Category archive: travel

Milan was full of surprises, new things and realisations that life (and I) have moved on since I lived there ten years ago.

On the way out I got to try the Heathrow Express' e-ticketing with a barcode scanned from my phone (it worked, but I had printed it out anyway just in case, sorry trees). There was a free sandwich and cake and drink in a proper glass on the flight (Lufthansa, not expensive, a nice treat after dozen of Ryanair cattle transport). Once in Milan airport, I rushed to catch the last train and did not notice my friends who had come to pick me up – surprise! And then once in town we found that we had the flat to ourselves, as Giorgio stayed at his boyfriend.

On Saturday we got going too late to drive to the seaside (Liguria) with our friends, so we visited the cathedral. Surprisingly, they let Stuart in wearing shorts (last time there I was banned from entering because of showing my knees – don't say the Catholic church is not evolving!). Then walked down Via Torino and Corso Porta Ticinese to check out shops. Stuart needed a hat and sunglasses, I needed shorts – the temperature was an unexpected 35 degrees! You can tell how much we care about attire because after popping into Diesel, we went down a downmarket slope via Energie, Gas, then Carhart and Coin (roughly John Lewis-style), to end up making our purchases at Upim (think Primark with less style and twice as expensive).

We took a quick nap then our friends picked us up and went for dinner at La Giara near where we were staying. Great restaurant with Puglia cuisine. Tried very hard to pay but the owner did not let us because Giorgio and Paolo vowed never to eat there again if he did let us pay. Mind games!

Then went to Mono for a few drinks and saw Michele and Emanuele (these are boy's names in Italian – but they were there with some very glamourous lady friends). This is people I have not seen since I moved to London in 2002. Lovely evening. They played La Roux, didn't know the song but that screeching falsetto is unmissable. An odd movie was shown on a monitor (I asked, it was Mysterious Skin, I watched at home after I got back, absolutely worth it if a little disturbing). Michele knew about my objectionable musical taste and asked the DJ to play a certain song for me. The DJ (who I was told is a fan of my Barbie dolls) obliged – with a Spanish version I had never heard!

On Sunday we spent the day with Giorgio. We walked a lot, again around 35 degrees. Walked to the cathedral, had lunch and then a fantastic icecream at Chocolat (I had chocolate orange and peanut brittle). Went to the castle but did not go in, then strolled through the park. Had an Aperol Spritz in Via Dante, met Michele and Antonio and then went from air-conditioned shop to air-conditioned shop. Went home to change then walked to Paolo's for dinner. His flat was an oasis of cool (air-conditioned fortunately), with a huge terrace (that we just popped out on, it was still stupidly hot). I had my first Aperol with Orangina (interesting, sweeter than usual) and another couple of culinary 'firsts': Tuscan 'crostini', and home-made pansotti with pesto brought back from Liguria (pesto had added French beans, found out sometimes it is done with potatoes too).

On Monday we tried to do all the rest. Went up the roof of the cathedral, then to the Scala theatre, went back to the castle but it was closed, tried to see Da Vinci's last supper but it was closed, so we had icecream instead (it made sense at the time). Met Giorgio and his colleague Simona for lunch, then walked to Via Sammartini, the 'gay street' which these days looks all shut or run down, perhaps it is busy in the evenings? Slowly made our way home via Via Orefici where we had probably the most expensive drink of our lives: two Aperol spritz for 24 Euro (not even with the customary bowl of little snacks). It must be said that the terrace of the bar overlooked the cathedral.

Went back to the flat, showered and packed, and as usual left for the airport well over three hours before departure – just in case. Once at the airport, we realised we (er, I) had mixed up flight times and we had another three hours before departure. And the flight was delayed. Fortunately Milan airport has a lot of shops. Then you go through security and you have another lot of shops, so we passed the time somehow. Once in Heathrow, we managed to jump on the last train to London, then taxi home.

It was just three days, but it felt like a much longer holiday. It must be the temperature and all that sun. Fantastic. Although no tan to show for it because we lathered with once-a-day total protection every morning. A few photos on Flickr.

I have recently drawn up a budget and started sticking to it – or trying to, considering many of my close friends are turning 40 this year and I like giving nice gifts on such an circumstance.

One of the items that needed monitoring is my holidays expense. I had spent thousands of pounds in the space of twelve months one year ago – but I did go to Iceland, New York, Australia, Madrid and a few times to Italy.

I have given myself a generous allowance, am putting some money away every month and checking how much I spend. I am so far doing OK, and it has helped me figure out what I can and cannot do.

I will not be able, for instance, to go to Madrid Pride again this year, no matter how much I would like to. If you have the cash and the inclination, it is guaranteed to be a fantastic party, as people take over the street for fiesta Spanish-style for a whole weekend.

I might, however, go to Berlin, because I have not been in over ten years and I am very curious to check out Folsom Europe in September.

And this year I have already gone to Italy twice: once in February to purchase furniture for my new flat, which took three trips to IKEA – two hours each way by car, and once in April to put the furniture together and finalise the order for the kitchen (which was mainly done via email). I will also go to Italy again at the end of May, but this time it will be to see a friend in Milan. I used to live there and I have not been since moving back to London in 2002.

Oh, and soon I will be in a French chateau with a bunch of friends (Stuart paid for my accommodation as my birthday present this year), followed by a weekend in Paris, another city where I spent seven years and don't go back to as often as I would like to.

Can you tell I love travelling? If money and time off work were not an issue, I would probably be on the road even more often than I do now. Having said that, I'm doing rather well as it is.

Ratcliffe-on-Soar power station, originally uploaded by bitful.

Sixteen years after spending one winter in Nottingham to start a Ph.D.
I never finished, I went back for a brief afternoon visit during this
Christmas break.

As we approached Nottingham, this familiar landmark popped up and
brought back many memories. It was probably the first sight that
welcomed me to the place where I was planning to spend a few years
researching, writing and teaching, and I realised I had no idea what
it was, so I looked it up.

Wikipedia says it's a power station – I had figures that bit out. It's
coal-fired (not nuclear then) and lets out steam (not CO2).

I do wish I had a more positive outlook at the time.

Merry Christmas from Stuart and Luca: photoset on Flickr

Merry Christmas from Stuart and Luca: slideshow on Flickr

As you may remember, I was born and raised in Italy, went to school and graduated in the UK, worked in France for seven years, then Italy for another three and since 2002 I have been back in the UK.

I have therefore experienced healthcare (fortunately, as a fairly healthy individual) in three European countries. And in the US too, if you count losing a contact lens while on holiday and having to go see a friend's doctor for a prescription to buy a new one (being uninsured, it cost me a small fortune).

In Italy and in France, when you go to the doctor you always leave with a prescription or a referral. You sort of feel short-changed if you don't, as the BBC correspondent from France Emma Jane Kirby describes in her piece on this week's From Our Own Correspondent. Her take on the French 'heavy legs' syndrome can be listened to on iPlayer until Sunday 21st December (skip to 17:02 to go straight to the segment), or read online.

In the UK on the other hand, three times out of four the doctor shrugs off your condition, tells you to get a grip and only to come back if the condition persists for a number of months. I have learnt to live with it and now I hardly mind it at all, unlike a couple of friends who go back to Italy for treatment when in need. And unlike most of the French who are now having a very hard time facing a new approach recommended by the government and very similar to the British attitude.

I recently spent a long weekend in Rome with Dr B.

We left on Thursday morning very early, took a taxi to the hotel (guide books and even a sign at the airport say that it is a fixed price, but Roman acquaintances told us 'Good luck with that!').

The Hilton Cavalieri is an impressive hotel, and I am so grateful that Dr B. still had some points left over from when he was working away and staying at the Hilton in Swindon (sounds like an oxymoron, doesn't it?). These points meant that with a very small contribution we could use a 860 Euro per night room.

We got out straight away and I showed Dr B. the place where I got cruised for the very first time in my life. I was eighteen, sitting on the edge of the fountain at Piazza di Spagna, and this curly blond guy my age in a tracksuit asked me to go home with him. I thought it was well dodgy and didn't – but kept his number for days.

We met Ugo, went for a drink and a chat, he is adorable and speaks English fluently (considering he has never travelled to an English-speaking country, he said). Definitely a clever chap. We talked about going out that night to the opening of Muccassassina but we never made it as we got back to the hotel soaking wet and tired from the early start. Ugo, being much younger, partied the night away.

The following day we went to the Vatican. The queue for the museums was ridiculously winding around the building, so we tried the cathedral, which had a very long queue too. The square? All cordoned off because apparently the Pope was out running errands ('Gut morning. Let's zee. One loaf bread, one litre milch, one pair of Prada slippers…'). We hung around until his popeness came back. I filmed him but the movie did not come out, unsurprisingly as he is the spawn of Satan. Just kidding.

And then the great adventure commenced. Either a dodgy pizza the night before, or a dodgy pizza that lunchtime, made us start a tour of Rome's cafes and we spent the rest of the weekend from toilet to toilet. I seem to get that a lot when I travel, and have now a collection of anti-diarrhoea tablets from three different countries (Sweden, Spain and now Italy). First thing I did as I got back to London was to put some in the washbag for future trips.

Fortunately, by Monday morning we were alright, which meant that we could visit the Vatican Museums without too many calls of nature, and then meet an old friend of mine who moved to Rome a few years ago.

We saw most of what there was to see, thanks to:

• Eyewitness travel Rome pocket map & guide: so tiny it fits in your front pocket, yet complete for a four-day trip;
• Eyewitness full-size Rome travel guide: Italian version, borrowed from my brother, not much use for Dr B. but it gave me further information that I could then share;
• My brother's tips and advice. He's a Catholic priest, so I guess he knew what he was talking about. He knew I'm not keen on religious art (I break out in hives) and suggested I might want to skip the Vatican Museums. I am glad we visited them anyway, because they are spectacular. And to think we only went because Dr B. wanted to add a picture to his collection of photos of Pomodoro's spheres from around the world.
• Advice from a friend's friend: 'Go to Coming Out cafe and get leaflets and free press on what to do in Rome'. We went, we found a booklet, it only listed the one night I had heard about. Only when I checked online did I find out that there isn't much else in terms of gay life in Rome. Maybe only the locals know. Honestly, we did not miss it at all.
• Dr B.'s Windows mobile phone with Tom Tom satnav, and my iPhone, which I did not hesitate to whip out every time I wanted quick directions – and then got a not entirely unexpected 100 pounds phone bill for data roaming.
• Frommer's suggested itineraries (Rome in one, two and three days): online tours and maps (very good and handy, used them in Madrid too (the Madrid version, obviously), just print them out from the website and fold away in a pocket.

A few tips:

• You will probably want to walk everywhere, as there is a lot to see outside, and Rome is not that big. Get individual underground tickets for one Euro each, there are only two lines and you can also use them on buses. Tickets are valid 75 minutes and entitle you to one underground trip and unlimited bus trips during that period.
• Visit the Vatican Museums on a Monday afternoon when it does not rain: we entered at around 2.30 and there was no queue. By 4.30pm, the museums were almost empty and we did another tour of the highlights.
• The ticket to the Forum includes a visit to the Colosseum. Had we known, we would have combined the two, which we saw instead on consecutive days.
• Must see: the Pantheon.

And a few photos:

• My Rome photoset on Flickr;
• Dr B.s Rome panoramas on Flickr;
• A photo of us just moment before being struck down with lightning in St Peter's square ;-)

Massive pillow fight in Leicester Square yesterday afternoon:

I had to join in, even if it means I almost dropped my camera. I also have some photos of the pillow fight on Flickr.

It was very pointless, yet exhilarating, and it put a smile on my face – until I thought of whoever would have to clean up the mess.

I seem to be unable to travel without electronics to keep me entertained during trips. A what? A 'book', you say? Is it something I can download on my phone?

So when I book seats I try and get one that's got a power outlet for laptops and phones.

Not if you book online, you can't. You can only choose airline, front or back. And even then, you are warned your choice might not be available, and even if it is, you might have to travel the opposite way because the train switched directions.

They might as well write 'Enter the big seat lottery – click here!'.

I booked a front seat, non-airline, and once again I was allocated a non-table backwards-travelling one in an otherwise empty and mostly unreserved carriage.

I have of course scattered my belongings on four available seats around a table, phone plugged in and happily surfing the power-hungry 3G network, my originally reserved seat unoccupied behind me.

It's not as if the data is not there: a few minutes ago I changed my return reservation at the ticket office, explained I needed a power outlet, and was given a 'table – window' seat.

All this data, and still a long way from seamelessly accessing it from anywhere.

Air France, said the reservation. And the check-in counter, and the boarding pass.

And the crew's uniforms at the gate. One of them looked at my boarding pass, then projected "Le six" across the queue to her colleague entering boarding pass numbers into a machine.

So imagine my surprise when the terminal bus delivered me in front of a Dornier 328-100 by Scot Airlines – operated by Air France (or was that Air France – operated by Scot Airlines, I never know which one is which).

31 seats. 11 passengers. One cabin crew. One pilot. No make it two – it had to be two, as mid-flight the pilot crossed the aisle to go to the toilet at the back).

Somebody had thrown up tartan everywhere. The seat and the crew were upholstered with the same material. That, ladies and gentlemen, is what I call classy.

I was sitting right next to the propeller. I feared the worst. But as the plane flew right over the O2, so low I could make out what was on the circular screens around it, and then over fireworks, and pitch after pitch of little men playing football, I was giddy with excitement.

Our lovely Michelle (both on the way there and back, probably sleeps on the plane in tartan PJs under a tartan duvet) was charming. She offered me a free newspaper (choice of four), and drinks. Being a Ryanair boy, I almost cried for being showered with such luxuries.

I think I might treasure the Air France cocktail napkin forever.

I owe you an explanation, don't I?

Weeks without a proper post on these pages, apart from Word of the Day, My Week on the Web and sometimes 7 Things I Did Not Know Last Week.

Not a lack of time per se, but rather a shift in priorities.

A new position at work that's briliant and absorbs me so much I've been enjoying working through lunch almost every day for over a month now.

And when I am not working, I am likely to be playing with the Tytn2 a.k.a. HTC Kaiser a.k.a. T-Mobile MDA Vario III. It's so good it turns heads. One fellow passengerand the cabin crew on the flight tonight asked me where they could get one.

Speaking of the flight, I thought I made a mistake when, after booking, checking in and boarding at gate all with Air France, the airport bus left me in front of a minivan with wings emblazoned with Scot Airways and a lot of tartan everywhere.

Flight surprisingly smooth, and leaving from London City Airport is a treat. We flew very low over the O2 and I can't wait to fly back tomorrow night and peek into the top floors windows of Canary Wharf.

And in between, lots of work meetings.

Starting this morning at 8am, Big Ben is not going to chime for a few weeks while maintenance work is carried out.

I am told that at night we can sometimes hear the bongs from our flat. But at night I am sleeping and don't hear a thing. And how can Dr B. hear Big Ben if he claims I snore so loudly?

• Listen to the chimes of Big Ben
• Watch me snore

Cheap and grumpy, originally uploaded by bitful.

Blimey. A cameraphone photo I snapped at Wong Key last December has been selected for inclusion in the newly released third edition of the Schmap London Guide.

View my photo on the Schmap London Guide

And to think I only took it with my phone to send to a friend to let her know where I was.

Yesterday at work I overheard a colleague speaking on the phone about his recent trip to Italy:

Yes, we were in Bologna. How bizarre, you know, people, when they give you change, they don't touch you!

And I knew exactly what he meant. Every business establishment (at least in Northern Italy, not entirely sure about other places) has a tiny saucer or a metal plate (usually glued to the counter so that it does not get stolen) where you are meant to collect the change you are given.

Stretching out your hand 'à l'anglaise', expecting them to deposit your change into it, only meets puzzled looks.

I should know. I do it all the time when I'm there. Once, even, the lady at the till went so far as to move my outstreched hand aside because it was above the sodding change saucer.

It's not like Italians are afraid of physical contact. So what's the deal with money then?

What a lovely break. I approached it somewhat tentatively, because my last beach holiday was not very relaxing (big group of people, lots of partying, living mainly during the night – nothing I couldn't do in London). But I kept an open mind and went with the flow.

The flow consisted of a perfect mix of men and women, gay and straight, well and little known. One could do what one wanted, and what one wanted was do stuff together most of the time.

On my first night I went for an evening power nap and woke up the next morning.

On my second night I went for an evening power nap again and woke up the next morning again.

On my third night I went for an afternoon nap so I could go out later, and it worked.

On my fourth night we went to El Xalet in Barcelona, a restaurant with breathtaking views (and good food too, but if you ask me anything that costs more than a tenner and shows too much plate is a rip-off).

And on the fifth night we flew home, totally relaxed and with the most subtle glow that managed to filter through my SPF 50 sunblock and the shade from the parasol that I only left for twenty minutes on the last day, so as not to go back as pale as I left.

Have I mentioned that I slept 25 hours in two days? Just as well, as this is the week from hell at work. Looking forward to the weekend already.

I am leaving on Thursday morning for five days in Spain, and along with scouring the city to get myself a good stock of cheap SPF50 lotion, I've been finding three new ways to revise and improve my Spanish (last time I only Michel Thomassed myself until my ears were bleeding in Spanish):

1. Marina and Ben's podcasts from notesinspanish.com. Marina is Spanish, her husband Ben is English, and they chat for 10 to 15 minutes about different topics, usually contemporary, relevant and interesting. Plus, they are fun, and Ben's got the faintest trace of an English accent in his excellent Spanish, plus the fact that he is a foreigner living in Spain gives an interesting perspective to what he says. Marina is sweet and warm and bloody clever too.
2. La sombra del viento (The Shadow of the Wind), a novel by Carlos Ruiz Zafón. It has been described as some sort of Da Vinci Code, only it's set in Barcelona – and not written by a ten-year-old after one afternoon's worth of research on Google. I have just started it, and am finding it a bit tough (last year I read a Harry Potter book in Spanish, that was easy once you find out how to say which and wizard).
3. Spanish Word A Day straight into my feed reader. Slightly below my level, but it's good revision and they give you examples of use for each word too.

Tomorrow Italian catholic groups are staging a national rally against civil partnerships and in support of traditional families.

That is, if you have not got a mummy and a daddy (or have more than one), or if you happen to shack up with someone of the same sex, you are made to feel like scum.

I cleverly booked my flight to leave and go back home tomorrow. I hate feeling not welcome.

I've been in Italy for the last few days to see my mother who is in hospital.

It is very hard to say whether it is serious or not; she had been losing a considerable amount of blood through her faeces and was taken into hospital to receive some blood transfusions and to undergo a series of tests.

The hospital is new, clean and more than adequately staffed. The doctors sound competent and are very thorough. They think they might have found some trivial skin growth near her 72-year-old appendix scar that could be the origin if the bleeding, but they need more tests to confirm.

Unfortunately, for some reason to us unknown, the tests are performed one week apart. This means that today is the start of her fourth week in hospital.

And because she only just had cataract surgery, she cannot read, do crosswords or crochet, so all she does all day is lie in semi-darkness, pray, and drink pint after pint of water to prepare her bowels for another test.

Her rosary beads – and her patience – are by now nearly worn out.

I lived in Paris for six and a half years but had not been there for three. Here are a few things I found out during our weekend in Paris a couple of weeks ago.

1. Despite being almost entirely underground (except Bastille station and for the Seine-crossing at Pont de Neuilly), Line 1 of the Paris Métro is fully covered by mobile phone networks.
2. A new museum opened last year: designed by Jean Nouvel, the Musée du quai Branly showcases the arts of Africa, Oceania, Asia, and the Americas.
3. All all French national trunk roads (Routes Nationales) are measured from Kilometre Zero (point zéro), located on the square facing the main entrance of Notre Dame cathedral in Paris and marked by a bronze star.

Dr B.'s Hilton points (collected throughout one and a half years of working away from London and being put up in one of the chain's branches for three to four nights a week) were going to expire at the end of April, so he took me and his parents to Paris and used them to get two very nice rooms for two nights.

It was a lovely weekend, very relaxing and with a little bit of extra luxury that I'm not used to, thanks to Dr B.'s last couple of days as a Hilton Diamond

• Paris, 27-29 April 2007 – a photoset on Flickr

Thursday. Got home from work. Loaded and started bread machine. Went to pick up StreetCar. Sat in car while Dr B. drove to Euston station. Picked up Dr B.'s parents. Sat in slow traffic. Got home to the smell of freshly baked bread. Small talk with in-laws while Dr B. went to leave the StreetCar where he found it. Ate bread. And more bread. Packed. Panicked as Dr B. gave me 20 minutes to power down computer to go to sleep. Slept.

Friday. Woke up. Had breakfast. Got cab to Waterloo. Checked in at Eurostar. Waited for departure. Boarded. Slept through the Eurotunnel. Paris. Got ridiculous quote for people carrier to hotel (95 Euro). Got cab to hotel (15 Euro – nyah nyah!). Dr B. flashed his Hilton Diamond VIP card. Red carpet appeared. Upgraded to executive rooms. Fauchon chocolates. Nice bottle of wine in both rooms. Access to ultra-top secret Executive Floor. Access to all-day-long free booze and nibbles on Executive Floor. Contemplated not leaving the Executive Floor all weekend. Freshened up and went out. Had sandwich. Boat to Notre Dame. Visited church. Walked through flower market to Saint Michel. Parents ate. We drank. Boat to hotel. Champagne and nibbles on Executive Floor. Snooze. Shower. Underground to Chatelet. Got lost. Used map on mobile phone. Met friends. Had pizza. Underground to hotel. Slept.

Saturday. Woke up. Had breakfast. Taxi to Montmartre. Visited Sacre Coeur. Sat for a drink. Tourist mini-train to Pigalle. Underground to Arc de Triomphe. Lunch on the Champs Elisees. Underground to Louvre. Met friend with partner and two-month old baby. Walked to Palais Royal. Walked to Seine. Boat to hotel. Found a baker. Ate half a baguette and a chocolate éclair. Had three tall glasses of Suze at Executive Floor. Parents pretty tipsy too. Went for a lie-down. Freshened up. Went out for dinner. Got back to hotel. Watched Tour Eiffel light show from Executive Floor (yes, again!) balcony. Went to bed.

Sunday. Had nightmare. Woke up. Went for a run from the Eiffel Tower to Ecole Militaire to Eiffel Tower to Trocadero and back to Eiffel Tower. Showered. Had breakfast. Queued for tickets to Tour Eiffel. Queued for lifts to second floor. Queued for lifts to top. Enjoyed view. Did not enjoy wonky floor metal plates. Got food. Ate. Left hotel. Taxi to station. Checked in to Eurostar. One hour early. Train to London. Slept through Eurotunnel. Goodbyes to in-laws. Got home. Lovely cup of tea.