ciento volando

travel, stories, and other flights of fancy



Tuscany, 2011For many people (possibly most people), Italy is a dream destination. With picture perfect scenery and an abundance of art, fashion, passion and prosciutto – there’s no wondering why it’s the choice setting for so many glamorous films, romance novels, and once-in-a-lifetime holidays.

For those who are lucky enough to actually make it there and see the ‘real’ (or just plain touristic) Italy, the spectrum of reactions is always varied.

Italy was the first country I visited when I moved to Europe in 2011, and it didn’t fail to live up to my (very high) expectations. I actually burst into tears when I saw the Colosseum, such was my wonder and joy at the sudden realisation that I was actually there and living my dream, so to speak. I travelled around for over two weeks, and managed to see a number of cities plus some countryside too, you can read about my very enthusiastic first impressions here.

So when Mum proposed going to Italy this summer (it would be her first time), I absolutely jumped at the chance. Of all the countries I’d been to since I got to Europe, it’s where I’d most wanted to go back.

This time, however, my response was completely different. Of course I enjoyed the trip, but this was mostly because I was in good company, in holiday mode, and not working. The country itself left me feeling a bit underwhelmed, sometimes even disappointed.

There are a few reasons why this might be:

– No free tapas. Sigh. I always find this hard to deal with outside of Spain.
– I was reading Gomorrah, by Roberto Saviano. Whilst it’s great to match your holiday reading to your destination, I don’t recommend this book to anyone. Partly because it’s so depressing (everything in Italy, and the world, but especially Italy, is corrupt and fake and run by gangsters and ultimately doomed), and partly because it’s badly written and/or badly translated, and a struggle to read. I ended up giving up half way.
– Some parts of Italy seemed quite dirty. Ok, in comparison to Spain (where old ladies regularly mop the fronts of their houses), most places seem dirty. But I’ve been in third world countries where the filth bothered me less. Perhaps it’s because I saw the griminess as symbolic of complacency (the monuments are already there and tourists will come no matter what), a lack of pride (don’t they appreciate what they have?!), and a result of corruption (see Gomorrah above). Whatever the reason, it’s a shame.
– The restaurants. Last time I was travelling by myself and was generally happy to sit on park benches with 3 euro pizza slices and the tasty fresh produce I got from markets. This time Mum and I chose to eat at cafes, though still on a modest budget. As it turns out, we were really just paying for a place to sit down, with air conditioning and a toilet. The food itself was nothing spectacular, especially for a country that’s meant to be a gastronomic paradise… I love Italian cuisine in theory, but in practice, all the pizza and pasta got repetitive (literally), and the prosciutto, salami and olive oil seemed pretty flavourless. I guess the best Italian food must be found at home-cooked family dinners, or in the really expensive restaurants, or in countries other than Italy…
– Mosquitoes.
– The tourists. Yes, we were two of them. Bloody tourists.
– Being there a second time. There are many advantages to this, such as knowing how the train system works, or being able to orientate oneself. However, I don’t know the country (or the language) well enough to be totally at home in Italy, but nor could I experience the adrenaline thrill of being in a completely new and foreign environment. Curious.

The holiday itself was incredibly smooth. We had no transport hiccups, our accommodation was great, and the service was generally good (although the restaurants stop serving much earlier than in Spain, and the waiters made no bones about packing up tables and chairs around people who were still eating. One time they even turned the lights off on us, at 11pm in the centre of Venice. Mum told them very smoothly that if she couldn’t see the bill, she couldn’t pay it, for which they had no counter argument).

As for the highlights of the trip, well fortunately there were many! It was curious to re-visit cities such as Rome, Florence and Venice, and see them in a different way. Some monuments were no less incredible the second time round, others I barely stopped to look at. Here’s a mixed mix of the places I saw, and some of the things that stuck out.

The Roman Forum: How on earth I missed this last time I don’t know, especially as my ticket to the Colosseum would have got me straight in. The Forum is a collection of ruins in the city centre. The buildings were once temples, shrines, basilicas and government offices, constructed across centuries by various emperors, each trying to outdo his predecessors. I’m not massively into ruins, and to me The Forum looks like a messy shamble from the outside. But I was in the company of people who know and love that kind of history, and their enthusiasm was contagious. Wandering the incredible buildings and gardens was fascinating and very enjoyable, despite the sweltering heat.

duomo of florenceFLORENCE
The Duomo: My favourite building in Italy. This time I climbed the tower, which was much easier in comparison to the claustrophobic steps of Segovia’s Alcázar, due to several rest points and a lovely cool breeze. So don’t be discouraged by the climb, it’s well worth it to view the building from above and look across at the beautiful domed rooves.
Walnut bread, fresh figs and chianti: Florence’s central market is a great place to pick up picnic supplies (and the path up to the Rose Garden across the river is a great place to have a picnic). The highlight was definitely the walnut bread – it was sort of like a chewy, sweet and salty flat bread, made with wholegrain flour. We went back to the market bakery for seconds (a few times), but stupidly didn’t get the name of the bread, and weren’t able to find it anywhere else. If anyone knows anything about Italian breads, please get in touch with me!

The shroud of Turin: The cloth that supposedly wrapped Christ’s crucified body is one of the most controversial and most analysed artefacts in the world. It’s held in a shrouded (haha) container behind a lot of security in the Cattedrale di San Giovanni Battista, but you can study a (surprisingly interesting) full scale replica in the nearby Church of San Lorenzo, or in the Museo della Sindone, the Shroud museum.
Mole AntonellianaThe Mole: is more than just a striking piece of modern architecture, it also houses Turin’s ‘National’ film and cinema museum. For me the highlight was the glass elevator, which takes you up through the centre of the museum and out onto an observation deck, for spectacular views of the city.
Caffè Mulassano: This tiny art nouveau cafe is found on the Piazza Castello. Drinks are pricey but well worth it for the nibbles (which came in silver bowls with silver spoons) elaborate decor, and friendly waiters (who only speak Italian). I recommend the spinach quiche, and the olives were the best I’ve tried outside of Spain.
Caffè San Tomasso 10: is creatively named after its address. This was the original Lavazza family coffee shop, and the walls are decorated with stunning, sexy, coffee-themed photography from their various advertising campaigns.

Skip all that fashion rubbish, Milan’s Duomo is much more stylish. The Cathedral’s gothic stonework is best viewed from the upstairs galleries, where you can walk amongst the arches and view the statues and gargoyles up close.

Well, George Clooney wasn’t there to pick us up from the station in his private, Nespresso powered waterplane, but we had fun in Como nonetheless. I’ve no particular recommendations, other than that if you’re short on time, the funicular and the ferry are both great for taking in views of the scenery, at two very different angles. What else can I say? It’s just a very pretty part of the world. Apparently it looks like Switzerland, and lots of famous people live there.

Venice is tired, and made me tired. It’s hot, and crowded, and expensive, and I feel sorry for the buildings which are all slowly rotting and sinking under the weight of the tourist hordes with their cameras, gelatis, and tacky souvenirs. However, I did have a few pleasant surprises.
Vivaldi: Mum bought some spur-of-the-moment 25 euro tickets to a concert from one of those street vendors dressed in Renaissance get up. I was sceptical, thinking it might be a scam, or at best, the concert would be terrible. Venice has such a transient population that if the musicians were awful, no matter, tomorrow would bring a fresh, ignorant crowd and it would be a sell out as usual. How wrong I was. The music (The Four Seasons, plus some) was fantastic, and the musicians were fascinating. The performance was held in a small church just off St.Mark’s square, which reportedly had the same acoustics and dimensions as what Vivaldi originally composed his works for. The intimacy of the venue allowed us to study the musicians faces, and speculate on their possible relationships and the apparent musical and psychological battle that may or may not have been taking place between them. Definitely the most interesting concert I have ever been to.
Gondola ride: Many people say this is over-priced and overrated. At 80 euros for half an hour, I’ll admit it’s bordering on daylight robbery, but I really think it’s worth it. It’s a beautiful way to enjoy the city. After scurrying around crowded walkways all day, it was so relaxing to kick back in a gondola and glide for a bit. The best bit was enjoying the music wafting by from other gondolas which had payed extra for the ‘canapé and serenade’ package.
Delivery men: The delivery men of Venice have it tough. The logistics of the island are a nightmare; narrow streets, heaps of steps, and lots of loading/unloading big boxes from little boats. It’s hot and they work hard, mostly with their shirts off. If tanned and muscled torsos interest you, I recommend an early morning stroll in Venice, before the shops open.

LUCCA is a small city in Tuscany that’s famous for its medieval walls, pretty shops, and general pleasant-ness.
Aperol Spritzer: Aperol, Prosecco, and soda, served with a green olive on a toothpick, and with plain potato chips. Lucca’s central plaza is  round, and filled with nice cafes, parked bikes, and happy families. It’s the perfect place to enjoy an Aperol Spritzer and listen to some pretty good buskers.
Bike ride along the top of the walls: The city takes less than an hour to circumnavigate and it’s flat the whole way, which makes it an easily doable ‘exercise’ – even if you’ve had a few spritzers the night before. The views are gorgeous and the bikes are only 3 euros to hire.

Amalfi Coast

AMALFI was apparently the ‘highlight’ of my last trip to Italy. This time, it was the biggest disappointment. I remember the Amalfi coast as being spectacularly beautiful and dramatic, but now it just seemed crowded, cheap (classless), and dirty. Fortunately there were two saving graces:
Santa Croce beach and bar: is a free 5 min boat trip from Amalfi. Go to the left-hand jetty (when facing the beach) and look for the little boat with Santa Croce written on the side; it comes and goes all day. The captain is a big guy with long hair and a belly, I think his name was Antonio. This’ll take you to a small private beach, where it costs 15 euro for two banana lounges and a beach umbrella. The beach is much nicer (and the water much cleaner) than the big ones, and there’s a nice little restaurant that’s pretty inexpensive and has good seafood and pasta.
Il porticciolo di Amalfi: This was our ‘splurge’ accommodation. It’s pension which is a little removed from the town, up on the hillside, with a beautiful terrace that has spectacular views (especially at night). The breakfast is fantastic and the owners were lovely (they gave us the recommendation for Santa Croce). They also let us use the kitchen, and in the end we took all our meals on the terrace (so the ‘splurge’ really paid for itself). On the last evening we were lucky enough to witness a lightning storm out at sea, whilst enjoying spritzers and cheeses in the balmy night on our side of the bay.

ASSISI took me completely by surprise, and was without a doubt the highlight of this holiday. In fact, it was so beautiful, that I’m going to write a separate post about it.

So, that was Italy. I’ve definitely sated the lingering desire I’d had to revisit the country, as well as any buffalo mozzarella cravings I’m likely to have over the next few years. In a way, I’m glad that dream is over.

I’ll upload a photo gallery in the next post, and link them to the travel photos tab in the sidebar.



On the road again*, still.

(*with international basketball superstars, and a couple of “social” badminton enthusiasts)


Two years ago on the 8th of August, I got on a plane with a one-way ticket to Rome. My vague ‘plan’ was to travel (you know, around), become ‘fluent’ in Spanish, build a romantically bohemian, semi-nomadic life for myself, and somehow write (or at least think about writing) something a lot more creative and ambitious than this blog.

Italian fruit and wine shop, with dream vespa and vine-clad apartmentSo how is it going? Not too bad! I’m getting by, by teaching English and occasionally translating, both of which I enjoy immensely. The travel is happening, semi-frequently, though not always when and where and how I’d plan it (had I unlimited time and a mysterious benefactor – currently taking offers!). My Spanish is slow and steadily improving, though it’s an infinite task and I doubt I’ll ever be content with my level. And as for the real, really infinite task…well my writing is so far, um, not progressing. It’s currently limited to this blog, some stream-of-consciousness diary entries (even more nonsensical and narcissistic than this blog), and a focus-less (oh dear) smattering of half baked creative/journalistic bits ‘n pieces, that are possibly unreadable and definitely unpublishable. (So what I’m kinda getting at, dear friends, family and humble followers, is that I hope you’re not holding your breath!)

But life is good (in fact, it’s great), and I’m happy to continue along this wandering trajectory for quite a while longer.

My only real complaint is that Australia is too far away. Unfortunately, not much can be done to remedy that. Skype and email and facebook (and even real letters and postcards) are all wonderful, but there’s just no substitute for face to face conversation or sharing a bottle of wine over a game of (real) scrabble. No number of European kisses will ever be substitute for a heartfelt Aussie hug.

It’s been two years since I’ve been home, and I’m finally starting to feel it. Call me cold and insensitive (you wouldn’t be the first), but since I left, I’ve barely felt homesick. Of course I miss my friends and family (and a lot more than they think I do), but for me, this sacrifice has become the main incentive to make the most of my time here. Why give up so much, to mope around feeling mopey? There’s no point in marring one experience because you’re bitter about missing out on another. So try not to dwell on it.

At least that’s what I tell myself, and most of the time it works. However, a few weeks ago, I felt my first serious pangs of homesickness. My dad (who’s a painter), had a big exhibition opening. It was at a regional gallery, and literally hundreds of people made an overnight trip from Melbourne to give him their support. The opening was a huge success, as was the party afterwards. As I watched the speeches via Skype, the momentousness of the occasion struck me. Dad spoke so well. I felt so proud, and so sad. In the photos that came after the event, I recognised both faces and paintings I hadn’t seen in years. It seems that everybody, from friends and family, to industry professionals and total strangers, has been raving about the show and the night. Everyone except me. It really, really frustrated and upset me that I couldn’t be there. Perhaps it was the significance of the event, or that I’m getting soft (or tired and emotional), or perhaps it’s just been too long. Despite having missed two Christmases, and numerous weddings, births, footy matches, parties, and much needed hugs, this is the first time I’ve seriously felt as though I was missing out on something. I should have been there, and not just for myself.

Señor Cigüeña, Mr Stork, I wanna be like you...

However, since the exhibition, two things have made my ‘Antipodean dilemma’ a lot more bearable.

The first is a recent spate of catch ups with Australian friends and relatives over here in Europe. Most importantly… my mum!!!

Mum arrived in Madrid about three weeks ago… and it’s impossible to put in words how wonderful it’s been to see her, how much fun we’ve had, and how flat out we’ve been – travelling, talking, and socialising. Using Segovia as our home base, we spent time in Madrid, Granada, Cordoba, and Hinjosa del Duque, the tiny middle-of-nowhere town where I lived during my first year in Spain. I introduced her to as many of my Spanish friends as possible, and we also caught up with a number of Aussies who were serendipitously in Madrid at the same time. Then, we flew to Rome, where we spent a lovely couple of days with Mum’s English cousin and his partner. After that, we went an ideal travel companionto Florence, to visit my favourite building in Italy (Il Duomo di Firenze) and further our quest for the perfect pistachio gelati (which we still haven’t found, though we did accidently hit upon the world’s yummiest walnut bread). Currently we’re in Turin, with my twin aunts and my aunt’s basketball team. They’re here to compete in the World Masters Games, which is kind of like an open Olympics for mature athletes. The basketball girls are seriously good, and have been competing in international competitions for years. Just for fun (and in order to be eligible for competitors’ rates on luxury accommodation) Mum and my other aunt have entered the social badminton competition. Up until a couple of months ago they’d never played it (or anything else) in their lives. But they’ve really embraced badminton (particularly the social aspect) and have had the chance to compete with athletes from all over the world…  it’s been surprisingly fun to watch. So with basketball, badminton, and 11 other Melbournian women all bursting to enjoy Italy (go shopping, make days trips, and eat and drink and eat and drink), it’s been a busy ten days of competition. The group have been so lovely and welcoming, and Turin has almost become like home… it’ll be a shame to leave and get back on the road again tomorrow.

Back to Mum’s visit. I loved showing her Spain, and sharing what I love about the country; the lifestyle, the scenery, the Alhambra, the food, the wine, the prices, the weather, the people. Now she can put names to faces and I find it reassuring to know that she’s reassured (and can see that I’ve ‘fallen on my feet’, that I’m happy with what I’m doing, and that I live in a safe environment with good people). Mum’s marvelling at everything has also refreshed my own outlook. I was beginning to take things for granted (such as old buildings and free tapas), but it’s hit me all over again just how lucky I am to be where I am and be able to live how I do. Mum is an easygoing and fun travel companion, and took to Spain like a fish to water (not everyone does), embracing all the best things whilst graciously turning a blind eye to issues like food safety (not easy for a nurse-come-health-inspector). We’ve still got a couple of weeks to go in Italy (it’s a hard life), before she goes back to the real world and I go back to Segovia… but all I can say is, so far so good… I think (I hope) this trip has been exactly what we both needed.  I for one feel strengthened and reaffirmed and ready for whatever the next few years bring.

And now, the second thing that makes my yearning for Australia bearable… is the promise of a trip home! I’ve finally booked my ticket, and providing all things go to plan, will be back in Melbourne for nearly a month over Christmas.


Between now and then, there’s a lot more to see, do, and look forward to. I’ll certainly need to upload some photos of our Italian adventure, and we’ll see if I can manage to squeeze out a haiku, or something.

But given the rate at which time is speeding along, I guess I can say to some of you, see you soon!



Alicante is the second largest city in a province of Spain that’s famous for oranges, paella, speaking Catalan, and a beautiful Mediterranean coastline.

Whilst the capital of the province, Valencia, is known for its cultural attributes (such as the City of Arts and Sciences, and Las Fallas, a festival of burning giant papier-mâché statues), Alicante has a bit of a bad rep for being little more than a crowded port city that has nothing to offer, other than jam-packed beaches and budget accommodation.

AlicanteAfter having just spent three days there, I can’t say much to the contrary. There didn’t seem to be anything do there but go to the beach. But in Alicante’s defence, I didn’t actually bother looking (does anyone?). And are crowded beaches and cheap accommodation really such a bad thing?

Thanks to my thorough, investigate research, my official consensus is: if you want no-frills sun and sand, easy beach access, and guaranteed lunchtime menus of under 10€, then look no further than Alicante.

If you want your own private coastal paradise: I have very little first-hand advice to offer. But as a foreigner, you’ll probably need to do a bit more research, have access to a car, and pay a fortune for accommodation or have rich friends with well appointed holiday houses. It’s also possible that you’ll need to wear a lot of white, start smoking cigars, take out a loan to pay for each gelati, and get used to being surrounded by the type of people that wear false eyelashes and/or toupees to go jogging.

Ok. I’m exaggerating. There are plenty of decent, affordable, non-pretentious non-crowded holiday destinations in Spain. I just chose Alicante because I wanted to go somewhere I hadn’t been before, that was easy and cheap. And I actually like ridiculously crowded beaches.

You get to see all the bodies.

Without sounding too perverted (okay I already sound perverted), it really is fascinating to see all the different shapes and sizes and colours that people come in. One of the things that I love about Spain is that at the beach, everyone lets it all hang out. In Australia we’re so reserved. Given that we’ve got more coastline and less people, it’s only natural that at the beach (and in general I suppose), we have a lot more ‘personal space’. But personal space doesn’t really exist in Spain. People stand much closer when they talk to you, and in Alicante, everybody squishes in together on the sand. Luckily there are no flies, or you’d be swatting your neighbour with your thong by accident. (Sorry, I mean flip flop).

Anyway, on Spanish beaches, people don’t frantically cover their cellulite with a sarong the moment they get out of the water. All flesh has equal right to vitamin D. Unless you’re a doctor, nurse, mortician, or bikini waxer, the beach is probably the only place where you’ll be exposed to the sheer range of possible forms the human body can take. There are Mediterranean goddesses that make Penelope Cruz look ordinary. Overweight idlers that make Jabba the Hut look petite. Elderly couples that have morphed into shimmery cellulite reflections of each other (you can’t actually distinguish him from her…they’ve both got boobs and a gut). There are the most curiously proportioned people… there really are no laws of distribution. Wrinkles can fan out at 360 possible angles. Anything that has a cheek can have a dimple. Everyone is so refreshingly, fascinatingly human.

If being at the beach is great for body image (I felt completely unabashed of my regular 4pm ‘menu del día’ belly), swimsuit shopping has the opposite effect. Trying on swimsuits makes me feel like an extra terrestrial ugly duckling. How is it possible to be too fat and thin at the same time? How did all the people on the beach find their swimsuits? There must be some bewitchment going on… department stores are clearly the Devil’s work.

Clearly I have no choice but to join a nudist colony. Which will hopefully excuse me from all future photo-less blog posts.

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I lied about not having a castle

After a recent trip to Vienna, I wrote about how my Austrian friend grew up in a small village with a castle on a hill. What was originally intended to be a piece of  ‘travel writing’, somehow turned into a jealous rant… because I decided that I wanted a castle too.

The funny thing is, I’ve got one.

The Alcazar of Segovia was originally an Arab fortress built upon Roman ruins, and has since been converted into a royal palace, a prison, a royal artillery college and a military academy. It was the refuge of Queen Isabel of Spain during the 15th century, and it’s more recent claim to fame is that it was the inspiration behind Disney’s Cinderella Castle.

I’ve been living in Segovia for nearly nine months now, and the Alcazar hasn’t ceased to impress me. It’s not just that it’s a beautiful building, it’s the way it’s situated… tall and proud on the edge of a rocky outcrop, like a giant stone fairytale pirate ship, or something.

Due to a recent improvement in the weather (and my orientation skills), I’ve been doing a bit more running of late, and some of the different routes allow me to see the Alcazar from different angles. As a result, the castle now seems more familiar. I recognise the turrets and stonework, just as I recognise the twists and bends of Segovia’s sidestreets. I’m no longer a gawking tourist, I’m a part of the city… I know my way round, I have a role in society, a routine, a  local bar, a favourite spot in the libray, and a preferred cafe. And now, the Alcazar is familiar enough that I really do consider it ‘my castle’.

Here’s a happy snap I took this afternoon. Just after I took the photo, there was an impressive bolt of lightning in the background. If only I had been a fraction slower!

The Alcazar of Segovia


Vienna + spiel

Sometimes I get jealous of my European friends. I know this is silly, given that I was born in what I honestly believe to be the luckiest country in the world, but Australia is very far away, and I have to try not to think about how wonderful it is. There’s no point in lamenting what is for the moment out of reach, and the purpose of my living in Spain (or one of the purposes), is to enjoy and “experience” as much of Europe as possible, while I can.

Europe is like a giant mega mall of history and culture. Every shop is completely different, but they’re all housed together in the same complex, for your convenience. Crisis aside, who doesn’t occasionally think it would be great to be a European? To be able to work in any European country, legally, sans visa rubbish hassles. To always go through the fast lane at passport controls. To be able to drive for an hour and be in another world. To have the experience of living “abroad”, and still be able to visit your family on long weekends (or just pop home for weddings). To be sophisticated and multilingual. To grow up surrounded by art and architecture that’s hundreds of years old.

Now I know that not all Europeans are sophisticated or multilingual. That, just like anyone from anywhere, they can be backward, conservative, and not speak anything more than the dialect of whatever is spoken within a 10km radius of their village. That the cities are old and the infrastructure is struggling. In many ways, the ex-Imperial nations have been surpassed by their more innovative, progressive, and financially stronger ex-colonies. In Australia, all the shops have automatic doors. And our bureaucracy mostly works.

But Europe has ruins.

And my Austrian friend has a castle.

The last stop of my Easter sojourn, after Prague and Český Krumlov, was Vienna. There I stayed with Marion, a Viennese girl who I met at the language school in Segovia. (She has the same job as me, but teaching German). Naturally, she was taking advantage of the Easter break to chill out at home and spend some quality time with her friends and family. Hmm. Just a little bit jealous.

I stayed with Marion and her boyfriend for a couple of days. She showed me round the city, came with me to see Gustav Klimt at the Belvedere Palace, and took me to the village where she grew up, to meet her parents. On the outskirts of her village, on top of a hill, was a castle. We went for a walk around it (sinking all the while in the snow-filled moat), and discussed the fact that when she was a girl, she liked to think of it as her castle. Of course now I want one too.
Kreuzenstein - Marion's castle (Google's photo)
Anyway. I guess it was just a symbolic moment of why I love Europe. Ancient buildings everywhere. A castle on every hill. Regular people living in 500 year old houses. And every time they go to build an underground car park they have to abandon constructions when they hit Roman Ruins. Or something like that.

So what did I think of Vienna?

the only photo I managed of Vienna
Well, despite the weather, I liked it. A lot.

Firstly, Vienna in German is Wien. And wine in German is wein. Or perhaps it’s the other way round… no matter, it’s wonderfully confusing. Vienna clearly means some kind of happy place. Perhaps that’s why it’s ranked as the world’s second most liveable city. Second only to… I just looked it up… Melbourne??!!

The public transport was certainly better than Melbourne’s. Then again, Marion did all the ticket buying/map checking/stuff that required German. It’s so lovely and so relaxing travelling with a local.

Speaking of locals, everyone was so nice. And there were even cheerful waiters in lederhosen, and rosy cheeked buxom waitresses with frilly pink aprons, and this was in non-touristic venues… they just wear them crazy clothes for the hell of it. Awesome.

Kaiserspritzer, “royal bubbles”, is my new favourite drink, de momento. It’s white wine, soda water, and a dash of elderflower cordial. Although more of a summer beverage, we had it while it was snowing outside, cos it’s that damn delicious. I guess it’ll be even nicer when the weather warms up.

Everything will be so much nicer when the seasons get themselves sorted. As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, the weather this Easter was pretty atypical for April. On my first day in the city, Marion gave me a tour of the main sites. Regardless of which direction we walked in, it seemed we spent the whole afternoon struggling head-on into wind and snow. The commentary followed a rather repetitive trajectory.

‘See this plaza? It has a really nice market in Summer’

‘See this park? They have an awesome music festival in Summer’

‘See this garden? Well you can’t, it’s covered in snow, but it’s really beautiful in Summer. Usually it’s beautiful in Spring too’

I really want to go to Vienna in summer.

wasserschlangenFortunately, there was plenty to do in-doors as well. Unfortunately, of all the galleries and museums and giant shopping centres, I only had time to see one. The choice, for me, was obvious. The Belvedere Palace hosts the largest collection of Gustav Klimt’s paintings to be found in any one place. Among the most famous, you can see The Kiss and Judith. But what really captivated me was the less-famous, but absolutely exquisite Wasserschlangen I (Freundinnen I) (Watersnake friends?). It would actually have fitted in my hand luggage. If I had a castle, I would trade it for this painting.

What else was good? Mozart chocolates (filled with marzipan and nutty praline). More sauerkraut (I just can’t get enough of the stuff. I’ve found where they sell it in Spain. And when I finish this next jar, I’m gonna start making it myself). Goulash (the perfect stew for when you’ve got cold wet feet). Bosnian cinnamon honey and crusty wholemeal bread (part of Marion’s breakfast spread). Flower shops (spring bulbs, just in).

Another thing that I particularly liked about Vienna was the German they speak there. In general, German has an unfair reputation for being a harsh and guttural language, but this really depends on who’s speaking it. I prefer to keep my distance from harsh and guttural people, so it’s never sounded like this to me. In fact, I think it sounds quite soft and friendly, and even more so in Vienna. Apparently some Austrian dialects are kind of sing-song, but Viennese German was very pleasant on the ear. (Except for when I attempted to learn a few phrases, when it just sounded like staccato coughing with the odd kartoffel thrown in).

Fortunately, everyone I met spoke English. Damn impressive multilingual Central-Europeans.