it, but the dogs drink from it too so maybe it wasn’t so smart, especially as I find I can’t eat anything from Florence all the way to Rome and it takes a few days for my appetite for buffalo mozzarella and beef tomatoes to return.

We haven’t got the coffee thing quite right either, and this is upsetting me. Italy is the coffee Mecca, but I’m used to London craft coffee, double shot super strong and smooth; here I ask for latte and get a large cup of hot milk.

We try a new tactic. “Un latte e un espresso,” I say, while Kelly orders one macchiato and one Americano. The barman looks at our table us but it’s just us two, and stares wide eyed as I pour the espresso into the latte, Kelly shotting the macchiato after the Americano. We’re buzzing off our faces as we leave, and everything looks bright and loud on the walk back to the apartment. Nope, we haven’t got the coffee thing quite right yet.

**

Travstevere. This is the area you want to stay in Rome. This is where the Italians are -the streets are warm and inviting, music playing, al fresco tables, Italian menus and little churches covered in green ivy. We buy 5 euro local pizzas which melts in your mouth and sit outside in the piazza where the locals have set up an outdoor cinema. The cab drivers are slightly mental, this fiery Roman temperament present in the blood of the locals sending us spinning as he gives us a guided tour with one hand on the wheel, stopping in the middle of duel carriage way to point out monuments and having a full on road-rage moment with the car behind as I try and retrieve my change on arrival. “Scuzi, I need 5 euro from that,” I say to the handful of cash in his hand, but he is busy debating with the gentleman in the car behind whether to have a full on fist-fight so my pleas fall on deaf ears.

**

We explore Roman Rome in the sun, finishing boldly by climbing the 521 steps to the very top of St Peters Basillica, but going round and round the endless steps I make a new discovery about myself- I am terrified of heights. Very inconvenient. Actually it’s not me that’s afraid of heights, it’s my knees, they are suddenly made of jelly and have the odd desire to crouch down low and hold on to my flip flops, trying to regain a centre of gravity. Kelly is patient but firm, and moves me away from the baffled security guard who I am trying to convince to let me go back down the opposite way.

4 cities in 6 days, walking on average 5 miles a day, we are a pair of nutters. By the time we reach the Vatican on day 7 I’ve hit a slight wall, and of all the places in all the cities, this is not the place to hit a wall.

Churches have always been a place of comfort to me having brought up a catholic; the smell of incense reminds me of childhood, Sunday’s and the promise of sweets for good behaviour. But I can’t get a sense of the Vatican, the power & austerity are lost in the herding and charging of tourists along crowded hot corridors. I want to be left in peace to explore, to sit in the Sistine chapel, but under of the roof of the world famous art a guard shouts over a microphone ‘SILENCE’ and the moment is lost.

Art and beauty are meant for sharing, but you can’t force the experience. Sometime we can’t put parameters around it, a price, a trampled path. I leave exhausted, and the waiter serving me my recovery diet coke thinks the solution is to hide one of our shoes in an attempt to make us laugh. It works.

We collapse a nap for an hour, watching episodes of Ab Fab, the Patsy and Eddie of the hopeless, hapless travelling world asleep with the air con to soothe our aching selves. After a shower and another coffee, we go out and dance with the Romans until the early hours of the morning, and in a haze of hangover and heat, make out way to Naples the next afternoon…

Tour Di Italia 2. Florence

Tour Di Italia

2. Florence.

“Dude! We’re on the wrong platform!”

We run, two girls and all forty-seven kilos of luggage in hand, to platform three, not platform five. Our numbers are as good as our Italian apparently. We make it with 3 minutes to spare, sitting in the wrong seats in the wrong carriage and not noticing until an Italian family turf us out and we find our place EIGHT carriages up.

Europeans need to give the brits a lesson on how to do trains. It’s luxury compared to the cattle train commuter lines - I have a leather seat with plug sockets, table, leg room and a TV in the isle showing the journey on a moving map as we go from Venice through Bologna into Florence. We make friends with four middle age Aussies on some kind of mid-life crisis European tour and they ask us immediately about Brexit. I feel like I’m apologising a lot for Brexit out here; everyone we come across; Italians, Americans, Australians, ask us the same question with curiosity – “is that what everyone really feels like in the UK?” Travelling around these beautiful cities it seems more absurd than ever to have cut ourselves afloat on our island, where the is so much here we need to be a part of.

Florence is hot and orange; a citrus city of sunshine that is 32 degrees when we arrive. The Duomo is every bit as breath-taking as I had hoped, but getting in however, was a challenge we weren’t quite prepped for. A strict dress code of no bare shoulders and no short skirts meant mine and Kelly’s attire would need a little altering, and in our quest for sunkissed skin, we didn’t exactly have much material to work with.

She artfully tucks the shoulder of my dress together and under my arm, adjusting the folds of the dress so there’s less cleavage, and instructs me not to move. I look like an overheated penguin, arms glued to my side walking stiffly in the que. We’re getting closer and closer, heat blazing, Japanese tourists poking me with selfie sticks and over-sized cameras, but finally we get to the front of the line, Kel adjusting my hair over any offending flesh on show. I’m as prim and proper as I’m ever going to be standing in front of the security guard, he casts his eye over me… and I’m through! Yes! I resist the urge to fist pump the air as I’m still holding my clothes together with my underarms, but wait, an arm has cut across Kelly.

 “No shorts” he tells her pointing to her knees.

“I’m not wearing shorts?” She protests, which is probably the problem. Kelly’s off-the shoulder canary yellow dress has been artfully pulled up to become an on-the-shoulder number, but as a consequence has become slightly shorter that originally intended.

“No,” he says, wagging his finger and casting her aside. Meanwhile I’m being swept with the crowd up the steps…

“Dude, go on without me!” She calls, “Go see the Duomo!!”

“No, I’m not going without you!”

“I’ll wait for you dude!” She shouts, “go see the Duomo dude, go go go!”

I wave as best I can with my arms still glued to my side and continue up the marble stairs. I’m nearly there, the grand oak door is in front of me, I’m about to go through - when a large arm blocks me.

The second security guard points to my knees- indicating for me to pull my dress down to make it longer. Slight issue here since if I attempt that, I’m going to have to unpin my arms, and then all sorts of skin will be back on show to the Italian public. I attempt to shimmy a bit, make an effort to make the skirt longer - but alas! I don’t make the cut! He moves me aside, casting me out with the other rejects. I try and peer through the door, but only darkness peers back.

We drink a pint of beer outside the Duomo and stare at it instead.

**

Bikes are always the dream way to get around on an adventure - it is my greatest recommendation when travelling as it is always cheap and European cities are very cycle friendly.  Taking our time, we wind through the long roads and cobbled paths, stopping for our picnic and a cold beer on a secret beach we find down by the canal towards the outskirts of the city.

Two grown women, exploring Italy, confident travellers… until the bike chain falls off. We stare at it like a rubix cube, my pink glittery nails turning black with sticky thick bike oil as I try to fit it back on. Its boiling hot, we have no idea what we’re doing and it’s a long way back to bike shop.

“We need a man!” Kelly calls, and I look round for a decent one.

Thankfully we’re in the right country if it’s a man you’re looking for – within 20 seconds a full-on Georgie Clooney hottie bowls over confidentially, complete with polo shirt, loafers and silver fox hair.

 “Ciao”, he says, flipping the bike upside down with one hand and flicking the chain on, spinning the peddles around before we can say tutti fruity.

“Thanks,” we swoon and off he strolls, giving us a wink.

**

The trick with travelling I think, is to be versatile - we can go from putting the complimentary restaurant rolls in our handbags for lunch the next day - to drinking prosecco in Florence’s Continental hotel roof bar. It’s a champagne life on a lemonade budget, so if you want the 5-star hotel, you’re gonna have to eat packets of ham and free bread rolls for the day. It’s a trade I’m willing to make as I watch an Italian sunset from a soft cushioned sun lounger, an Italian waiter in a bow tie serving my drink in a crystal glass. The Firenze horizon is on fire, a burnt orange lighting up the water, the yellow and orange buildings along the canal warm and stunning in the evening light.

Walking home we’re feeling very pleased with ourselves and crossing the Ponte Vecchio for the last time, I suddenly stop.

“Kel, did you pay the bill?”

“No, I thought you paid the bill?”

“Are you joking?!”

We stare at each other wide-eyed. The catholic in me squirms. It was an honest accident.

But it’s a long way back and we’re both wearing heels.

Sorry Florence - I’ll get the next round x

Grand Tour Di Italia - 1. Venice

Grad Tour Di Italia-

1. Venice

Its 4am and my phone is ringing.

“Mel, wasn’t your flight at 4am? Kelly’s not moving.”

And so it begins.

“What you mean she’s not moving, is she alive?”

 There is a pause as Dave gives her a poke.

 “Yeah, I mean she’s humming and singing, she’s just not moving.”

Great, a drunk/hungover Kelly is an element I am not ready for at these hours of the morning. The flight isn’t at 4am thank god, but that’s the time we were supposed to be waking up, and my best friend has got a little too jolly the night before and is now in a pickle. Telling Kelly to stay in for an evening is like trying to get a cat in a cage when you’re going to the vet. She is not staying in.

At 4.23am, she’s not out of bed, or finished packing and the cab is booked for 4.45am.

“Dave,” I say to her housemate, having called him back. “Put me on speaker phone and put the phone next to her ear.”

Dave follows the instructions.

“DUDE? What are you doing? Get up, we’re going in 15mins. Get up NOW.”

I hear her jump out of her skin.

“I’m awake I’m awake!!”

**

Kelly sits on the suitcase as we desperately try to zip the thing up. We’re sitting in the middle of City Airport at 5am and the guy on the BA desk is staring at us, unamused.

Now this isn’t Ryanair stingy 15k weight, BA give you a generous 23K, but Kelly’s face is aghast as the scales flash -29k.

“Dude, what have you got in there?”

She looks at me blankly.

“It’s a £65 charge for luggage over the weight limit,” says the unamused BA guy.

“Really? It's just that £65 is really expensive and I don’t have a lot of money...”

He is unmoved by this plea. “Did you know what the weight allowance was?”

“Yes.”

“But you chose to pack 6 extra kilograms?”

Kelly pauses – “yes.”

There is an awkward silence.

“Well I didn’t mean to,” she adds.

“Kel, just pay the man,” I whisper in a slightly desperate tone. Her credit card comes out reluctantly and I wonder if 5am is too early for me to start drinking.

**

The next adventure comes after landing- after a quick and comfortable flight we’re queuing for our luggage, round and round and round bags go, trolleys come and are wheeled away and guess who’s bag does not appear…

Kelly’s.

She starts to sweat, “The Chanel” she says to me, a look of fear in her eyes. “The Chanel is in there, and I don’t have travel insurance.”

I tell her to breathe, and curse that damn handbag. When she moved to London with nothing but a hope for a fresh start, she clung to that bag in this crazy city like it held the secrets of the universe.

“Dude,” I would tell her, “that’s a deposit and 4 months’ rent! Sell the thing!”

“Never,” she would hiss at me.

‘Delivery Ended.’ the screen above the conveyer belt flashed. One solitary black bag was still going round, that and a broken push chair. I came back from the lost and found desk and asked one last question; "are you sure that’s not you bag?"

She pauses, and I roll the case over as it comes past us for the eleventh time.

“Ah! That is my case my case after all!”

I resist the urge to punch her in the face.

 **

We take a water bus to the island, following a water motorway as boats fly back and forth on glorious turquoise water. From the minute we step off and start dragging our bags through cobbled streets, I am in love.

Over the next two days I find no signs of the haunted or the sinking and stinking that I have often heard described. This city is bursting full of colour and light, a never ending maze of beautiful canals, every bit as authentic as you could hope.

I have an obsession with maps, a trait that comes in handy as I quickly notice the streets make no sense at all, tiny winding paths of crumbling brick and grand rusting doors, finding ourselves at dead ends and secret courtyards with every turn. Of course it doesn’t help that Kelly drops my map to the canal within 24 hours and I don’t know where we live without out it, since it had our apartment circled clearly by our airbnb host.

The place looks like a movie set, so true it is to any picture you have in your head and there is so much detail to drink in, wherever your home is will never look the same again in comparison. I don’t think much of the water buses, crammed and irregular- on the way to the station on the last day I’m convinced it will sink- people and suitcases jammed together like sardines and I cling onto the side for dear life. But the key to Venice, to feel you have seen this crazy magical place is to walk and walk and walk.

We make picnics and use the drinking fountains to drink all day as we wander through each quarter, stopping to sunbathe on canal corners and eat gelato in sunny open squares. We listen to the orchestra in San Marco’s square and eat pizza in tiny pizzerias that are so fresh and sweet it could almost be dessert.

As a place it feels surreal- how does it work? It’s so beautiful but makes no sense- in the middle of nowhere, on water, decadent architecture and basilica’s everywhere you turn. The city, I discover, was founded in 400bc, a place for refuges that came to the lagoon in the Adriatic Sea, safe from enemies who couldn’t sail, and eventually attempted to build a city on the water so they could stay. Unbelievably the original foundations of Venice are made of wood- pikes going down in to the deeper sand and clay, the lack of oxygen meaning the wood doesn’t rot but in fact turns into a solid structure. I look around at the buildings, built almost on top of each other they are so close together, a boat pulling up to a restaurant, delivering the fish from the boat through the window. It seems impossible that it works but it does.

An added bonus is we have accidentally arrived in Venice on their biggest holiday weekend of the year, a celebration of the church built after God spared the city from the plague. We join in with hundreds and hundreds of boats filling the water with mini floating parties, an astonishing sight in the evening water, music playing all along the grand canal. Prosecco in hand we watch a fireworks display that is simply breath taking, exploding light illuminating the Venetian skyline of basilicas and domes. The whole city lights up with a show that lasts 45minutes and the whole city cheers as midnight strikes.

It is magic.

*Next stop Florence!*