tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32607963851268340192024-03-13T22:24:21.905-07:00It's all about MEM. K. Uniachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692144554833420045noreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-68865128893746287242011-11-04T06:42:00.001-07:002011-11-04T06:42:51.553-07:00Updates<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">We will be refining and updating the blag soon! First we must edit out pictures, and our thoughts!<br />
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Liz and Matt</div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07658460730510524635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-26802707051760500462011-07-05T13:44:00.000-07:002011-07-05T13:44:37.332-07:00Naked in Naples<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Somehow, we managed to get ourselves to another major dead end. Coupled with Matts imminent cold, a train was in order. To reducepur own pain, we decided to train all the way to Naples. The road map did not show any joyous riding ahead. <br />
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Matt tells the tale of mounting the train: <br />
Train shows up, no cycle sign on front of car, grab bike ride to rear, told by conductor to go in the front of the train. Turned around, not enough room, front tire dropped off the platform. I fell onto the tracks, gracefully I may add. Started walking to the far end, content on taking the next train, but it became clear the conductor was waiting for us. We jumped back on the bikes and raced for the far end. <br />
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Liz got to the door first, it was crammed full of people who wouldn't move. The conductor offered to hold my bike while I helped Liz. In what would have been hilariously funny any other time, the bike popped up the front wheel and started to haul the conductor down. At this point Liz was in the car but couldn't fit the bike through the door into the storage area and had to unload all her stuff to make it fit.<br />
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Once the way was cleared I hoisted the bike on my shoulder, fully loaded, and like the demigod Hercules carried it up onto the train. Jammed it through the doors and sat stunned holding it as the conductor cleared a spot for us to put our bikes. <br />
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Finally on our way to Naples, the train several minutes late, having made a complete fools of ourselves we found a spot to sit underneath an access box. Cramped, damped, bruised. <br />
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...<br />
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After sitting crouched for a bit, we noticed a young couple across from us with an Italy travel book. Liz asked to borrow it and soon became immersed in conversation with, what would eventually come out, two doctors from Tasmania. <br />
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Our doctor friends had been touring from Spain. We swapped travel stories, advised on what to see and not and talked of home. As we pulled into Naples station, we exchanged emails and headed on our separate ways.<br />
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At this point it was about 4 in the afternoon, neither of us had eaten since breakfast. Both in need of food and not wanting to whip the knives and food staples out, a quick lunch from a vending machine was in order.<br />
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With my cold fast turning me into a useless lump we made a quick plan to grab a train to Sorrento and head to the campsite located just on the outside of town.<br />
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Easy enough, right?<br />
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Liz gets back from the ticket office and tells me need to head downstairs to the other trains. Being a large train station we look for some elevators (none of whichactually work of course). Looks like we need to use the escalator. Not a big deal, we're getting that nailed down.<br />
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One obstacle down, the next was the automated entrance to the trains. Luckily there was a kind old man working the door and he let us pass through. <br />
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Obstacle 3 was 3 short steps down to a mid-platform. Liz tried to do it by herself, popped a wheelie and nearly took out a young mother and child, who were begging for sympathy and money. I tried my hand at the descent, and made it slightly more elegantly. <br />
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Obstacle 4 was a massive fligt of stairs down to platform 3. No problem, we're only in Naples, it's not like this place isn't know for thieves. Anywho, we locked my bike up at the top and carried Liz's down. I headed up, made a fool of myself trying to hoist the Vanmoof on my shoulder again to carry it down and was luckily offered a hand by a local. Between him, Liz and I we made it down to the bottom. <br />
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About 20 minutes to go for our train, another local told us to head to the front of the train, we'd be able to roll right on. Trusting to their knowledge we headed that way and waited. <br />
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We've all been in this position before, rush hour, everyone jockeying for position where they think the doors will be. Finally the moment comes. We guessed wrong, the train pulls up short by 10 feet. As the car begins to fill, hope fades that we'll be making this train. Soon comes the brushoff from the conductor, no room for us. The next train come is 30min.<br />
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We wait, find a bench and sit. The station starts to fill moments before each train leaves the platform and then is empty. The people who fill it are a combination of hawkers, tourists and locals. All seem to be smokers. The smell hangs in the air, added to my feeling of illness. Finally the next train pulls up. Right in front of us, Yes! What's this, the conductor won't let us on with our bikes? Several locals protest and insult her, still no is the verdict and we get lost in the sea of people rushing for the open doors. <br />
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Sick, tired and aggravated, I start heading for the escalator to get out of this hell hole, but am dragged back by the same locals who pled our case to the conductor. A few moments of broken language later we knew there is another train coming in 2 minutes to Sorrento and to head to the other end, there wont be a cretina conductor to stop us from getting on.<br />
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Sure enough the train arrives Liz just rolls right on, I attempt to follow but am blocked by a stranger. Fearing I won't get on I shout at him and hit him with the bicycle. He moves, we make it on and after a hour of moving the bikes from side to side, the ordeal is over. We exit the station in Sorrento, ride about a kilometer and are at the campsite.<br />
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The day finally over, Liz makes me dinner and I pass out.<br />
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</div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07658460730510524635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-28749866589660743282011-07-02T03:09:00.001-07:002011-07-02T03:09:20.760-07:00Out of Rome<br />Getting out of Rome to its sea front port was miserable. First up and down through the towns, and all around. This far out, there was only one set of bridges over the Tiber. The first one involved hauling bikes up onto a grated 18" wide catwalk. We walked across, avoiding scary looking bolts and the gapped flooring. The second bridge at least was shorter, and we decided to gun it across. Made it alive and with all our requisite parts. <br /><br />We almost stopped at Kilometer 20, at the first possible campsite. There was some misery that was making us falter. Instead, the cold of the day and the threatening future-possible weather made us press on. The duned coastal road finally made the riding easy, as the wind was blocked. Apparently, we put away 20 kms in 45 mins — which is great for our fat bums. We rode until we couldn't any further, as Matty was all snotty. Gross enough for us to hit a hotel in the drizzle, and deal with a bus load of french pre-teens. <br /><br /><br /><br />Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07658460730510524635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-84487785215802238442011-06-27T00:59:00.001-07:002011-06-27T00:59:31.359-07:00Matt does Rome.Rome <br /><br />Day 1<br /><br />We started the day a bit late, some days it's just hard to get out of the tent. We made coffee and "fruitcake pancakes" again, this time with eggs…they still were awful. Luckily the package is empty now.<br /><br />After futzing about for what seemed like hours, we headed out to catch the shuttle bus to vatican city. After a quick word of advise from our tenting neighbours, we paid 4€ each for a day pass on the transit system, grabbed the bus, then the underground and finally legged it for Saint Peter's Basilica.<br /><br />Well now, this was interesting. In all the places we've been thus far, I've never experienced the pushy sales tactics employed by the tour guides here. After saying no to about a dozen "guides" just on the walk to St. Peter's, we were finally suckered in by a british guy. Oh well, we were walked over to hear the companies guide talk about what we'd see on the tour. The girl leading the tour was pleasant and seemed to know here stuff, so we went along with it. The price wasn't too bad either.<br /><br />We started by leaving the square and headed around the corner to wait in a line. Eventually the line leads to the entrance into the vatican museum. JEBUS, you could visit this place all day for a month and not see it all. There is something silly like 7 MILES of galleries in this place and it's extremely easy to get lost in. We proved this after the tour ended in the sistine chapel and tried our way back. More on that later though.<br /><br />Back to the tour. After entering into the building, getting our audio gear and heading up to a courtyard, we entered into the building and proceeded to browse through the map room, the hall where Raphael's tapestries hang, Nero's bath (why is this here?), and many more nooks and crannies full of marble statues. What a place, everything, and I mean everything is either gilded with gold or painted. It seemed like every inch of any ceiling was covered in frescoes depicting one scene or another from the Bible.<br /><br />Finally we were herded into the Sistine Chapel. I stealthy snuck my camera into my pocket and started video taping (very Bond, I know). Much to my amusement, as the guards dealt with the other tourists with a chorus of "NO FOTO!" and "SHHHH" followed by clapping. I happily looked around, awkwardly leaning so the camera would see the paintings. On the subject of the paintings, our guide was quite knowledgeable, she was able to jog my memory of things I apparently already knew. Funniest of which is the pants painted on Gods bottom after Michelangelo died. I guess something remains of the 4 years of art classes in high school. I'm still not sure on the paintings - yes they're nice, but I think it's overhyped. Too noisy, too busy, and a bit like the stained glass found in the cathedrals over here. You need something to see the distant parts with any detail.<br /><br />After we said goodbye to our tourguide, we headed for St. Peters Cathedral (Basilica!!! says Liz). Asking guards along the way how to get there, we were forced to exit the museum, down a really neat double helix staircase and ended back out on the street. Making the best of the situation we headed back to the square and hopped as much of the que as we could. A few minutres later we were funneled into the crypt below the church (where Pope JP2 was "housed", he has since been exhumed to fulfil a beatification ritual...). It was filled with wacky people gawking and wailing, we rushed through the Empire-like area (btw Benny the 16th really does look like Palpatine) and up into the church. Our luck being what it is, it was time for evening mass and the more interesting things in the chuch were sealed off. So after a short visit we left and headed to the Vatican Post office to send some postcards home (apparently the Rome postal service is sh*t and it's advised to use the more expensive and reliable Vatican service). <br /><br />It was getting late in the day and we were hungry, so we hunted down a small place, had a slice of pizza and headed down the street out of St. Peter's. Being just before Easter, there were statues displayed along the boulavard depicting Jesus's death... remind me again why it's called good friday? I'd be having a very bad day if that was me. Anyway, we walked down to the river, crossed, found a wine bar and enjoyed a bottle while the sun dipped to the horizon. <br /><br />We arrived back at the campsite to find a family of French people and thier giant Tacoma camper truck parked next to us...Damn. Early the next morning (around 6am) the father would start up this monstrosity and let it idle for 20minutes. Who does that?<br /><br />Day 2<br /><br />After being woken early by the aforementioned neighbour, we headed into the city again. Direction forum. Still not having mastered the public transit system, we got off at the wrong stop on the bus and had to walk a bit to the metro. Eventually finding it, we exited near the forum. Feeling peckish we walked towards neo-classical "typewriter" building and found a place for a coffee and a bite to eat. That over with, we started to explore the ruins of the forum. Luckily for us, it was Rome week and all the public attractions were free! The free part being great for us...and everybody else.<br /><br />It was busy. The forum and the area around it is massive. We spent hours walking through the ruins on either side of the road that lead to the coliseum. Liz being the fantastic and knowledgable tourguide she is, walked me through the entire site and was able to tell me interesting things about most of the area. What surprised me was the use of brick and cement (SERIOUSLY HOW DID WE FORGET HOW TO MAKE THE STUFF!!!) When you see the exposed inner walls of the buildings, it's no wonder that many of these are still standing today. Anyway, the forum is vast; so vastly vast that if you were to stand at one end and see a sign that says "you are here", it would literally blow your mind. So instead of describing it, I'll refer you to wiki. Go there now....and then come back, we need your viewership to pay the bills.<br /><br />After a few hours, we decided to head down to the coliseum. It was besieged by preteens and their keepers, so we opted to sit and have lunch and look at it instead (we've seen quite a few of the arenas in our travels and decided it would be ok to give the insides of this one a miss). What a silly idea to sit and eat near there, overpriced and under ripe. Oh well, we live and learn. After a nice break we headed back into the forum, to see the upper parts that we had missed. Again, struck speechless with the scale of the place, it still hits me now just trying to describe it, so I won't. Go read wiki. And wait for the pictures. <br /><br />Having seen the forum and the surrounding areas, we legged it for the city itself. On the agenda was the pantheon, Trevi fountain, and the spanish steps. Now, i think that we've been a little spoiled with our adventure so far. Most attractions we've seen have been empty or nearly empty of tourists at the time we've been there. Not these three; preteens, handlers, hawkers and the all too common fat slack jawed tourist with some part of skin hanging out that shouldn't be. At the pantheon (btw, i'm ridiculously annoyed that it's a church inside) there was hardly room to move around the street, we entered, saw that it was a church, took a look around and left. The spanish steps are well, steps, for climbing they serve there purpose well. I'm not sure the attraction to them by tourists. OK I get that they are a huge set of steps, and the sun hits them nicely for sunbathing, other than that, I mean the view from above them is much nicer. Any way, fed up with the tourists we moved on and wandered to the Trevi Fountain. Along the way we passed a million obelisks, some left in there original state, some placed with crosses on top by the church (kind of a conflict of religions going on there).The Trevi Fountain is astonishing, even through the sea of tourists that crowd the area, it slaps you in the face with it's baroque design. All the rage when the fountain was commissioned. It was built between 1732 and 1762, with the original architect dieing half way through construction. The backdrop for the fountain is the neo classical Palazzo Poli, it was given it's facade specifically for the fountain, after it ha the central portion demolished to make way for it. Nice.<br /><br />We finished the day with a walk through the shopping district in search of some summer wear, shorts and t-shirts in hand we headed back to the campsite for the night.<br /><br />Day 3<br /><br />We spent day 3 like day 2, wondering around the ruins of old rome and then exploring the cities small streets. Our first stop this time was the baths, another huge complex, unfortunately for us, much of it was fenced off, owing to restoration work and threat of collapse The sections we were able to get into were constructed of brick and concrete, and mostly still intact. Although the roofs had cave in, in some. Being spring, the grounds were bright green and the smell of oranges ripening was in the air. The area was littered with fruit trees and signs saying do not pick the fruit. <br /><br />After the baths area, we headed in search of a small bag to use as a day carry bag, this led us to an amazing outdoor market. It was a covered, endless maze of hawkers and real vendors selling anything from used clothing to rip-off sunglasses and bags (the best quality ripoffs to boot!). After browsing every stall in the market, with liz getting annoyed at my indecision, I found a small army surplus unit...little did i know it's th exact same bag i have at home. <br /><br />The bag job done, we finished the day off with a walk up the spanish steps as the sun set. As we came down we found a Leonardo da Vinci exhibition and couldn't pass it up. It was a neat place, full of models of Leonardo's creations that the public could tinker with. It was fun, like being at the science center on a smaller scale.<br /><br />The day over, we grabbed some food and headed back to camp. Rome had been fun, but it was time to move on.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07658460730510524635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-40974997796283660222011-06-16T11:06:00.000-07:002011-06-16T11:06:14.955-07:00Hi-ho here comes Rome<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Don't ride along the Via Aurelia here. The map and all signs say that bikes are allowed; they shouldnt be. We did see groups of roadies, who clearly had no standards. Find a better road, one that is not populated by 120km/hr cars.<br />
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One of the roadies, an old guy who was either leading or trailing behind a pack of other riders gave us warning of the route ahead. "Quatro duro!" he yelled at us a few times, waving his arm to indicate the road ahead. There were other Italian words in there, but none recognizable to me. I fibbed a bit to Matt, saying that there was only one hard bit ahead. Of course, the message was about the four hard climbs to Rome. But why bring the mood down?<br />
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After hill #3, my tire she blew. That meant removal of panniers, bag, rack, skirt guard, fender, wheel, tire, tube. Not all of those items made it back onto the bike. After fussing with the tire change for two hours, we finished riding the last 5 kms to the campsite. Spent the remainder reading and sunning.</span></div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07658460730510524635noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-53116804489741566432011-05-28T01:01:00.001-07:002011-05-28T01:16:20.353-07:00Hobo venture: Tarquinia Turtles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzNesR-2KuNIk9ixkrTiA6Ri0nwTK6CbyjlDzCjper1C0pibyrfCpqNAj07iWnuAz3we59U151Csxlzf9UrH3apBnyEYJ25mllyYJUCXHlMiZGJuM9uPjwtwzeCVp_IwYrdNtRPnpp66A/s1600/IMGP7359.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzNesR-2KuNIk9ixkrTiA6Ri0nwTK6CbyjlDzCjper1C0pibyrfCpqNAj07iWnuAz3we59U151Csxlzf9UrH3apBnyEYJ25mllyYJUCXHlMiZGJuM9uPjwtwzeCVp_IwYrdNtRPnpp66A/s400/IMGP7359.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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We discovered a bit of an ant problem in the BnB. Stupidly, we had left open the food bag, and even though all was encased in plastic bags, the ants ferociously inhabited the pannier. A quick swipe and dump seemed to get rid of them all. <br />
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Saying goodbye to the BnBs garden turtles (so old and cute!), we hauled our asses up the hill, out of medieval Tarquinia to the Etruscan necropolis of the ancient and destroyed city. I questioned my feeling of deja vue, but didn't think that I could have forgotten an entire city in the span of five years. Later on, asking Dad, I was informed I had forgotten my first visit with family.<br />
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The place Matt and I were at now was a huge necropolis site, used from the fifth century BC to the second century CE. Similar to some of the necropolis in Populonia, these graves were set deeply underground in man made chambers. The Tarquinian Etruscans, and later Roman inhabitants, carved beds and pillows for the dead; but also created a space reminiscent of the rooms of the living. The ceilings was peaked and decorated with colourful and intricate patterns. The walls were painted with scenes of the daily lives. For the hunting man, painted sacrificial animals were chased about by the scantily clad. The rich dame was given a feast with nubile dancers and exaggerated pugilists. The chambers became family crypts, with the old and the young and the in betweens placed together... Forever... What A Nightmare! <br />
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The necropolis stretches over hectares of land, of which only a small percentage is open to the public. Of the opened tombs, some were undergoing restoration and were also closed. That's the way it is though. Ancient artefacts need care and attention. And that attention must be done by trusted professionals in a controlled and uninterrupted environment. I get it. I don't like it, but I get it. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtPcFAhvC9LAp0qHl48ed2mV6Z4dfPfQpk88wDV07mOt6KPX_-gryc-ywgVy-ypBGBDwyRyvbijnK5IeW7qFMLGVGmlv8RGbZC56eBKZuxisRvi6KR4-5BnGMFolwtSHZEmgBaWMFZydE/s1600/IMG_3926.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtPcFAhvC9LAp0qHl48ed2mV6Z4dfPfQpk88wDV07mOt6KPX_-gryc-ywgVy-ypBGBDwyRyvbijnK5IeW7qFMLGVGmlv8RGbZC56eBKZuxisRvi6KR4-5BnGMFolwtSHZEmgBaWMFZydE/s400/IMG_3926.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>The visual pillaging of the tombs left us hungry, and so there was a hunt for bread and nibbles. The bread was found eventually in the town, and nibbles were got from the food bag. The food bag that earlier was cleaned of ants. Except the steaming heat of the day had brought the ants out from all the crevasses inside. Hundreds swarmed out of the bag. Matt did his anti-critter dance while I, being the pragmatic non-lily-livered one, removed the little buggers, shoving cleaned cans into Matt's hands. <br />
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Of course, we're still finding bloody ants in the cookware occasionally. And there's a large amount of food bag paranoia. <br />
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Leaving the tomb site gave us the opportunity to rush madly along the steep hills of modern Tarquinia, which is actually a medieval town by the name of Corneto. The city was renamed in an attempt to bolster Italian heritage pride. Unlike the attempt in Populonia in the middle ages, this was done in 1922 CE. A slightly ridiculous move by the Fascist government. We got to the coast and followed it by zona militare. Signs outside threatened to snipe trespassers. We finally reached a more hospitable area of kiddy parks and fairgrounds. Once reaching the city, we picked a campsite address from an Italian iPhone app. The address given ended up being a single parking spot for a camper van. At the next attempt, the campground was only for camper vehicles.<br />
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We said a big "pppffllltttt" to camping, and got a nice and cheap hotel. We are the worst campers ever.Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07658460730510524635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-17625887578587638122011-05-21T04:35:00.000-07:002011-05-21T04:35:45.491-07:00Hoboventure: Go Go Grosseto.Grosseto ended up being a poor decision. There was no way back to the coast, and the only road out went up. Tuscany was wrecking her <i>rewenge! </i>for us ignoring her inner landscape. At the first easy hill - barely an incline from the horizontal - I was done. I had a bit of a moment of hating the bike and the road and the heat and the everything. Maybe because it was noon, and the land here is parched. The midday Tuscan sun drains energy. Riding felt the same as when trying walk with a child attached to your legs. After a quick break, which let me straighten my very bent rear wheel, we continued up. There were hilltop towns, olive groves, sheep filled fields and walled cities. At the walls of Magliano in Toscano, our path turned downwards, nearly back to the coast. We ended in Albinia (not Albania!), which is an entry point to this weird outcrop of land called Orbetello. It's weird because it's basically an island, except it has three perfectly oriented land bridges. The thinking was that we could get from Albinia down the coast to a place two days' ride from Rome. <br />
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Nope. The only road we could take was the one we'd been on. And we'd have to backtrack 15 kilometres uphill, with another three days of hills to follow. Every other road out of this twee town was a highway. <br />
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Fine, crazy Italian road planners! You won! We took a train to Tarquinia. Found a cheap and excellent B&B for the same price as a campsite. Hot water? Comfy bed? Balcony? Yes, please!Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07658460730510524635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-71589889254379676382011-05-14T13:26:00.000-07:002011-05-14T13:26:48.585-07:00Hoboventure: Etruscan Exploration<style type="text/css">
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<div class="p1">Amazing. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Our arrival was perfectly timed. We were just at the gates of the archaeological park at it opened, with no one to keep us company. The archeopark covers a part of a hilltop town of the Etruscans, called Fufluna. The town was inhabited between 1200 BC (Italian Bronze Age) and 570 CE. Life was based on the economy of fishing, metal smelting and trade. By the appropriate intellectuals (i.e. Etruscologists), it was once the preeminent town of the region. Its domain stretched from the occupied hilltop to the islands of Corsica and Elba and inland to the lost Lake Rimigliano. It was truly a strong city of the Etruscan peoples. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">But the rise of the Romans nearly wiped it out entirely. There were changes in the architecture, as can be seen by the large public areas (baths, temples and plumbing), as well as the construction of a typically Roman road. The housing of individuals changed more slowly. However, it recovered partly. To be used as a mainly metal smelting industrial town. Elba provided iron oxide, and the surrounding hills of Populonia (now called by the Romans) provided the wonder materials of copper, lead, zinc, tin, iron and silver. That means that the town could produce bronze and steel, as well as the luxury of silver. </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Populonia was abandoned by its population in 570 CE. This was partly due to the change in environment around them: the inland lake became silted as farming increased - which means there was a loss in the local food supply of shellfish and an increase in malaria; and the sourcing of metal changed in quality and ease of access. Also, it was sacked by the barbarian northern Lombard tribe. The population had been decreasing over the centuries anyway. People gradually figured out that lugging themselves up and down a bloody hill was stupid. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Apparently though, we were stupid enough to have attempted it that morning - with the bikes and all our kit. Matt didn't want to leave our stuff locked up at the side of the deserted road (danger from squirrel gnawing?) so we walked everything up. There was no way we could have ridden - maybe with better bikes. The downhill return was excellent fun. We did find out that hairpin turns on steep descents require braking forces. And braking for an extended period of time with a heavy load means we pooched our hubs for a while. The rear hubs are coaster brakes, and work by expanding an internal ring against the hub, causing enough friction to slow the bike down. The grease inside heats up, becoming less viscous, and oozes out the (poorly sealed) hub. Heat expands everything, making it harder to pedal once done with the gravity-aided motion. We gave our bikes an hour's rest while visiting the necropolis.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">The Etruscans had put a lot of effort into their burial rituals. Set into a nearby hillside, the journey from the city of the living to the city of the dead was a 6 kilometres walk through dense forest and uneven terrain. The graves were embedded into the rock of the hill: steep tunnels were carved downwards, with steps and an entranceway. Within a small rectangular chamber were one to three beds carved out. Some even had small stone pillows for resting one's head. Once finished, the entrance was sealed with a single block of stone, and the passage way was filled in. The tombs were set side by side, with the tree canopy over head or a rock overhang. The largest series of tombs were placed in a vertical rock face in a large open space. The rock face wasn't natural, but had been carved out over time by the quarrying of the hill for raw materials. Grave chambers were set at intervals all the way up the 50' cliff. I quite felt like shoving all of the visiting school children in one and sealing it again. Matt says one was going to throw rocks at him. I'd let that one live. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Obviously, we started riding late in the day, at about 1330h. The route took us away from the coast, cutting across a peninsula and cutting out some kilometres. Of course, as soon as one goes inland in Italy, one hits an elevation change. The Apennine Mountains run down the italian boot, and their foothills spread from shore to shore. Eventually, the gradual incline turned into an actual hill. Zut! That was tough. Right at the crest, we were passed by a pair of mountain bikers (it's big here, 'cause the terrain is excellent for singletrack). Very soon after, our lumbering selves caught them up. Matt was about to pass them when I called him off. Partly because I had no way to go faster and partly because I had gotten myself into a high-speed tank slapper. The entire rear end of my bike had started swaying violently and there was no way to stop it. Terrifying. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">The view at the valley was of more hills, luckily less extreme than the first. Slowly, we wound our way to Grossetto. The last few kilometres were a smooth bike lane. It's always nice to end a long day with an easy section. Especially when the bikes and the legs are both pooched. </div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07658460730510524635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-50388147088828198832011-05-10T12:10:00.000-07:002011-05-10T12:10:05.496-07:00Hoboventure: Al Tende<style type="text/css">
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<div class="p1">So the great and glorious campsite taught us a few things: Don't set up near lampposts or the loo. The nice spots are packed and pricey. Bring your own toilet paper. And it's really awkward to shower in a dark midget closet. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">We headed out onto the road, which was somewhat "mountainous", but all coastal. It was also the first time we made it onto the Via Aurelia on our bikes. The same Via Aurelia that we'd seen in southern France in December. Since Pisa, the Via Aurelia had been a major highway. But from here on, we would follow it all the way to Rome. I was excited, as one of my old Latin textbooks was about a family's journey along this road to Rome. It was like my own personal pilgrimage. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">The coastal region of Italy is not easily accessible. First of all, the geography ranges from near idyllic sandy beaches to steep rocky sides. Where the coast is nice, it is privately owned. Some of the small close properties have been turned into cafes, with advertised <i>stabilimento balneare</i>. To the best of my understanding, it means a built-up beachfront. Of course, one has to buy something first. There are national parks, with occasional pathways to the water, but it's rare. Along the Via Aurelia, we passed by cliffed plateaus with sunbathers, pine forested dunes and seaside agricultural fields. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Having ridden to the Populonia turn off, we didn't see a nearby campsite. There were signs to a few beyond, but none close enough to really consider. We pedalled back about 2 km to one that had been flying a variety of flags - only to find that it was closed until May 1st (first we had to ride along a crappy road for another 2 clicks to gather this information). We then passed by an agritourism (with camping) that looked like a shanty village. Near Populonia, we turned along a road to find the advertised campsites. Except what we found was a reception in a sinking trailer with no sign of human habitation. We decided to camp in a parking lot.<br />
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There was a bunch of fuss over spot selection. Do we set up in the shadows? Near the disused building or away? By that road or another? It's worse than selecting a house! Eventually, the annoying biting bugs forced our hand to just plop it down here-ish and park our bikes there-ish. We also came up with the great excuse of "It was late, we couldn't find a campsite, and we're stupid tourists". Sometimes the truth is the best.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">After set up, we behaved like squirrels - freezing our movements at any sign of near movement. At one point during dinner, an SUV drove right up to the tent, pulled a u-turn, paused, then left. Really weird. Finally, we gave up caring and just went to sleep - the thrum of vehicles our lullaby.<br />
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Our wake up call was the garbage truck dumping glass bottles into its maw. Nice.</div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07658460730510524635noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-43181108594590731152011-05-07T12:38:00.000-07:002011-05-08T09:57:27.929-07:00Hoboventure: Antignano Aunt<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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Our intention for the day to was stop somewhere between the Livorno and the Marina di Bibbona. We left Pisa and our campsite at about 2 PM heading straight for the coast along the Arno again. Even with the headwind, riding was pretty easy. The smell of salty ocean and the increasing number of marinas told us we were near. The road then turned southward: teasing glimpses of the sea over farmers fields were all we got. Thankfully, the road meandered closer and closer, until we were riding along a beach front boardwalk in Tirrenia. Stopped in the heat for a fro-yo. Whose health benefits were negated by the strawberry and lichee sauce. Eventually, the quiet biking got much busier. Cars were more prevalent and it became difficult to weave through. There was a bike path, which was glorious for the first while. But we'd hit a major town (Livorno) and the bike path was more of a "children learning to rollerblade" or "stroller pushing exercise" or "let's all walk 6 across" path. It is a sad state of affairs when one's bike path is more dangerous than the road. And it was frustrating. It was not like there wasn't a perfectly usable walking path 2 feet away, or that there was an alternate boardwalk for pedestrians… It was very similar to trying to ride on a Saturday afternoon along the Toronto lakeshore waterfront path… Probably because it was a Saturday afternoon, along the seaside waterfront pathway. Also at some point we had our first tire puncture.</div><div class="p2"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div class="p1"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">It might have been Sunday.</div></div><div class="p2"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div class="p1"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">In Livorno, there was a public water fountain. Usually in Italy, people buy <i>aqua minerale</i> by the 10 litre case. It's not expensive: 1.5 litres can cost 0.15€. I think they do it because the tap water tastes so bad. The water fountain was a mineral water source. A bunch of old guys were hanging about, filling glass wine jugs and bottles. The italian information sign said the water would taste best not-in-plastic, and I'm in agreement. We filled up every vessel we had: BeverZwerfSport, Indigo's green bottle, our one remaining bladder and our stomachs. They were all empty! Hydration is pretty important, and we'd been loads drinking water all day under the hot sun. </div></div><div class="p2"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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</div>Escaping from the crazy families, we bumbled along. Soon, we came to a <i>campeggio</i> - it was about half past six, and the road got a lot busier afterwards. Taking a quick conference, we chose to utilise the facilities. The low season pricing was reasonable enough to con Mr. CheapSeats into accepting it. A plot with a waterfront location and possibility for expansion, near shops and amenities, with parking, was chosen. </div></div><div class="p2"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3VIEMxPtnDM/Tbr3BrdM8CI/AAAAAAAAHlg/qc4wSODbqI0/s1600/IMG_3790.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3VIEMxPtnDM/Tbr3BrdM8CI/AAAAAAAAHlg/qc4wSODbqI0/s320/IMG_3790.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div></div><div class="p1"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Twas glorious. </div></div>M. K. Uniachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692144554833420045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-32172355009739065632011-04-29T10:32:00.000-07:002011-04-29T10:43:54.504-07:00Hoboventure: Piece of Pisa<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-COKNKD6t29c/Tbr1c9WgDpI/AAAAAAAAHjc/ksAXTqGLZIk/s1600/IMG_3769.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-COKNKD6t29c/Tbr1c9WgDpI/AAAAAAAAHjc/ksAXTqGLZIk/s400/IMG_3769.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
This will be a long, so I'll sum it up here for those who don't like our long posts (Kayla and Emily)<br />
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I went to Pisa, climbed to the top of the leaning tower, it was amazing. I then went in some other buildings that were baby jebus related. Ate pizza for lunch and left. Also I was named mayor and the tower is my new home, it is dubbed <i>Torre Pendente de Matticus</i>.<br />
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The full post follows:<br />
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I'll be honest, seeing the leaning tower has been on my mind for as long as I can remember. It's sort of become a symbol for Italy for me, similar to the Eiffle Tower is a symbol for France. As I've grown older and gone through engineering school, it's taken on a new meaning. A marvelous engineering failure that is an engineering feat. I had to see it.<br />
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The ride in the night before was amazing, even after (roughly) 100km I still had the energy to be giddy and pester Liz with calls, "hey look over there!", "look up! it's right there!" and "no, not there, in front of you!". Riding along the city walls and catching glimpses of the top of the tower was exciting, I was here, and by bicycle! It was the first time I really felt we had accomplished something.<br />
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I slept restlessly during the night, and was eager to get going in the morning, Liz got annoyed at me for trying to rush her along...I guess I do that a bit.<br />
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We left camp before 10, no real idea how to get in to see the tower, but we found our way quickly enough. First we had to direct some motorcyclists to the tower. Down through the tunnel, a right turn and there was a break in the city walls. We followed an old lady on a bicycle through stop and go traffic, using her as a shield. We darted through the street hawkers and entered through the opening in the wall. Not expecting what followed, I was shocked. It was a perfect spring day; the sky was blue, the sun was shining, a warm 23ish, only small clouds dotting the sky and in the midst of all that, a vast open space with vibrant green turf and 3 white buildings. A baptistry, a church, and the tower.<br />
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The whiteness of the buildings makes the colours of everything around it pop (sadly my photography skills aren't up to snuff). The grass may be the richest of greens that I've ever seen, the sky the most perfect shade of blue. It took me a few moments to understand what I was seeing. What brought me back to reality was the tourists. The square surrounding was packed full of them, buying things from the souvenir shops, taking silly photo's (if any of you tourists read this, those photos you took of you "holding up" the tower are just bad, the scale is all wrong!), relaxing on the grass. They were everywhere.<br />
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Fearing for a huge line, I sent (ha!) Liz to find the ticket booth, and I manned the camera and started shooting. This was a challenge, but eventually I got a few nice ones without the hordes of tourists in them. Shortly after, Liz returned, tickets in hand. I thought it would be nice to get a photo of the 2 of us. We asked a passing couple; he said yes, she slapped him for it and dragged him on. Really 2 seconds of your time, thanks for nothing...<br />
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Being "early" and having yet had a coffee, we found a place to sit in the sun at a "quiet" cafe across from the leaning tower and enjoyed the view (of men removing scaffolding from it) with usual coffee, cappuccino, and croissants.<br />
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The tickets you purchase for the leaning tower are reservation based and indicate a time that you'll be let in. Only a small amount of people (2 groups, 1 going up and 1 coming down) are allowed to be in the tower at once (also, the greatest rule ever: Nobody under 18 Unsupervised and no one under 8 at all!). Our time was approaching so we waited in the small que and took advantage of the scenery with the camera.<br />
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After waiting for about 20 minutes a lady in line informed us that bags are not allowed in the tower (Liz already knew this, but the tickets said you could store them in lockers close to the line) and then pointed out the locker room a couple hundred meters away. With time running short, we dashed to the locker place and back. Just in time too, we were dead last into the tower.<br />
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The leaning tower is a bell tower detached from it's church. Construction started in 1173 and took 177 years to complete! Only five years in, with the third level started, construction had to be halted. The building had already begun to lean. The tower was left as it was for about 100 years. This let the building settle and the soil to stabilize. If this hadn't happened, the tower would have collapsed.<br />
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I think this is the best part, In 1272, to adjust for the lean they built one side taller than the other on the new floors!<br />
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Currently, as a result of a massive engineering project (the tower in the 90's was past the projected topple angle at 5.5 degrees), the tower leans just over 4 degrees (over 4m from vertical, for a tower of 60m that's incredible!), to put this in perspective 4 degrees is roughly where the tower was 300 years ago. When it was completed in 1319, it was roughly 1 degree or 2.5 feet of lean.<br />
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I hope I've given you a little insight into why I love this building as much as I do, to read more check out the wikipedia page.<br />
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Ok, I get it, enough history. Up up we go, the stairs spiral around the outer side of the central core, and lean with the tower. It is an awkward climb, the stairs are heavily grooved from the foot traffic of nearly a thousand years, and you have to lean at weird angles as you move around the circumference of the core. Sometimes it pitches you forward, helping you up the stairs. Sometimes it's an even worse uphill battle.<br />
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Eventually you come to an opening and the tower guards force you out onto one of the 7 tiers (this is to let the group coming down to pass). We snapped a few pictures and marveled at the lean and view of the old city centre. Shortly after we were rushed off the platform and up to the bell tower level (I think it's the 6th level). We walked around, snapped a few more photos and Liz tried to translate the inscriptions on the bells.<br />
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Having circled the bell level, we were funneled to the top, at this point you leave the large staircase and cram into a tiny little staircase barely shoulder wide, with the most rutted steps in the tower. It was slow going with 30 or so people trying to get up and down at the same time. A few minutes passed and we were on the top. Wow, what a view, you can see for miles, (we were able to see huge cranes we'd later cycle past hours later on the coast). The cathedral looks amazing from above, the detail in the stonework on the roof is amazing.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EP6WuMG31EE/Tbr0x9gKe3I/AAAAAAAAHgg/jO2XX6Fpj-8/s1600/IMGP6947.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EP6WuMG31EE/Tbr0x9gKe3I/AAAAAAAAHgg/jO2XX6Fpj-8/s400/IMGP6947.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>The lean is very evident from up here, we snapped more photos and cornered an American couple to take a photo of us on the top. No time to savour the moment. Meer seconds later we were herded down and out.<br />
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At the foot of the tower is an inscription that Liz stopped to take photos of... [edit: Because it was describing the work of Galileo in Pisa. Legend is all about the cannonball versus the feather being dropped from the Leaning Tower. Reality is probably less exciting). <br />
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After the tower we took a look in the <i>Campo Santo</i>. It is a walled cemetery, it is remarkably beautiful. Another grand white building, it has an open courtyard that is green and lush. The construction started sometime in 1278 (it's architect died in 1284) and was completed in 1464. At one point the building contained a large collection of Roman sculptures and the walls were covered in fresco paintings (of the usual bible stuff). But during the war, the Allies bombed it. The roof caught fire and covered everything in molten lead, destroying almost everything.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qC9fkygxOnk/Tbr1fDWQqyI/AAAAAAAAHjo/b-pV25_1wyM/s1600/IMG_3771.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qC9fkygxOnk/Tbr1fDWQqyI/AAAAAAAAHjo/b-pV25_1wyM/s400/IMG_3771.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>What we see now is a result of restoration work that has been ongoing from 1945. Apparently the building is mostly restored to original, but the scars of war can still be seen everywhere. Only bits of the frescos survive. It's a sad place, but then again, its a cemetery and I suppose it's supposed to be.<br />
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Our next stop was the Duomo, a medieval cathedral named <i>Santa Maria Assunta</i>. The building dates to 1064 and is Romanesque in style, simple compared to the gothic churches we've become accustomed too. However, simple doesn't mean the building isn't another example of grand excess the church likes to display. The exterior appears from afar to be completely constructed of white stone. Get closer and you'll find it is composed mostly of grey marble and a white stone. Closer still and the bits of coloured marble that are inlaid will stand out. The main doors are massive and made of bronze, as are the other doors. Some of these are replacements for original wood doors that were destroyed in a fire. Atop the building sits a massive dome, covered in copper or something similar, bleached to a grey-white colour by the sun. The inside is your typical church affair, white and black marble, granite columns, massive mosaics from the early 1300's, frescoed dome, intricately carved and polished wood and massive organ, oh I forgot the gold trimming.<br />
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It is much more grand when seen from above, the shape, decadence and scale are seen best from the top of the tower.<br />
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Feeling a bit rushed now, we had left our things at the campsite and were allowed to do so until 2pm. We headed into the baptistry. The baptistery dates to 1153, and is styled similarly to the cathedral, it seems the same stone was used for it's construction. The interior is 2 floors and extremely plain, the dome and walls remain undecorated. It is however a massive building and seeing the steps we headed up to the second level for a better look. As soon as we reached the floor, a gaggle of loud giggling teens entered the building, followed by a chorus of "Shhhhhh!" from the guards. As the giggling got louder we headed down and out.<br />
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Hungry we headed back towards where we parked the bikes and partook of pizza at a sidewalk cafe. Not the best we've had, but now fully nourished once again, we grabbed the bikes, headed back to camp, loaded up and headed on our way.Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07658460730510524635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-61891983857661227142011-04-26T11:49:00.000-07:002011-04-26T11:52:32.734-07:00Fast Forward<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">I admit it, we've fallen a bit behind again. We're working on it.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">In the meantime, I thought it would be a good idea to give an idea of our whereabouts. We are currently in Barcelona. We're only here for the night and then off to see Liz's dad on the opposite coast tomorrow.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">It's been an adventure, i've been tracking our progress day by day with the gps (see the screen grabs below). All told we've traveled around 1500km by bicycle from Amsterdam so far, the rest has been trains and boats.</div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUhSfxbAYwaVHcNoR9Gf-dnTlbeOJCk08NpE_dMEIJUGkN1SXo49r-N2OYK6y3kYE19WQdk6LAiXljOIUDMNxjh2f5CtTl5KmDj9gWFv1Kpy6QL0Usjf7kLSJrQwsL1E0Qzl3f-isbH7Q/s1600/Milano+to+Roma.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="345" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUhSfxbAYwaVHcNoR9Gf-dnTlbeOJCk08NpE_dMEIJUGkN1SXo49r-N2OYK6y3kYE19WQdk6LAiXljOIUDMNxjh2f5CtTl5KmDj9gWFv1Kpy6QL0Usjf7kLSJrQwsL1E0Qzl3f-isbH7Q/s400/Milano+to+Roma.png" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB4oHafa9BEWn8ELixr1tyya6Dfl3hlXDOmqaihkoW6Q6T5obDXjRp8k58QU0jpoJXECZpcyOyAUAYhbb2gFsFigyHVgCV4JOYJ4DRhUwlWDeYLJ6vEApKNr3eaU-h8YkHqvvwofOkCoU/s1600/Florence+to+Paestum.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB4oHafa9BEWn8ELixr1tyya6Dfl3hlXDOmqaihkoW6Q6T5obDXjRp8k58QU0jpoJXECZpcyOyAUAYhbb2gFsFigyHVgCV4JOYJ4DRhUwlWDeYLJ6vEApKNr3eaU-h8YkHqvvwofOkCoU/s400/Florence+to+Paestum.png" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRbBDZWuh0YIk2fMMNPc8ukqlB5jrpcflGHKy3qrONiIkmKJbAxZ-VGN3KUcZ72LbV_eZ2bDt_7ZaUHjbWuI14Rtra_LD9qqUsXHhNaUIzCHG1bjZaR0FMKCCsCvi4QYz4Zv1ojz8N1F4/s1600/Sicily+and+Sardina.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRbBDZWuh0YIk2fMMNPc8ukqlB5jrpcflGHKy3qrONiIkmKJbAxZ-VGN3KUcZ72LbV_eZ2bDt_7ZaUHjbWuI14Rtra_LD9qqUsXHhNaUIzCHG1bjZaR0FMKCCsCvi4QYz4Zv1ojz8N1F4/s400/Sicily+and+Sardina.png" width="400" /></a></div>M. K. Uniachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692144554833420045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-75706079083976643372011-04-25T21:47:00.000-07:002011-04-25T21:47:18.629-07:00Hoboventure: Strong Arno'd into Riding<style type="text/css">
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<div class="p1">Our exit out of Florence involved a quick jewellery shop, and some bread buying. There was a lovely trail along the Arno river for 13 kilometres, which saved us from the roadway. Looking down at the river, when crossing one of the bridges showed the current going in our direction, and the wind against. Joy of joys. A headwind. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Before leaving on the trip, I had told Matt about my distaste for wind. Head, cross, side. Everything is bad except for a tail wind. This conversation happened during a windy day in Amsterdam, when I had been blown over (and almost into the canal) by a cross wind. Actually blown over. Here, along the Arno, the wind wasn't so bad, but I knew it was there. At least it was flat an easy riding. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Until the gravelly trail ended, and we had to follow the minor roads to Pisa. In the middle of the day's blistering heat, pushing our bikes up Apennine foothills above a sludgy river into a headwind, with locals in cars barreling past within inches. Yes, it got better. It gradually became flatter and cooler. The available shoulder became wider as the car numbers became greater. Consolation was that we were riding through the region that produced Leonardo di Vinci - we could have visited his birthplace, but for a 7% to 12% uphill grade. Besides, walls still can't talk, no matter how many museums one puts in them.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">After a moment of possible highway adjoining, we found the proper minor road into Pisa. The road was lined with trees, providing shade and a place to ram a car into. As well as a series of miserable bumps from the roots breaking up the surface. Soon, though never soon enough, there was a bike path. The glorious bike path! It was so flat, and so smooth! Which was good, as Matt's bottom was so sore. Just say no to riding in denim. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Entering Pisa was obvious. To the left was a thick and tall city wall. To the right, an aqueduct running through people's gardens. Matt pointed out the top of the leaning tower. I, being too exhausted, didn't turn my head in time. Instead, I kept navigating us towards the <i>campeggio</i>. Hairy <i>centro</i> moments included a teeny tiny roundabout with a not teenytiny number of vehicles, and a subterranean pathway. We arrived in daylight hours - amazing as we had ridden 97 kilometres. Easy enough to set up the tent, have showers and make dinner. So long as one ignored the knee/butt/leg/back pain. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Moral of the ride: Go from Pisa to Florence, not the other way. </div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07658460730510524635noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-81713327442905263722011-04-23T22:18:00.000-07:002011-04-23T22:18:47.454-07:00Hoboventure: Fiercely Firenze!<style type="text/css">
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<div class="p1">Florence, or <i>Firenze</i>. Matt asks how one name became the other, but I have no answer. Florence is both a dream and a nightmare. The number of tourists that flock here are atrocious. That is a bit hypocritical, as both Matt and I are tourists. At least though, we don't arrive with 50 clones on a large AIR-CON tour bus. Our arrivals are somewhat less comfortable. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Having seen glimpses of the "important bits" the night before, we took our time in the morning. First, we stopped at the Piazza Michelangelo, to gawk at the hawkers and the rooftop view. It really was a glorious way to start the day. The sky was hazy, so the Apennines were lost in the distance. The close view was that of the red roofs of Florence. The cupola, and the bell tower, of the Duomo stood out. Various other large edifices also peeked above the regular surface height of the residential buildings. The hillsides were also coated in red roofed homes, but these were too far to see properly - and probably too far for us to visit in our short time. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">We rode our bikes into town - screaming down the road and scaring small children. Witnessed a photographer work at a destination wedding, which helped us avoid a 4€ espresso (to put that in perspective, an espresso should only cost 1€). As usual, our light breakfast and late start meant that it was lunch time. Sitting in a quieter piazza, we had pizza. The piazza was in front of the Basilica di Santa Croce. A closer inspection of the ticket booth told us that the entrance fee was 8€, and the sights to see were the tombs of Michelangelo, Galileo and a few other important dead guys. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">I'm viscerally against wonton tomb worship. There is little to gain from standing near someone's dead body. If the tomb is a work of art (such as those by Bernini, or the Egyptian sarcophagi) then I will enjoy it as a work of art. When it comes to someone like Galileo, who has been despised by his church - and then reinstated in full glory - paying to see his reconsecrated burial location feels like an agreement with his previous mistreatment. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Anyway, there were too many people going in to do the circuit shuffle. Matt decided that walking around town would be better than taking the bikes, and boy was he right. Florence was a doozy. The streets were packed, and the streets were tight and narrow. Crazy car drivers were everywhere, and even the scooters were deadly. We putzed around until we hit the famous Duomo, which we went in (partly because it was free!). Toured around the outside of it, the baptistry and the campanile. ??????? In another church - Basilica di Santa Maria Novella - I was made to wear a weird skirt cover thing because my sinful knees were showing (but skintight leggings were A-OK). We'd gone in to see frescos and art from a large variety of Italian masters, but ended up getting caught in a student-run anti-AIDS fundraiser. Previously, we'd witnessed a beggar trip an old lady - evil time we live in. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Somehow, after several gelato and coffees it was the end of the day. We pedalled our bikes back up the hill to Piazza Michelangelo. Looking across the eastern side, I was astonished to see a lush olive grove. I was more astonished to realise that it was our campsite. Our little nylon home was safe and sound. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">The next day we started in the same manner. Probably went downhill faster than before though. We spent the morning in the small Galleria dell'Accademia - where the original <i>David</i> and other works of Michelangelo are found. There were also a large number of medieval religious iconographies?? (it was dull as most of it looked the same as the stuff in the Louvre and all the small churches we'd been in). There was a small local food market, where our purchased proscuitto came in ¼ inch thick slices. There was also a clothes and leather market that wound through the city streets. Markets can have a great atmosphere and be functionally useful, especially if one is good at haggling (neither of us are). </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Continuing the shopping motif, we headed across the Ponte Vecchio. Earlier, we had crossed it during a marathon run. Now, it was packed with the tourists and even worse to get our bikes across. Live and learn. The bridge was originally crowded with butchers, but one of the Medici decided the stench was too offensive for his nose as he strode across his personal upper walkway. He had the butchers replaced with goldsmiths - which is how it stands today. Luckily standing, as all other Florentine bridges were destroyed during WW2.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Across the river, we tried to get into the terraced gardens of the <i>Palazzo Pitti</i>, but the entrance fee for some grass seating was too steep (it included 4 museums and a tour of the palace). Instead, we hung out on the awful 1980s concrete porch restoration. Funny hawker antics included finger wagging beration? by a pair of teenage girls, and a subsequent flirting. The heat of the day was till lingering at 4 o'clock, so we headed back to the tent to finish our domestic chores (just call me Queen of the Washer Women). </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Think that's the end of our day? Oh no. I was adamant that we go into Florence at night. Our arrival that first night was stressful, but not enough to miss the fact that all of the city was quiet. For the second time that day, we wheeled our way down to the Arno river, and crossed a bridge. The campsite curfew was midnight, afterwards we would be locked out. Our time was limited, but then again, so were our options. We got a bit lost - things are so different in the dark. Finally, we found ourselves in front of the <i>Loggia della Signoria</i>. Precisely where I wanted to be. Here stand sculptures dating from Roman to Renaissance times. My favourite is still the <i>Rape of the Sabines</i>, while Matt preferred the bronze <i>Perseus</i> with Medusa's head. A guy with a guitar was crooning top 40 songs, the surrounding piazza was empty and the lights were just right for some shaky photography. Afterwards, we went into the mismatched <i>Palazzo Vecchio</i>. MIsmatched because it has been renovated by numerous people, each in the current architectural vogue. Inside was a "special" exhibition showing a £15 million diamond encrusted 17th century skull. Being cheap, we stuffed the idea of the skull and only visited the permanent exhibit - which was really just the decorations of the rooms.<br />
</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">And the decorations would put most wallpaper producers to shame. Rooms were designed and themed around mythological gods, artistic benefactors, and the ruling family. The walls and ceilings were all painted - intricately and delicately. The <i>palazzo</i>, as mangled as it was on the outside, had been pulled together on the inside - mainly due to the genius of Giorgio Vasari. Somme of the apartmental rooms were closed off, as the <i>palazzo</i> is currently being used as the Florentine mayoral offices. Which is good, as that was one of its intended purposes. Better as a public office with a museum than as an unkempt private residence. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Late as it was, I stopped outside to just take it in. My chosen route home wasn't the most direct, and let us see the Duomo and the Basilica di Santa Croce at night. Matt was getting time-crunched, so finally we headed back up that damned hill to the olive grove that had been our home.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07658460730510524635noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-87476078067234970442011-04-22T02:23:00.000-07:002011-04-22T02:23:08.116-07:00Hoboventure: Oh Baloney!<style type="text/css">
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<div class="p1"><b></b></div><div class="p2"><b>Back to Bologna</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
The next morning, we headed back into the depths of the city to catch a train to Florence. Unfortunately, the Trenitalia workers were on strike. This meant that the earliest bike-carrying train wouldn't be until 1800hrs that night. And, the train wouldn't go all the way to Florence either. With no real options in front of us, we waited it out. Looking at the information board showed that all the trains were <i>cancellato</i>. </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p2">Waiting it out meant a lackadaisical ride around the city. More <i>cafe</i> sitting and structure gazing. Food shopping in a market. And finally a sit down in a park overlooking a university market (skull rings, rasta hats and nepalese blankets are not the products your usual italian family is looking for). There was an adorable puppy going on a walk, but he was tired and kept flopping down in exhaustion. There were less adorable kissing couples and hipster tightrope walkers, but they were easily ignored. As the sun was waning, we headed back to the train station to get our Appenine hill crossing on. </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p2">The entrance onto the train was easy. Wunderbar. The arrival at the last station, Prato, was also simple. On discussion, we choose to wait for the train to Florence, rather than ride the 20 km. Darkness was the main factor there. We had dinner from a vending machine (hot chocolate and kinder bueno) and finally made it onto the third train to Florence. </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p2">Worst night ever followed. </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p2">First off, it was 2100h upon arrival. Secondly, the traffic control road islands made a vehicular zoo around the train station. Naggy was basically useless, and we were mapless. The internet info said the campsite gates closed at 2200h. Tired, scared and confused there was a freakout and some yellin's. The usual arrival into a new city. </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p2">We made it to a pedestrian piazza, and felt a bit better. Look, there's the Duomo with it's famous <i>cupola</i>. Okay, okay, we're going. Yes, that's Michelangelo's <i>David</i>. No, it's just a copy. Yes, those are millennia old statues. Okay, okay. Just across the river and then it's nearby - says Naggy. Turn here, follow the road for 900 meters. What? Naggy - those are stairs, we can't go up stairs. Oh, follow the neighbouring road? It's vertical!? We hauled our bikes up the narrowest, curviest, cobbliest, darkest, scariest road. By "hauled", I mean we pushed and swore and hated every thigh-burning, back-aching, hand-sweating moment. Hated. </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p2">At the top, past Piazza Michelangelo (no, it's a bronze copy of <i>David</i>), there was the <i>campeggio</i>. Of course, the night time building of a hotel room involved finding a site to set up our nylon house, a shin bruise the size of Malta, and an amputated tree. </div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07658460730510524635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-37809965630761433002011-04-19T13:04:00.000-07:002011-04-19T13:04:21.064-07:00Hoboventure: Lazy Riding.<style type="text/css">
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<div class="p1"><b>Day ??: Modena to Bologna</b></div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">The morning in Modena found our bikes laden up again and us in the <i>centro</i>. We explored around an indoor market, after spending 20 minutes trying to lock up our panniers, bikes and backpacks with one lock. After buying local cheese (from the Parma - Reggio region) and balsamic vinegar (from Modena), we unlocked bags and bikes and got ourselves happily lost on the way to the train station. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">We were training to Bologna because of exhaustion. Of course, the task of getting on and off trains isn't the easiest either. This time, Matt had an epic struggle to load onto the bicycle section of the train. Probably because I was too dumb to help. The conductor was also useless and instead of letting us put the bikes in the proper hanging location, she made us move them from side to side for each stop. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Annoying. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Bologna (buh-lon-ya) was to be our first <i>campeggio</i>. These are specific locations with permanent "tents", shed sized bungalows, parking spaces for camper-vans and spots for bring-your-own tents. Generally, the <i>campeggi</i> are found on the outskirts of cities, and have full facilities to accommodate even the most weary of travellers. Bathrooms, showers, laundry machines and dishwashing stations, restaurants, cafes, food markets. Nothing like camping in the Canadian wilderness. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Leaving our stuff in the office, we headed into Bologna <i>centro</i>. As we prepared to go, the VanMoof caught the eye of a traveller. He had heard of the brand before, and showed interest in our trip and the bikes. Surprising because he was from Malaysia. Less surprising as he was flying to Amsterdam that day. Hopefully another VanMoof was sold because of Matt's enthusiasm. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Bologna is known as a university town and a foodie haven, with a few interesting architectural details. With cloudy heads wandering aimlessly, we passed through the bustling university section. We meandered under some of the miles of notorious colonnades, ending up in front of the local San Petronio Basilica. The Basilica was built to rival the size of St. Peter's in Rome. The contemporary Popish guy (Pius IV) wasn't very happy about this, and so built the first formal scholarly building to one side - it was the first University . This effectively halted the construction of the wings - there are unfinished sections at the side showing the ceased construction. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">The library did not only stop the sides of the Basilica from being finished, but also the facade. The city of Bologna, who backed the project financially, ran out of cash. The facade is half completed, with colourful marble on the bottom and unfinished brickwork up top. Or apparently that's what it looks like. To me, it looked like scaffolding, with a picture.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Very Annoying. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Regardless, we sat in front, had an overpriced and unpalatable <i>cafe</i>. One must learn that the nicest places to sit - those in sunshine with good views - are usually the highest in euros and lowest in value. Watched some balloon origami, and student antics in the square. Heading out into the busy streets, where bikes and scooters rule - with buses a close third - we came across the towers of the city gates. One leans oddly, and the other is short. Had prize winning <i>gelato</i>, which was good, but possibly not 15 minute line up good. Beside us, as we ate, were the original types of Bolognese arcades: wood supported overhangs. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Back at the campsite, the neighbouring campervan asked if we would like to join him in partying Bologna style. He was with two university friends, travelling from Stuttgart. They had a week to road trip, and had made it to Bologna before needing to turn around. High prices for gas and the beefy vehicle were not favourite topics from them… Hope everything turned out well though!</div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07658460730510524635noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-31611251297654802452011-04-17T10:14:00.001-07:002011-04-17T10:14:34.833-07:00Hoboventure: Vroomtown<style type="text/css">
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<div class="p1"><b>Day 12: Viadana to Modena. </b></div><div class="p2"><b></b></div><div class="p1">So, waking up in the cold, with frost lining the tentside and a tractor noise way too close to comfort was less than awesomesaus. Luckily, the tractor was in field option #1, and we only had to deal with the grunting and groaning of moving our bikes back uphill. We went back to our sunning spot of the day before, to dry our the tent fly and make breakfast. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Breakfast was to be pancakes. Except we needed eggs. So instead, we had mostly cooked pancake goo. Mm Mm Good Enough. A lady asked us if we had slept there (which was reasonable, as we had exploded our stuff across the pathway). Of course, we answered "No, just stopping for a nice light snack" as stealth camping is illegal in Italy. A small dog was exceptionally concerned for his master's wellbeing as he passed the drying tent fly. Apparently large brown flapping objects are to be feared. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Cycling in the morning included two looong bridges. The first had a path to the side, which would have been fine, except it felt like I was going to hit the railings or fall off the side into the river below. It was an exercise in balance. The second bridge was just as extensive, but crossed over a valley and had no escape side. Instead, it was a fast stressful crossing, ending in a roundabout and the relaxing sideroads. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">A while on, we came to Naggy's suggestion of a highway. We recalculated a route, and ended up at a dead end (near a dead bird). Luckily, a gentleman from the water-power-pumping-plant place we were at drove up and let us through. This led us to a canal side gravel path (dubbed "hot mess") for a few clicks. Which in turn led to an <i>osteria</i> for the best lunch ever. Soft <i>zucca </i>filled tortelli pastas (invented nearby and my new favourite), local cured meats (including the headcheese I vowed never to eat) and polenta. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">It's always hard getting going after lunch. Stomachs are full, and legs are too rested for much work. This time though, we had a decent direction to head, and off we went. Naggy provided her first "great solution". Small roads, newly paved and unused. Quiet villages and blooming trees. Until, of course, the outskirts of major towns. We passed over the north of Reggio Emilia, towards Modena. We got caught in an industrial zone, and had to go along transport truck laden roads. These were not highways, technically, but might as well have been. Awful. Somehow we found a bike path. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">The bike path was well signed, and we followed it for kilometres into the centre of Modena. We sat briefly and ignorantly in the Enzo Ferrari Park. Once in the <i>centro storico </i>(historic centre), a quick look-see showed us another beautifully scaffolded sight. We needed to sort out the iPhone Italian internets at a Vodafone, and also to find somewhere to stay. Camping was out of the q, and that left us looking for cheap accommodations. While Matt and the Vodafone dude farted about with his iPhone at the shop, I used their demo Android phone to book us a hotel. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">After exploding our stuff in the hotel room, we had to find food. Google maps led us the 3 kilometeres there (Naggy iPhone, fail!). Then sleep. This time, not cold and no tractors. </div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07658460730510524635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-69872716362521352782011-04-09T12:36:00.000-07:002011-04-17T10:17:42.513-07:00Hoboventure: Off to find the River, the wonderful River of Po.<style type="text/css">
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<div class="p1"><b>Day 10: Crema to Cremona </b></div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p2">The morning was uninspiring for cycling. The night before there had been rumblings of staying another day, just to miss the rain. But the weather, though grey, was still good enough to bike in. </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p2">We passed through Crema <i>centro</i> fairly quickly. The hotelier had said that it was about 1 kilometre, gate to gate. He had also said that the Duomo was worth a visit. Perhaps, but when we passed it was wearing its winter coat of steel and mesh. The city's two entrance <i>porto</i> we passed through were staid and functional. We ate breakfast at the far end, where a lovely old man and I had a conversation of Engtalian regarding the trip so far. </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p2">Of course, there was the moment of lostness, this time at a 6 way traffic circle. The diameter of the roundabout was equal to that of Convocation Hall at University of Toronto. There was a fountain in the middle of it, for crissake! Trucks barely need to slow down off the highway to circle it. Cars speed up. It would have been madness to take a bike on it, so we high-tailed it back to our "last known position" and recalculated. </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p2">Along some dirt roads. Through towns bearing Italian flags. Beside an enclosed 11th century cloister. By blooming white and pink magnolia trees. Holding still, waiting for a train to go by. Past solar farms and abandoned homes. At some point, it rained. We learnt then that a sprayed waxed cotton jacket may not be as waterproof as advertised. A North Face Summit Series jacket is. There may be a garbage bag poncho in the future. </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p2">We slowly arrived into Cremona from the western suburbs. Navigating by signs works best. Sometimes, there are miscommunications, and the signs wish us to follow roads we can't. Sometimes, we turn ourselves into pedestrians to reach <i>centro</i>. In Cremona, it was drizzling on and off. We sat at a covered sidewalk cafe to figure out our cunning plan. The local campsite (<i>campeggio</i>) was closed - which left wild camping or hotel as our options. Ibis hotel it was. </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p2">Cremona is intertwined with musical history. Folks in the 16th centuries lived here and produced string instruments. The name known best to the world is that of Antonius Stradivari. There is a piazza and a statue dedicated to him, right beside the main Duomo piazza. He, and the Amati and Guarneri workshops, made Cremona the destination for apprentices. Today, the number of lutherie workshops is astronomical. People have moved here from all over the world to live and work in a place of history and learning. Most of them are labelled as violin makers (on the brown "tourist attraction" signs), but walking by shops shows the large variety actually made (viola to cello, and beyond). Some shops were perfect examples of a workshop - hunched backs over a half-completed bow in the setting sunlight. Other shops were clearly attuned to a different crowd, with artistically laid instruments and an ornate desk. </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p2">Our walk (biking is hard sometimes, yo.) took us by the Duomo in the fading light, and a creepy closed down hospital. There would be time in the morning to look a the church. At look at it we did, over an espresso. There was a funeral going on, and unlike the school group, we decided not to invade. Instead, we looked at the <i>campanile</i> (bell tower) made of brick (either the tallest or second tallest of its kind in Europe) and the Romanesque facade of the Duomo. Unlike the Duomo of Milan, that of Cremona solidly despises excess decoration. The majority of detail is that of a series of square columns and perfect arches - known as <i>loggia</i>. There are a few statues, but of fairly relevant types (saints, muses, gods and bishops). One could comment about the human heads adorning the columns that hold up the facade, but I'll leave it alone. The facade was built starting in the 1100s in a Romanesque style, and renovated over the following centuries in a Gothic, Renaissance or Baroque style, depending on contemporary fashion. </div><div class="p1"><br />
<br />
</div><div class="p2"><b>Day 11: Cremona to Viadana</b><br />
<b><br />
</b></div><div class="p1"><b></b></div><div class="p2">After the funereal espresso, we moved on. We escaped Cremona easily. Because of the current heat and rain the day before, the fields were steaming. Cycling involved a few dirt tracks with a whole bunch of puppies who greeted us. Our path finally crossed that of the Cycling Italy (Lonely Planet) and we decided to try the route given by the book. This dependence led us firstly along a wonderful quiet road, and secondly along an extensive wrong turning. Cycling Italy is now stuffed in the bottom of a bag somewhere - ignored and lonely. </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p2">The countryside in the northern valley fields of Italy is scattered with abandoned buildings. They're everywhere. Nearby are usually well-cared for family homes with flowering trees and manicured gardens. It's almost as if the buildings are let be because there are fewer farmers and families to fill them. People are also venturing out beyond just farming. "Agritourismo" hosts guests in exchange for work or monies and there are direct sales of the local produce. </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p2">Tootling along, we found the Po river. Biked along it and the embankments until the town of Caselmaggiore. The town annoyed us, and we needed to find water and food. That done, we moved on, with the intention of finding a place to camp for the evening within the hour. This area along the Po was built up - industry, farming, residential and recreational. The only places that were out of sight of people were man sown forests. As we reached the confluence of the Po and two other rivers, in the city of Viadana, we hit major industrial sections. The bike path began to disintegrate beneath us. It was partially slipping into the river, with cracks large enough to swallow bikes whole. Black holes of doom. I equated it to the baby-heads of skiing or mountain biking. The cracks were that large and that potentially dangerous. Bike eaters! </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p2">Finally, we decided we had gone too far. The options were to stop and search for a tent spot, or keep going with risk of darkness and lostness. Staying still seemed a good option, as the upcoming route was to take us through even more built up areas. We spent a few minutes in the sunshine, sitting on a park bench. Then, we looked around for a place to pitch the tent. Option 1 was a nearby plowed field, just off the paved pathway and beside a dog-training area. Option 2 was a slightly further away plowed field (yes, in the midst of a city), off the closed gravel pathway and closer to the road. We picked #2, as it was more secluded. </div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p2">Our selection sucked. Really, both options were bad, and we made the best of the situation. The long grass was damp and cold. The mud was hard and deeply furrowed, and so difficult to move the bikes through. We cooked inside the tent vestibule (which added to the dampness) and slept fitfully from fear, noise and the cold...</div><div class="p1"><b></b></div><div class="p1"><b></b></div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07658460730510524635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-23678407864759362442011-04-06T01:30:00.000-07:002011-04-06T01:30:24.007-07:00Hoboventure: My lane, oh!<style type="text/css">
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</b></div><div class="p2"><b></b></div><div class="p3"><b>Day 7: </b><b>Milano</b></div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">Milan is loud, it sounded like the entire city was up at 6am. I had to check my watch a few times to make sure of the time was what i was reading. The regular quiet breakfasts of usual. I wonder when or travels will take us to another. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">With the lazy morning wearing on, we packed up all our stuff headed to the bikes. Regretfully, still there. Put the seats back on and walked them to our next hotel. This time a 4 star located in what looks to be an old grand cafe. The entrance hall is full of polished red marble and gilt wood.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">Our room wasn't ready so we hunted down a park and sat on some benches in the sun. You can really tell were not from around here: no jackets, shoes off and sweating, all while the locals are still in heavy winter gear.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">After noon we headed back to the hotel, checked in and let our bags explode. The day's plan was to find a laundromat and sit in the sun catching up on our writing. This didn't go as planned. The hotel being a business hotel charges an outrageous 5 euro/hr for the internet. No internet means no maps and no idea where laundromats are or decent cafes.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">Being the intrepid travellers that we are, we asked at the front desk if there was a laundromat near by. No, was the answer. Damn, no wifi to find one and it doesn't show up in the iPhone. I was really hurting for that app my dad had suggested (hands off to you potential iPhone app writers. I be doing it).</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">So we hatched a cunning plan: find a prepaid data SIM card for my iPhone, use the myWi to share the Internet and look for one that way. No luck there either, Sissy informed me at the store that the hotel had kept both our passports to photo copy. Double damn. No options left but to look for a pay-phone and phonebook or an open wireless network, we went for another one of our long walks.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">We had just found the main shopping district when we heard a commotion from behind us. A woman yelling, a thud of a helmet, a Vespa tear off and a man in a purple shirt and fanny pack run after it. I thought the rider must have hit and run, Sissy being more observant tells me that the rider had jumped on the scooter and stolen it. What is nuts about this is that the woman was standing there holding while it was idling! The guy literally stole it from under her. Shocking to the point of speechlessness</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">We began to look for a lunch place that had wifi, found one. A pizza place, but the Apple products refused to connect. Oh well. The lunch was great, one pizza of tomato and pesto and another of cheese, sausage, and fresh basil. The bill was a bit of a surprise, take note of this when visiting Milan. You pay a seating fee, so 5 euro for the pair of us and back on our quest for a laundromat.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">We found a Vodaphone store. While I was asking questions, Sissy was using a display model and had found a street with a laundromat . We began the walk. We found the place, 300 feet from the park bench we had sat on before, and about 400 feet from our hotel. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">A nice old man waited for us to load the wash into the machine, told us to come back in an 1 hour and asked for 7euro. We paid and returned to the hotel.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">After the hour was up we wandered back to the laundromat, were informed 10 more minutes so we sat next-door at the cafe in the sun. 2 cappuccinos later and a bill of 2euro we returned to the laundromat to our fresh laundry sitting in a basket. We tipped him nicely and left for the hotel again.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">We spent the remainder of the afternoon browsing the shops having planned to see the important sights tomorrow. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3"><b>Day 8</b></div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">Tomorrow rang, and we woke up. It was a nice room, nice breakfast (with more individually sealed 30 gram nutella packages stolen), and a nice walk in the morning. We'd left the bikes locked up outside the hotel, and they were still there - regardless of the warnings of various Milanese and the scooter scenario the day before. However, riding in a new city, especially one of the busiest in Italy was not on my bucket-list. Biking in Milan is deadly. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">We walked towards the Duomo, which is overly decorated and overly sized. . Walking up to it is an effort of distraction. It is the largest and most ornate Gothic cathedral in the world. There isn't a single place on the entire building that isn't covered in a statue or artistic foliage. The roofline is jagged, because of the number of spires and carved figures poking up. Of course, part of it was covered in scaffolding. Constant restoration and reconstruction are the norm for these buildings. The inside, I'm sure is also nice, but we didn't go in. Instead we headed into the piazza and towards a colonnaded structure. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">The arcade we went into was the primo shopping section of Milan. Earlier, we meandered through the outside shopping that housed H&M, Sisley and a variety of other mass market stores. Here, in the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II were all the high fashion houses of Milan. Prada, Gucci, et cetera. The building itself was airy and light, with a simply elegant mosaic floor. The store windows were gaudy and oversaturated in Italian fashion. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">We moved on to a quick cafe stop, and then a peek into a biblioteca with a da Vinci video. Wandered laneways until we found the Castello Sforzeca: a Renaissance fortress that now houses a series of museums. We walked through it, and through the park behind. The castello is heavy and blocky - perfect for defines and living through a siege. Unfortunately, this makes it boring to look at. Again, I am sure that the inside is very nice, but we didn't go in. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">It was now the middle of the afternoon. Sadly, because of the quick planning of this trip, neither of us have had time to look up the "tourist attractions". We're getting better as we go, but in Milan we missed critical things. Both of them are da Vicni related (I am a bit of a fan-girl). One is the da Vinci museum: which was closed for the day. The other was the fresco of the Last Supper, by da Vinci. The fresco itself is falling apart, by current reports. To see it requires pre-booking weeks in advance. Next time, right? Along with opera, the museums, and shopping. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3"><b>Day 9: Milano to Crema. </b></div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">Milan is a city best known for fashion, performance arts and living the good life. Matty and I, if you haven't noticed, are a bit Scottish. We're cheap. For fashion, we spent 100 Euros on a half-dozen essentials (t-shirts, shorts, etc). For performance arts, we wandered through the free sections of a couple museums and saw the outside of the Duomo. And for the good life, we had awesome breakfasts, courtesy of the hotel (there was cake! multiple types! for breakfast! which I ate!). Basically, we spent one day relaxing looking for , and one day sight seeing. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">This morning, we were both grateful to get out of the city. Not that there is anything wrong with Milan, it's just that it was a starting point for the Italy trip, and we wanted to start. Our destination was to be Cremona, about 75kms away as the bird flies. Was to be. Why? Because it's flat. Other directions lead to the Alps, or the Appenines (which we'll have to cross at some point, but not now.)</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">We started by picking a direction. Knowing that Cremona is south-east of Milan, we started out by heading south. In a city, it rarely matters if one's direction is slightly off. The streets are so tight that even a wrong heading will sort itself out, and the right direction will be found. However, that doesn't mean one can just keep going without consequence. By the time we had reached the suburbs of Milan, we were definitely south. Not south-east. The decision was made to head eastward to try and rectify the situation. I grabbed the map, and in attempting to fold it properly, I hulked out and managed to rip the entirety in half. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">I can't even believe that this happened this morning. I am exhausted. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">First, we ended up participating in a marathon with runner and recumbant-riding amputees. Afterwards, it was bouncy traversing of narrow cobbled roads, shared with trams and cars. We ended up in some sketchy ass ghetto park, of which we had to travel 3 sides of a square to get around. We found a series of run-down allotment sheds and abandoned cow barns in the midst of multicoloured apartment blocks. Then, it was a sub-suburban McDonalds, for the wifis (which failed) and a coffee. We had about 6 minutes of good riding with the iPhone Nagivator (henceforth known as "Naggy") until it decided that a highway was the best route. To avoid the speedy road, we literally went 10 kms out of our way, through random little villages on the outskirts of Milan. We skirted the ring road highways, and saw the local trade in action. By that I mean we passed by 6 prostitutes. Um. It was a bit weird, really. They each had white plastic lawn chairs at their "station". At one point, there was a cop car who broke up a date by the side of the road. Also, I really don't think that mini-skirts (or for one, no skirts) is advisable attire in 10C. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">Even with our effort to avoid traffic, we ended up on a semi-major road. The shoulder was… existent, mostly. But was about as wide as the skull of a 4 year old child. We were getting passed within inches, there was gravel strewn across our path and the road was collapsing in place. This road took us to Lodi, as did the signs. I kept seeing signs for "Milano 27 km", which was disheartening, as it felt like we'd already gone 50 clicks. In Lodi, after seeing dozens of billboards for grocery stores (which were all closed on Sundays), we found food! Hunger and exhaustion make even the simplest foods taste fantastic - and the parking lot ground can be as couture as a tablecloth in a Michelin starred restaurant. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">In Lodi, I took the time to look at a detailed map and write down a brief regarding directions to Crema on the backroads. We knew now that Cremona was not going to be reached, and that Crema was even a fair jaunt still. Even though the SS268 (or whatever) would lead us directly there, the riding was miserable. It's far better to have a pleasant long ride than an awful short one. Well, it can be better. Until one ends up in a national park, on dry-river bed and sand pathways with an upcoming stream fording. And a bunch of skittish horses. Matt shamed me the whole way as we back-tracked. So maybe I should have listened to Naggy, but it's really annoying taking directions from a stupid phone with a stupid voice that talks all stupid like. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">The other downside to small local roads are the farms. Oh my. I think I smelt every type of poop today. I'm starting to distinguish which comes from what. We certainly know what sheep poop smells like, as we passed by a flock being herded across the street. That was just outside of the town of Prada. No jokes. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">After exiting the park, and getting away from the especially stinky farms (pigs = ewwky), there were only about 10 kilometres left until Crema. Matt looked at the tracking of our route, and proceeded to inform me that we had gone over 70 kilometres. The last distance was hard. Our knees, never in the best condition were worn out. Our bums… oh our bums! They are hurting even now. Heads, backs, hands and patience had all taken a beating. And to top it off, we needed to find a proper campsite or a cheap hotel - tomorrow it is supposed to rain. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">We headed into Crema (where I nearly got run over for the fourth time today), and found a hotel. The hotelier kindly gave us a detailed map of the region, and helped us park our bikes. He also told us that our bikes are not exactly correct for touring. Eh. He might be right, but who cares!?</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">It's raining now. But only outside. Here, we are happy and exhausted. Tomorrow will be better. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07658460730510524635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-1885271940473085462011-04-01T04:36:00.000-07:002011-04-02T12:14:16.615-07:00Hoboventure: Train to Train.<style type="text/css">
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</div><b>Maastrict to Strasbourg</b></div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3">We woke early clambered down the four flights, then packed and loaded the bikes. We had a long way to travel and Liz had another 7 kg of clothes to mail. </div><div class="p3">After waiting for the post to open, and paying through the nose, we left centrum looking for a cafe to get breakfast in. We found a nice place in front of the Maastrict train station. I was worried about all our things (securely fastened to the bikes) being left outside unattended, so we got our breakfast to go and sat on a fountain and ate.</div><div class="p4"><br />
</div><div class="p3">Back on the road, we followed the river south into the country along empty lanes and on bicycle specific tracks. About an hour after leaving we had reached Belgium. No sign, just a change of language and different bike route signs. A bit perplexed as to where to go next, we eventually figured it out. We followed the river into Vise and up a small hill to the train station. Purchased our tickets and started the task of unloading the bikes of our gear to get them down to the platform. After a brief period and some confusion as to where the bikes board the train, we were on our way to Liege. It was cheaper than the Maastrict train. </div><div class="p4"><br />
</div><div class="p3">Arrival in Liege was easy, the bikes were fully loaded, so we were able to "throw" them down the stairs onto the platform and head off. Liege has a beautiful new station, all glass and white painted steel. The sun was shining and it felt like summer. Our next train was over an hour away so, with time to kill I found a stand that sold coffee. Then we experimented with taking the bikes up and down escalators and rocked out to some sweet tunes on the iPhones.</div><div class="p4"><br />
</div><div class="p3">Back on the train, this time to Luxembourg, we were on our own to find a place to store the bikes. After training all the way through Belgium into Luxembourg, the conductor decided our bikes had to move. Ten minutes of unloading and futzing about, the bikes and gear were stowed to his liking. We think.</div><div class="p4"><br />
</div><div class="p3">This is where things got a bit hairy though. As we were approaching Luxembourg city, the train filled up and the car we were in was overflowing with people. Trying to get unloaded in just a few short minutes in these situations stress us both out. A bit excitable on exit: glasses were broken and bikes dropped, but we had arrived.</div><div class="p4"><br />
</div><div class="p3">The station in Luxembourg is an older station from the looks of it. It's currently under renovation. I didn't get a chance to look around much, we were only here for 30 minutes. There is the start of what will be, a curvy steel structure clad in glass over each platform.</div><div class="p4"><br />
</div><div class="p3">However, the journey wasn't over yet. Whilst I sat with the bikes and fussed with my bent glasses, Sissy was off sorting the tickets for Strasbourg. Again she came through and after a brief confusion as to which platform the train was leaving from, we were sitting in a proper bicycle car on a "short" hop to the French city of Metz. I say proper car because all day we had just been stuffing the bikes into the spaces between cars. These cars have spaces specifically allotted for bicycles. It's really just a hook to hang the front wheel on and a slot to jam the rear wheel into. Both bikes being incredibly heavy in the rear were easy to hook up into the top. Sissy's, being Dutch, was just too long to fit, so she had to sit crammed next to it for the journey to prevent it from sliding about and falling down.</div><div class="p4"><br />
</div><div class="p3">After we arrived in Metz, we realised the train to Strasbourg wasn't for another 1.5 hours. We headed outside, spotted a nice looking restaurant and grabbed a quick bite. The plates were huge and our bellies full. Matt wouldn't let me stay for coffee because he kept looking over my shoulder at the bikes. That, at least, was better than the previous seating arrangement, where he was twisted around searching for possible thieves.</div><div class="p4"><br />
</div><div class="p3">Back on another train, this time to Strasbourg - which sits on the border of France and Germany. We headed off the empty train, through a dark train station (it was at least 2130 by now). On the bikes, the Naggy gave us cycling instructions to get to our hotel. It sent us through the heart of town, along cobbled streets ad past busy cafes. Suddenly, the cathedral exploded into view as we turned a corner. It was lit all around, and seemed like a lone sentinel in the city. Unhindered by annoying instructions, we found the hotel. Booked in with a helpful young lady. Cooked our dinner and went to sleep. Train travelling was as exhausting as cycling. </div><div class="p4"><br />
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</div><div class="p3"><b>Strasbourg to Basel</b></div><div class="p4"><br />
</div><div class="p3"><b>Day 5</b></div><div class="p3">We took breakfast in front of the Cathedral, still as imposing as the night before. We spent a few moments getting lost in the town core, as Strasbourg has a main island and many small ones. However, through luck and engineering, we found the canal side route out of Strasbourg. In some suburb we got lost, but the handy-dandy compass gave us directions. Or rather, our lack of caring where exactly we went gave us a direction. There was a swearing and bell-dinging incident with an angry French hag driving a hatchback. After some colourful houses and abandoned villas, Matt found us a nice park that we went through for a few kilometres. The pathway was dirt, but not too rocky or difficult for our bikes. It led us to another off-road route beside a hydro-power reservoir. This one was a bit more frustrating as the effort required to keep slogging along was way more. The day was getting hot, and our breakfasts weren't providing energy anymore. Finally, the off-road portion ended at some minor village. </div><div class="p4"><br />
</div><div class="p3">After some roadside travel, and a map conference with a German man, we found another canal route. We kept finding the canal side as our journey was taking us through the Rhine Valley.To the east of us, we could see mountains rising in the haze. To the west was the Rhine itself, and then Germany and its hillside. At no point did we actually see the Rhine. The canal we followed sliced in a straight line through the countryside. Instead of having to continue turning left-right-left to go south along the roads, we only had to follow the pathway. The riding was dead easy - flat and windless; and navigation was clearly simple as well (options were to go forward, or stop). We did encounter a problem in the late afternoon. After having ridden along a paved section, we hit a hard-packed gravel stretch. The gravel turned into dirt, which turned into soft dirt and gravel. Going was tough again, and we were pooched. As we approached an official looking vehicle, we were asked to stop. In a garble of Frengerlish, the nice gents told us that the section was actually closed, and that there was a large machine further down. We may possibly have understood the "No Access Except for Official Vehicles" signs - even if they were in French; but we also may have ignored them (like many of the locals). No worries though, the gents let us pass and we exited the canal path. It was only a few more kilometres along the D468 to the next majorish town on the road. There, we played the "find the Coop store" game. Which started with following signs and ended with asking for directions. We bought our requirements (water!) and pressed onwards. After some nifty bike / farm vehicle routes, and a quick look around we found a wooded region. Twas a national park that seemed utterly abandoned. So we went into it about a kilometre, found an appropriate spot and set up camp. </div><div class="p4"><br />
</div><div class="p3">Since this was to be our first night stealth camping, every noise seemed like a park ranger. At one point, we even hid under a tree, quiet as mice, as a low flying plane went overhead. Paranoia much? Yes. All was well. We made dinner, and fell asleep - after looking up at the starry, starry night. </div><div class="p4"><br />
</div><div class="p3">Matt says he woke up a bit cold, especially at the feet. I say bully to him, I woke up at least half a dozen times throughout the night, frozen like a popsicle. Perhaps it had to do with the sleeping bags - I have a liner bag that is only meant to be used to increase the rating of an actual sleeping bag. Matt has a Dutch bag that is rated for comfort of about 10 degrees Celsius. Perhaps it had to do with the tent, which is a three-season Tarn 3 from MEC. Fantastic size (it's huge, why did you let me buy it Tara?), but not meant for hovering-around-zero temperatures. Perhaps though, it has to do with my personal thermo-regulation. </div><div class="p4"><br />
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<b>Day 6</b></div><div class="p3">Anyway, because of some personal paranoia, Matty woke up at 7 am. I'm not sure why I think he was on the lookout for people travelling to work (or that was what he muttered at me the night before). He did jumping jacks to warm up and de-thaw his shoes, proceeded to make coffee and wake me up. We were out of the campsite by nine, with no trace left behind. Good timing too, as we left the park proper (placing our garbage in the receptacle) there were 30-or-so hikers coming in. All ready with hiking poles and extra jackets. </div><div class="p4"><br />
</div><div class="p3">We rode through the continuing Alsacian farmland - past freshly plowed and fertilised monster fields. These are the types of fields that feed the world: mono-crop, machine worked, enormous sprayers. The area has probably been farmed since the dawn of mankind in the region. Now, it is perfectly flat, treeless and rockless. And kind of boring to ride by. </div><div class="p4"><br />
</div><div class="p3">This time while riding, we found the large shipping canal that runs beside the Rhine. The pathway was too difficult to ride, so we had to follow along road, the D52. Not the happiest cycling of our lives, but manageable. We meandered on and off this road throughout eh day, sometimes heading off it into villages, sometimes on a bike path. At one point, our map gave out on us, and Naggy came out. It was idiotic, first leading us through a closed park with full-on potholes doubletrack (7 clicks was enough of that), then leading us east instead of south (we ignored). We'd found the Eurovelo Route 5 the day before, and today had picked up Eurovelo 15 and 6. Compared to the Dutch routes, the signage was incomplete and difficult to understand.</div><div class="p4"><br />
</div><div class="p3">Lunch was had a bar somewhere, and consisted of a hot Alsacian sandwich - basically a baguette with two wieners and tonnes of dijon. Enough to make the back of my skull hurt. popping back onto the D468 we kept southward. The D468 kept coming back. I think we went on/off it a half-dozen times. It was going where we were going, but we didn't want to go on it. </div><div class="p4"><br />
</div><div class="p3">Slowly, we were reaching the tri-nation area, where Germany, France and Switzerland share a border at the Rhine. The last few kilometres towards Switzerland were along the Rhine and then a small canal. At one point, we met a chappie coming home from India. He'd started travelling in June, rode his bike to India, spent a while there, then flew to Zurich to train to Basel. He was now heading back home through France and the Netherlands to England. He looked thinned out from his travels - clothes hanging off him. He was well equipped with front and read Ortlieb panniers, and the matching duffle bag. Giving him our map, we wished him good travels. I hope he makes it back home happy and fulfilled. </div><div class="p4"><br />
</div><div class="p3">In Basel, we passed the imaginary border line through the imaginary customs. The train station was so annoying to find - partly because we were exhausted and broken. Basel is filled with one-way, parallel, altitude differing laneways. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">When on a slight grade with a huge rake, dude. By the bus ads, Baselworld was on. That's … nice. Train station arrival. Tickets bought. On train, gone. With an unknown 3 minute transfer in Bern. So we sat in the compartment door's stairwell. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"></span>Off, down, chicane, across, tilt, push, in, away. Another train, now to Milan. Nice clouds in the sorbet sunset, entering the Swiss Alps from the plains. A few Guiarda di Finanzia chappies with dog. We eventually got seats on this train. We dozed. Arrived in Milan and found a hotel. </div><div class="p4"><br />
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</div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07658460730510524635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-43535934471492024212011-03-29T00:25:00.000-07:002011-03-30T11:42:46.672-07:00Hoboventure: Netherlands<style type="text/css">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nieuwegein to S'Hertogenbosch</td></tr>
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Certain Hurtin', Boss.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Getting back to the LF7 was a cinch, the next day. There was a brief run in with an ambulance driver, telling us we weren't allowed on that particular road. It didn't really matter, as he told us at our turn off, and traffic was light. Besides, some of the signs are do not follow logic or convention.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">We pushed and plodded along for about an hour, until I had to eat. Breakfast was a nutritious variety of dried fruit and bread with jam. The view was of twee houses and canals and parkland. We'd already gone through a petting zoo, seen frolicking animals and children in harmony - or something. The next destination was a river-crossing. Earlier, Ww had been overtaken by a older couple out for a day trip. At one point, we saw them stop and read a sign and proceed to turn around. Moments before we reached the pathway to the ferry, they passed us in the opposite direction. We sat down at the ferry dock, and finally figured out it wouldn't run on Sundays until a week later. Poor Dutch and poor luck. Helpfully, a gentleman with a stroller told us to just head over the bridge. Ha! Bridge! my legs were not ready. It was a bit tough going - especially when the roadies blew by. There was a bit of a wrong turn (on the flats at least) and then a straight shot along the LF7 again. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">We were truly in Dutch countryside by now. There were picturesque family farms moated by small canals. Bridges were driveways, and some of the fancier (read: older) places had full moats and fortifications. We passed through fresh spring fields with bare trees and perfectly parallel canals flanking. Geese of "canadian" variety having a laze. Home brewed coffee stop. As the after noon wore on, I had to play "find the lost item". We planned a brief shortcut which ended when we made it to a functional vehicle ferry. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Across the river, we rode along a raised dike roadway with mills below. This turned into a canalside road with perfect villages. There was one more ferry to our campsite, but it was at a tiny dock with no operating boats. This being late Sunday afternoon, still in the "winter" season, there were no visitors to cater. This meant we made our own route into 's Hertogenbosch, and the campsite was not 2 km away, but another 20. Villages less perfect as we approached civilisation - that could have been the crack in the rosy lens though. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Arriving in 's Hertogenbosch we were tired. Started to followed Naggy who got annoyed with our one way roads. Again, the amount of urbanisation made finding a campground impossible. We did try by going further south, but the LF7 route was blocked by a construction zone - and honestly, the exhaustion of the day did not allow for more map navigation. We found a hippy hotel, run by a sweet family. Matt broke out our cooker, and made our first stovetop meal: traditional Dutch rookwurst and kale-potato mash. Of course there was first the scramble to find food in the deserted environment. Then sleep. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p3"><span class="s1">Just outside of the train station is a statue of a gold gilt dragon. At 6 o'clock in the evening, it shimmers particularly prettily, as it does in the morning. There are quiet treed canal streets that follow the bike routes of the Netherlands. </span>Our escape from 's Hertogenboch complete, we traversed more dutch country roads, with inhabited buildings dating form the early 1600s. Today was proving to be another lovely spring day, with a short hop to Eindhoven Centraal. Coffee, windmills, country lanes - glorious repetition. In suburbia, managed to muck away inward through some weird route. Hobby farmland in the middle of the city, then straight into a pedestrian core in the downtown, followed by a small Centraal. </div><div class="p4"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">S'Hertogenbosch to Eindhoven</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Tickets for ourselves and our bikes to Maastrict lead to our first encounter with a train and the following lostnss out of stations. Then, an ethereal voice booked us into the B&B. The room was on the top floor - with a sunset view of a gilded bell tower spire. The B&B itself faced the side of Sint Servaas Basilica. The early arrival let us have a late afternoon sunny square side snack. Sometimes there is nothing nicer than perfect atmosphere and decent food. A quick wander both before and after our actual window-sill dinner let us see other sights of Maastrict, nothing substantial though. We were to leave the next morning, with a full schedule of train travel ahead. <br />
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</div><div class="p1">We'll have to figure this travelling out eventually. Getting from town to town needs to get easier so we can enjoy and learn about what is around us. The fields of the Netherlands are a great place to start cycling. The weather is perfectly mild and the terrain is flatter than <i>pannekoeken</i>. Cycling is easy along planned routes, with adequate signage and wide clearances. Having understanding and accepting vehicle drivers helps tremendously when routes are not fully separate. Cycling itself is enjoyable and the going is easy enough to stop and look at things. So far, we've just been happy with looking outward onto the given scene. </div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07658460730510524635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-7346326376120593212011-03-27T14:33:00.000-07:002011-03-30T12:40:06.623-07:00Hoboventure....er I mean bicycle eurotrip....with Sissy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqXzP6hfgNybDSlJazgCm0RO-50wNgSxNOsBtPaNucWR3yo6UMr1yAE54TIEP9TvT6EO1u-F8nRVXmP87ogFGs3jWKp__OZ4HPui9hsaSTRRp82QQMsrI38lGmwc6KmW6HmZaqUtcJJHk/s1600/Day_one_bike_trip_2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqXzP6hfgNybDSlJazgCm0RO-50wNgSxNOsBtPaNucWR3yo6UMr1yAE54TIEP9TvT6EO1u-F8nRVXmP87ogFGs3jWKp__OZ4HPui9hsaSTRRp82QQMsrI38lGmwc6KmW6HmZaqUtcJJHk/s400/Day_one_bike_trip_2011.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">One day I'll have a better explanation for this event happening, until then, here is the current answer:<br />
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Funny story...Sissy and I had been talking about how we were feeling restless. Renting the apartment in Amsterdam was great, but we were falling back into old habits. Talking together lead to the idea of going on a bicycle adventure. "Think of how amazing it would be to slow travel Europe at our own pace. We can see what we want, sleep where we want, and relax doing it". With phrasing like that Sissy couldn't refuse. The planning started. Well "started". I knew a few things; one was we had to be in Spain for early May; we had no rides; and we wanted to tour Italy.</div><div class="p2" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">A very loose plan laid out, we began looking for ways to get our bikes over. Unfortunately for us, it is rather expensive to air freight 2 bicycles over from Canada, so we settled on purchasing a couple for the job. We both knew what we wanted immediately. I had decided that I would get a single-speed bike made locally (an engineers dream: Van Moof No. 3) and Sissy was shopping for a traditional Dutch granny bike (BSP, handmade in Holland). </div><div class="p2" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">That's about as far as we got for a while. With our friends coming to visit and 3 weeks with them traveling France and Germany, there wasn't much more planning. The real fun began after we arrived back in Amsterdam. I picked up my new bike as soon as we were back in the city, and started to ride it (with Sissy on the back) around town. Good training. Then, I was browsing the interwebs one afternoon and saw an ad for an outdoor adventure show at the Amsterdam RAI. We cleared our exceptionally busy schedule and headed there the next day.</div><div class="p2" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">The show, as you'll have read earlier, was a wealth of information. We were able to find 2 sets of panniers and a cycling map of the Netherlands. We also joined the "Vrieden op de Feits" club, that has a huge listing of cheap houses you can ring up and rent a room for the night.</div><div class="p2" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">Matty kept researching at night, coming across the Eurovelo cycling routes. These are routes that follow olde tyme pilgrimage routes. Some go to Bangladesh, some to Santiago de Compostela and Lourdes, some to Rome. We sat around the house, working on the specifics of the first few days' travels. We also bought me an orange (for the Dutch!) BSP omafietsen. Fitting the panniers was more of a problem. Mine fit fine on the granny bike, but Matty had to find a bike shop to switch over his rack for one with smaller diameter tubing. Eventually, with a second-butt, barely used Brooks saddle for me (for which I am grateful still) our bikes were as ready as they could be. </div><div class="p2" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">On Saturday, March 19th, we left Amsterdam. We packed the bikes and said our goodbyes to our roomates (Katya and Gabor, if you're reading this were alive and well, sitting in a hotel in Crema, Italy). Hopped on the bikes and attempted to pedal down the street. This didn't go so well, within a few minutes we needed to raise Sissy's seat re-adjust our packs and stop a few times. It quickly dawned on us we were overloaded and one of us may have picked the wrong bike. Oh well, I guess this is just how things go with us. There was giggling and laughter. We'll make do. We eventually made it to the point we had found earlier in the week to join the fietsnetwork, albeit slowly.<br />
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</div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">The Feitsnetwork is run by the ANVB. It is, from what I understand, it is like the CAA in Canada. They charge a small fee for a map book consisting of 20 weather and tear proof maps. The book covers the majority of the routes around the Netherlands, and lists everything a traveling cyclist would need. We had selected the LF7 to follow from Amsterdam to Maastrict. We weren't planning on going the entire way, as the Netherlands was just a warm up for the real touring.<br />
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</div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">Once on the route all we had to do was fallow the signs. It is not that easy. The signs are small and white, they are easy to miss seeing and occasionally non-existent. Only about 30 minutes into the ride and we had missed a few and ended up several kilometers out of our way. Funnily enough, we had passed by a gas station visited with Vicki and Matt on the drive to Schiphol. The reality of our situation was starting to dawn on us. We pressed on anyway and slowly got the hang of the system. We were having a blast, only one goal for the day, find someplace to pitch up a tent around Utrecht. </div><div class="p2" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z1CoTSkl-To/TY-6-JO2R0I/AAAAAAAAGBc/B4PHFEZmRO0/s1600/IMG_0697.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z1CoTSkl-To/TY-6-JO2R0I/AAAAAAAAGBc/B4PHFEZmRO0/s320/IMG_0697.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>We made great time, passing through towns and villages lining the canals. There are so many canals! In Amsterdam, the canals are like streets, and used to be the main transportation method. Out here, there are still canals, but they range in size from large industrial monsters to tiny little midget canals in backyards. There were rowers out in the river, having a regatta; fisher people cooking their catch. It was a gorgeous sunny day. I think the highlight for me was what was to be our first river crossing. We had been following a small canal for awhile when we saw a person on what looked to be a raft in the middle of the canal. As we got closer all became clear: the raft was a hand operated ferry and we would need to cross over on it to continue on our way. What a blast, Sissy and I giggled the entire way across, mainly because we'd be cracking jokes about the villages being like Hobbiton of the Shire, and now we were escaping the Black Riders.<br />
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</div><div class="p2" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">We toodles along canals, big and small until hitting the outskirts of Utrecht. The bike network routes go by the central train station, and since we had lost the LF7 at some point we headed there. The train station led us to bike signs (yes, there are specific signs with distances and directions for cycling) that took us to the LF7 again. We had to go over a large bridge - our first uphills on the bikes. We made it though, slightly out of breath and wishing for gears! We kept waiting for the urbanization to die down, but it seemed that the countryside was too far away. The light was low, and we were exhausted. The decision to find a hotel soon was made, and the iPhone Nagivator ("Naggy" from now on) came out. The only thing available in the area was a Mercure in Nieuwegein, south of Utrecht. </div><div class="p2" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">What a pain to get to! After the LF7, Naggy told us to take an overpass. That just ended. We either had to portage the bikes down 3 flights of stairs (have you ever tried holding back 60 pounds of bike?) or ride these beasts down a grassy hill after lifting them over a railing. We went for option 2. That was not to be the end of our hotel finding trouble. We next got lost in the shopping mall parking lot for a good half an hour. We fired Naggy for the moment, and used our brains. We made it to the hotel eventually and booked ourselves in. Matt's cheap streak had caused him to be a part of the loyalty program, which means we got a super discount on the room. The hotel had a restaurant, pool and sauna, all of which we planned to use. In the end, we only ate. Everything else was just too difficult. Especially after we had to clean up one of the panniers. Why you ask? Because at some point, the glass bottle of Glauwijn had exploded, soaking two pairs of shoes, my one souvenir from Paris (along with our maps!), and our cheeses. One of the water bladders also got ruined, as the millions of glass shards punctured it. How did this happen? Somebody of the male sex was being all goofy and going off curbs with his bike. He says it's because he laid it down improperly. Everything worked out though. The shoes went through a period of dampness and repair. The souvenir is slowly still drying. The water bladder is awaiting some form of sealant. And the cheeses are in my belly!</div><div class="p2" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">What a day. We went 69 kilometers (and only planned on 50)... what have we gotten ourselves into?</div>M. K. Uniachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692144554833420045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-61745364453200044032011-03-27T01:12:00.000-07:002011-03-30T12:48:15.316-07:00Third Time Lucky: Paris<div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><style type="text/css">
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<div class="p1">Surprise! "We leave for Paris tomorrow" was the battle cry; or that's how I recall it — even if thats not entirely true, or even remotely for that matter. We left the apartment at 6 P.M. sometime in late February. We picked up our train tickets and jumped on the slow train . I attempted to use some new software that would map the train route on a map, but … the map "got" deleted. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Anyway, we arrived in Antwerp after 9 P.M. It's a huge station, 4 floors of trains high, and easily a 300 m long. We exited up into the main hall. As soon as you enter the main hall you're hit by the vast size and the grandness of the hall. Everything is marble: the floors, walls, stairs, columns, etc. Where there isn't enough marble there is gold. It was late, there were men with german shepherds and funny hats, so we left. But first we had to stopped to take photos quickly.<br />
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</div><div class="p1">Immediately as you exit the station you find the zoo and chinatown. It's amazing how things can look different and sinister in the dark, even though we had been here before. Liz had a firm grasp of the direction of the hotel, so we followed it. Again, like usually happens in these cases, Liz's sense of direction failed us (again, this may or may not be what happens, but hence for this is how I shall remember it.) We tried to then use the iPhone and that failed due to the number of one way streets we had walked down. Eventually after walking circles around the Cathedral (the only thing that we knew was close by) we found out hotel. Right next to the side of the cathedral. I was woken up several times by the bells and the view was 'wall of church in drab'. In reality it was pleasant and the lady at the desk was very happy that we were Canadian.<br />
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</div><div class="p1">We spent most of the next day seeing the city, shopping for chocolate and sorting the banking things (finally!) A small city with many things to see. Instead of really taking in anything of culture, we wandered as we usually do, and debated about the "idea of going back to the land".</div><div class="p2"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-e-TU0qA79HE/TY-n751CDTI/AAAAAAAAFkc/1DoY1SHathI/s1600/IMGP4610.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-e-TU0qA79HE/TY-n751CDTI/AAAAAAAAFkc/1DoY1SHathI/s320/IMGP4610.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="p1">We left the Antwerp Central train station, which was beautiful. The station was built in 1903 and is an old Industrial revolution building. Full of vast open steel arches and glass. Inside the station was all marble and gold, more of a palace than a train station. We then headed for Brussels on the slow train. Liz and I were stared down by a group of young girls, quite awkward (especially after I waved.) Anyway, we missed our stop and then had to wait at some old broken down station that looked like something out of the Soviet bloc. We looked around and waited. 30 minutes later and we were on the next train back to Brussels. </div><div class="p2"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E2OpMDlMesM/TY-ojJ5Cu5I/AAAAAAAAFn4/B5LBt1tg0pA/s1600/IMGP4818.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E2OpMDlMesM/TY-ojJ5Cu5I/AAAAAAAAFn4/B5LBt1tg0pA/s320/IMGP4818.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="p1">We arrived at the station and got tickets for the Thalys high speed train to Paris (with 7 minutes to spare). I tried tracking the speed of the train, but my iPone can't read above 231km/h. The intranet told us we were going at 303 km/h. Extremely smooth, with hardly any wind noise. It puts most luxury cars to shame. All travel should be like this. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">We arrived in Paris as the sun was setting, We got on the subway to our stop and exited. Completely lost we wandered randomly until Liz, being fed up with the iPoop, stopped and asked where our hotel was to be found. A few minutes later we found the place, right across from St. Severin church. We ran upstairs (all the way upstairs), dropped our stuff and went out for dinner. Liz picked the place, she was very hungry and tired. A swiss styled "chalet". It was hands down the WORST meal of my life. Liz foolishly ordered mussels as an appetizer, we're still surprised she didn't get sick. She then ordered coq au vin: it was dry and could have passed for cajun by how burnt the skin was. I ordered lamb, it was a thin flank folded in half and disguised to look like whatever it was supposed to be. Neither of us could finish our meals and rushed out of there as fast as we could, feeling worse than hungry.<br />
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</div><div class="p1">The morning brought sunshine and warmth. We did our usual search for coffee and croissants and then headed out on a walk. Soon enough we were standing in front of Notre Dame de Paris. This time we went inside. It is really quite large, surprising from how it looks on the outside. Similar to the Bayeux Cathedral. We sat for a while in a park by the Louvre, around a small pond. There was a vendor renting little sailboats to children to "sail" in the pond, the kids used some sort of stick to aim the sail and off the boats went, children in tow. After having our fill of the cold, we walked a bit further to a cafe in the middle of the park. Liz ordered us deux cafes to warm us up.<br />
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</div><div class="p1">We walked parallel to the river. there is this long straight road, kilometres long. Closest is a park: flanked by some of the most expensive residences in Paris building, then grass, manicured trees and bushes, cars and people. Further in the distance you can see the Eiffel tower to the left, in the centre is the Arc with a giant French flag flying in it's centre, and just in front of it is a massive obelisk. This is the really neat object. It was stolen from Egypt and brought to France and is a complete oddity with it's hieroglyphs. Very stark compared to the decadent french architecture. This is the Place de Concorde: where a few people lost their heads over a revolutionary idea.<br />
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</div><div class="p1">The next morning we headed out on a mission to find the catacombs of Paris. With Liz leading the way, we arrived shortly after noon. Ate lunch in the line (there are only a small amount of people allowed in at a time), scammed our way in as students to save money and headed down a winding staircase. 83 steps later we hit the bottom. From what Liz tells me, the catacombs were originally a stone quarry that was taken over as a burial area years later. The passage we were in was around 2 kilometres long, although the greater area contains many more kilometres of similar structure. Although no where else in the system has the mass graves. Almost the entirety of this section is "decorated" with skeletons. Bones were moved here in 1773??? after plagues caused by decomposing bodies sickened the Parisian population. The corridors had been consecrated, and there are plaques detailing the original location of sections of bones.<br />
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</div><div class="p1">After what seemed like an endless walk we exited into fresh air. Our day went downhill from here, Liz's back was giving her trouble. But she wanted me to see Napoleon's tomb, and I the Eiffel tower, so we kept on. This would prove to be a very bad idea. By the time we reached the Musee d'Armee that Napoleon tomb is located in, Liz could barely walk. We skipped it, but she insisted she would be fine. We headed to the Eiffel tower, got to the top and then had to descend, She was in rough shape. A cab back to the hotel and an early night in was in order.</div><div class="p2"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nVZuWxEjioY/TY-qQ4F9oMI/AAAAAAAAFu0/KjRPYFFTVkw/s1600/IMGP5220.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nVZuWxEjioY/TY-qQ4F9oMI/AAAAAAAAFu0/KjRPYFFTVkw/s320/IMGP5220.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="p1">Our last day in Paris was yet another sunny day. We walked to the Musee d'Orsay. It is housed in a converted train station. It houses impressionist paintings, some that come to memory are; van Gogh, Monet, Manet, Cezanne, Renoir, Chagall and many others. Again, Liz's back was bothering her, so after 2 hours we left. We headed back to the hotel, grabbed our things and headed back to Amsterdam.</div><div class="p2"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-F4SUw2m8F3E/TY-wJ9m3JAI/AAAAAAAAFzI/VSyNJCcklBg/s1600/IMGP5274.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-F4SUw2m8F3E/TY-wJ9m3JAI/AAAAAAAAFzI/VSyNJCcklBg/s320/IMGP5274.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="p1">I'm really beginning to like France. Out of all the countries we've been to so far, it's by far my favourite. I look forward to the end of April when we should be in Provence again. </div></div>M. K. Uniachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692144554833420045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-25047958836765184842011-03-25T12:06:00.000-07:002011-03-26T16:18:38.191-07:00Road Trip: Part Seven: Germany<i><br />
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<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>The day before was Switzerlandian, Liechtensteinian, and Austrian. This day was Germanian. Specifically Bavarian. </i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The car journey to our main attraction for the day was swift and stress-free. The roads were twisty and well-signed, which helped with the fun and the navigation. Once at the main village roundabout, I got out of the car to go to the ticket office, as we had pre-arranged a tour time. After trudging around, sorting out directions and tickets, I headed back to the car. Or where I had told them to "stay". I had wanted Stinky, Binky and Winky to drive up to the closer parking lot, but I couldn't find them! A little miffed that they had moved, paid for parking in the furthest, puddliest lot they could find and left me to the wolves I flounced to the car to make the required clothing changes for a trudge up a hill. Stinky was miffed at my being miffed; Binky and Winky were probably just rolling their eyes in agitation at the ensuing kerfuffle.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-Ebo3rrfhLiM/TXtQxilWJ8I/AAAAAAAAFRA/p3PmZQk-3aM/s1600/IMGP3581.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-Ebo3rrfhLiM/TXtQxilWJ8I/AAAAAAAAFRA/p3PmZQk-3aM/s320/IMGP3581.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hohenschwangau from below</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We had to walk up a forested hillside to reach the tourist attraction. What tourist attraction? The most visited site in Germany. The form on which Disney based his ideal fairy-tale castle. The embodiment in stone of the sweeping romance of Wagner's operas. The one left unfinished by a "crazy" prince, due to his deposition and his (likely) murder. Neuschwanstein. Ludwig II signed away the sovereignty of Bavaria, ignored the plight of his people, and generally behaved in a spoiled rich-boy manner: all to build pristine domiciles in his image of perfection. Neuschwanstein was basically built because he didn't like Schwanstein (now called Hohenschwangau) as a residence, and saw it only as a summer cottage. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I'd let the pictures speak for Neuschwanstein - but I can't. Photography was disallowed. Probably so people would buy books at the shop. Matt used his breast pocket and the iPhone to capture some illicit video. And instead of describing it, I've found pictures online to show the interior <a href="http://www.neuschwanstein.de/englisch/palace/schlaf.htm">http://www.neuschwanstein.de/englisch/palace/schlaf.htm</a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-2UYPCBZVU74/TXtRRwFdyvI/AAAAAAAAFYA/vER0A_Jb-pA/s1600/IMGP3930.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-2UYPCBZVU74/TXtRRwFdyvI/AAAAAAAAFYA/vER0A_Jb-pA/s320/IMGP3930.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Neuschwanstein from the bridge</td></tr>
</tbody></table>After our half-hour tour (that was nowhere near as good as the Mont Saint Michel tour), we walked around some of the grounds. There is a bridge spanning a crevasse, that gives an unimpeded view of the castle. We crossed over it, ostensibly to see the castle (but actually to see the fog. All of us then walked a little further along a wooded hiking trail. Until Matt decided that it was too slow and uninteresting, and he headed up a goat path. I followed, you know, to be immediately available as a rescue crew when needed. Other Matt also followed, and Vicki (again with the intelligence and forethought) waited. After Matt had reached the top (and had been told to "get down from there! There is a memorial cross for a REASON!"), he and I headed back down a path - away from the cliffside. Other Matt was still hanging around, about 20 meters down from us. Last I checked, he'd curled into the fetal posish, and was scrambling down the way he'd come up, but backwards. I don't think he liked the sight of a crumbling pathway and a several hundred meter fall into rocks and water. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Neuschwanstein was followed by a car ride along the Romantic Road. Which was a bit crap in winter as most things were closed for the season. Eventually, the car found it's way onto a highway, in the direction of Munich. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">In the car we had decided to stay two nights in Munich, as everyone was a bit tired of the driving. There was no hotel booked, and no map to follow, so the annoying iPhone Nagivator came out. A combination of signs and directions led us to a hotel - which we blew right past in the car. No worries, as the area was chock-a-block of hotels. The first one actually stopped as was right behind the Sankt Paul Church. Since it had an agreeable price, location and room, it was taken. We unloaded the car - which was becoming harder and harder the more crap (sorry! "stuff") acquired - and trudged to the hotel rooms. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lucian and Matt</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Later that night, Matt and I met up with Lucian, a relative of Matt's through Grandma Joan. Matt is making noises about secondary removed cousins twice again something something. I don't know familial relation terms like that - I don't have double first cousins :-P. Lucian gave us info on the subway, then took us to dinner in a packed brewery/restaurant. The food was excellent and included duck, deer, pork and chicken (from what I remember). The beer was also great - even I managed to drink ¾ of a pint. It was housed in the cellar of a building, with copper stills and biersteins serving as functional decoration (the place was making and serving bier!). </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">After dinner, Lucian took us around to see some of the sights of Munich. He took us by the Neues Rathaus with its dancing clock (the Glockenspiel); showed us the uneven towers of the Frauenkirche - of which no building is to be taller than; took us past the Opera building and the ex-Royal Residenz (which was covered in scaffolding which themselves were covered with silk-screened sheets of the facade); through the drunkard-packed Hofbrauhaus with it's locked up personal biersteins; past one of the three city-gates (I want to say Sendlinger Tor, but I could be wrong); and generally around and about the central district. Lucian helpfully explained much about Munich, some of which I think I remember even now. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Neues Rathaus</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Matt and I remembered enough thought to take Vicki and Matt around ourselves. We got a bit lost, but found the recommended shops (such as Manufactum and the neighbouring food emporium) and saw the Glockenspiel dance at noon. Later that night, Lucian collected all four of us, and took us out again! This time for Chinese. Another, different tour ensued. When he took us through the Hofbrauhaus, it was packed with tourists, a band, and the regulars (in traditional Bavarian garb). Somehow, Lucian, Strentse, myself and Vicki (in that order) were invited to sniff snuff. Never Again! Later on (or perhaps beforehand) we passed a memorial to Michael Jackson (in front of the baby-dangling hotel); a different shopping district with police and a brass boar; and into a cafe for a late-night coffee. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-G7WVD8SeKWM/TY5eY4AvFlI/AAAAAAAAFek/6w5fZIe0Mxw/s1600/IMG_2872.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-G7WVD8SeKWM/TY5eY4AvFlI/AAAAAAAAFek/6w5fZIe0Mxw/s320/IMG_2872.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is your brain on snuff</td></tr>
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We left the next morning for a drive straight back to Amsterdam. It was fraught with leaving-things-behind (my hanky :'-/ ), traffic snarls, wrong turns and general "driving sucks" moments. We made it back to A'dam and sat down. Seriously. We were all tired. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>You know what happens after this. Victoria and Matthew look around Amsterdam. Victoria and Matthew pack their bags and take one of ours. Victoria and Matthew are driven to the airport. Victoria and Matthew get on a plane to Montreal and a train to Ottawa. Matt and Liz get to sleep in their own bed! The End. </i></div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07658460730510524635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3260796385126834019.post-25470015570018574542011-03-18T10:52:00.001-07:002011-03-18T10:52:50.584-07:00Road Trip: Part Six: Austria<style type="text/css">
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<div class="p1"><i>Switzerland, Liechtenstein and Austria all in one day. </i></div><div class="p1"><br />
</div><div class="p1">All of Austria was passed through in the dark. By the time we had gone through the border crossing, dusk was setting in. It had again been cloudy and foggy most of the day, and the night was not going to be an exception. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Driving through Switzerland and Liechtenstein had been along the foothills, other than a few incursions over some mountain passes. Driving across Austria was up and down twisty roads or through 5 kilometre long tunnels. It wasn't wasted time, driving in the dark. It gave us a view of a few lit up hillside fortification castles and ruined walls, lending an atmosphere of fantasy to the drive. In one hairpin of the road sat an old inn, overlooking the valley. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">According to a roadside sign, we had entered the Tirolian Mountains. Unfortunately, we had entered behind a series of slow trucks and micro-cars, and ahead of some locals and speedy transport trucks. The occasional jerk passed the building queue, regardless of the falling snow, the blind corners and the steep slope. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">After going down the backside of whatever we had gone up, we neared the Austrian-German border. Because we could, we had decided to stay in Austria. On the night of separate hotels, I had messaged Matt and Vicki with a couple hotel options, and the instruction to book upon agreement. By Pflach, our destination, no one could remember the name of the guesthouse. Of course, this meant no one knew the address. We found it through sheer force of will. The guesthouse overlooked the quiet rail line and main road of Pflach. It was a bit horror-film, with the settled fog minimising the field of vision. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">The next day, we stayed for a great breakfast, eaten in a dining room. Matt noticed a hotel bill from 1921, and I saw old photos of the site. Now, there are a main house and two outbuilding of rooms. Before, it was just a farm house. Whatever else it is, it is close to our next destination, Germany. </div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2"><i>Next Installment: German crazy castle; Munich. </i> </div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07658460730510524635noreply@blogger.com0