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Talking of little shops...
I was walking past the shoe repair shop the other day thinking to myself...How cute... Who would have thought shoe repair shops still existed?? (*)
And then I noticed the poster on the door of the shoe repair shop.
Boys and Girls - Do you recognize the lady in the poster?

Yeah – you got it... Liza is coming to Town! And giving one concert next week!
Now guess who got himself a ticket??

You know what they say – see Roma and die... Once you have seen Rome- it's like you've lived a full life. Well I guess the same can be applied to Liza. They are roughly the same age, both a bit of a wrack, but I bet they will both be around way after we're all gone.


(*) After I wrote that comment about the shoe repair shop, I remembered that there is one in Paddington too. Just up the street from my place... Oh well..

My Neighbourhood (Part 1)

So I think it's time I take you on a little tour of where I live in Rome.
I am not going to put any pics of my apartment since it is currently in a state of mess, but you can check it out on the original web site.
It is just as cool in real life, and actually feels like someone put their own taste into it, rather than just hit IKEA.

It is on a little street that goes straight towards the Rome Botanical Garden. When I say little street what I mean is a street that cab drivers refuse to drive into because it will take them ages to reverse.
And this, ladies and gents, is my building. The window with the ivy is my bedroom window!

Right next door is some big building I hardly even noticed... Well, apparently it is some famous pallazo that was built by some famous Italian a few hundred years ago, and had frescos by Raphael and all sorts of other famous people. I couldn't really be bothered checking it out, but here's a quick pic of the entrance.

The neighbourhood is called Trastevere and is right on the river. It is very old and charming and full of tiny little alleyways. And because it is so Italian, it is where every self respecting tourist will go to have dinner and drinks at least once.


This also means that it is peppered with little restaurants and tratorias and osterias, and bars and cafes and pizzerias and gelato places.
The other thing is has is hundreds of little random shops. The shoe repair shop, and the fruit&veg shop and the local barber and a bunch of tobacconists. Tobacconists are the backbone of Italian economy I think. They are where you get all those little things you can't get anywhere else - stamps, and bus tickets and top-up cards for your phone.

*** TO BE CONTINUED ***

Me and (B&W) Celebrities

Just thought I'd post these pics from the restaurant in Bologna, where I had lunch the other day.
It has been there since forever and every inch of wall space is covered with signed pics of famous Italians who have dined there over the years. Didn't recognise any of them (apart from Sophia... Good old Sophia, you can always count on here to show up for some home made tortellini).

Phones (Again)

So I thought getting a Spanish SIM card was difficult. I had no idea what it's like to get one in Italy.
Let's start with the fact that mobile shops in Italy are chaotic. There's always a huge line (think RTA during lunch break in the city) – you need to take a number and wait and wait and wait.
Then there's the opening hours. They may be selling high tech gizmos, but they are very very conservative with their opening hours. And in particular they all seem to take their siesta between 1:00 and 4:30 PM. I mean technology is all well and good, but still they all have to go home for mom's pasta!
Now, once you get to actually speak to someone, you find out that you need a fiscal code to get a phone here. What's a fiscal code? Good question – it's the Italian equivalent of the Aussie TFN, a tax file number.
I was beginning to feel a bit weak at the knees - imagining myself at the Italian Tax Office (*shudder*)... But all was not lost - there was a silver lining of sorts.
The silver lining is that getting a TFN is a piece of cake. You just need to go online, put in your name and date and place of birth (I put ROMA, because they only accept Italian cities) and it spits that code at you right then right there. It's not much of a code really. It's pretty much a combination of your name and date of birth... I could probably have just made it up...
Anyway, once you do that you go back to the shop, wait in line yada yada yada then complete a form, and then wait 48 hours for someone to type that form into a computer and ta-da... You're all set and ready to go.
So yeah – They may have the best pizza and coffee, but Italian red tape gives a bad name even to red tape.

Pizza

Went for a stroll and decided I should have a pizza for dinner. I mean – that's a no-brainer on your first night in Italy, no?
So I walk down the little dark streets and then see this hole-in-the-wall Pizzeria with about 500 people gathering around it, ordering, waiting for or eating their pizzas. None of them looked or sounded like a tourist, so I decided that place can't be that bad.
It was a very familial affair. The dude's job was to stretch the pizzas, then his wife (I assume. Maybe his part-time lover) would ditch her post at the cash register and do the whole topping thing while he does, well, nothing, then she gets back to taking orders and he puts them all in the oven and starts working on the next round.
In my infinite wisdom I thought it would be a good idea to order a spectacular pizza, so while everybody was ordering the simple stuff, I went for something a little extravagant.
Not a smart move.
The minute I grabbed the first slice, the entire extravaganza slipped right off it, leaving me with nothing but the (perfectly crispy) crust. I had to develop a pretty sophisticated enveloping strategy to deal with the rest of the pizza, attracting the attention of pretty much every single Italian person in the area. I actually think they saw it coming, so all eyes were on me for the entire time. Was probably the cultural equivalent of eating Vegemite with a spoon.
Oh well, learn something new everyday. It's back to basic pizzas tomorrow.

Blast from the Past

I didn't have the time or inclination to do a proper hotel research for Bologna, and booked the Starhotel which seemed pretty nice. Well, it is nice. And very central and all.
A bit of a shock.
It sorta took me back to the times where I was still employed and had to travel for work and stay in the standard business hotels. You know – the cookie-cutter type. Dark timber furniture. Standard bathroom. Standard TV. Outrageously priced internet.
Not sure I can put my finger on it, but in the last 5 months that I have been on the road- everywhere I stayed was, well, different. Some places cooler than others. Some newer, some older, some not so awesome even. But it has been a LONG LONG time since I stayed in a standard business hotel.
Nothing wrong with it (apart from the overpriced internet) – it just made me realise....

Italia!

By Sunday morning it was cold and rainy, I had a nagging cough and a sniffly nose and I was well and truly ready to get out of London.
The cab driver had some hearing issues and took me to the wrong train station (lucky me! I noticed the nasty plot not too late), so by the time I got to Gatwick I was significantly poorer (17 Pounds for a train to the airport?? I mean SERIOUSLY!. Not to mention the 15 Pounds for the cab...) and a bit on the cranky side and very very ready to leave.
Flight to Bologna was uneventful. The gentleman next to me tried to be funny way too many times (“have you got spaghetti bolognese.... because we're going to Bologna you see” isn't that amusing the fourth time you hear it...) but other than that no complaints. The airport is the size of a large fridge, which is awesome – 12 minutes and I was out of there on my way into town.
And let me tell you - nothing like a 3 Euro ride into town to restorer one's trust in public transport, after a week in London.

The C Word

Had breakfast with Will, and then decided to head into town while he does something about all the sleeping hours he's been missing.
I get to the station only to find out that it is shut for trackworks or something.
Not to worry. I go outside and head to the bus station to hop on the bus going to Victoria. The bus arrives, I'm being cautious and ask the (slightly male-looking, yet female) driver if this line goes to Victoria, she says yes, so I get on the bus and off we go.
Then she chucks a U turn and starts heading in the other direction. I assume it is just a special bus shortcut but she keeps driving and we are getting further and further.
So after a couple of stops I go back and ask her if we are going to Victoria. She says (no prizes for whoever guesses...) NO.
I say “but I asked you just 10 minutes ago!!”, to which she replies “yes, well this line does go to Victoria, but you should have taken the bus in the other direction”
Will claims all London bus drivers, without exception, are C***s. Can't argue with that.

ROFL revisited

I told someone about the cough syrup thing, and St Blaise, and while he found it a bit amusing, he was definitely not ROFL. Or surprised even.
Apparently some people have a more rounded education than others. And some people actually do take their saints seriously.

ROFL (*cough*)

London left me with an annoying cold and a nagging cough.
Damn English weather!
Anyway, I thought it would be smart to go get some cough syrup, so grabbed my Italian phrasebook and headed to the local chemist.
I half used the book, half did charades... only to have the lady behind the counter say in perfect English "so you need something for a chesty cough, do you?"
She was actually what you would imagine an Italian pharmacist to be, if you were (say) in the adult entertainment industry. Long legs, long shiny black hair... the works.
Anyway, I get the syrup, and then she says... "you might want to go and light a candle to Saint Blase... It can't hurt". I probably looked confused enough for her to explain to me that said Saint Blase is the patron saint of sore throats!
And I had no idea!
Wasn't sure if she was serious or not, but checked good old wiki and she was absolutely right.
So here goes... This is what anyone with half a brain should say when he has a bit of a throat thing... "Per intercessionem Sancti Blasii liberet te Deus a malo gutteris et a quovis alio malo."

Or in English... May God at the intercession of Saint Blaise preserve you from throat troubles and every other evil.

Learn something new everyday. I wonder who's the patron saint of sore feet...

How Many Oysters is TOO MANY Oysters?

Couldn't resist the 20 oysters for 13 Euros promo in 0ne of the nice restaurants here.
Oysters were great, but around the 13-14 mark I realised why you normally don't get more than a dozen.
At around 18-19 it became a bit of a struggle.
So yeah, I don't know if 20 oysters is too many oysters, but it's pretty darn close!

The Aquarium

Everybody kept telling me I have to go see the aquarium in Valencia.
It's apparently pretty amazing- the biggest one in Europe or something like that.
But when I got there, there was a HUGE line- which was made worse by the fact that every single person in the line (but me) had at least one kid. Most of them under three, most of them crying.
It was hot and sticky and I decided to forget about the whole thing. Yes, yes, I know it's a must see and all, but i still haven't been to the Sydney aquarium. I thought it made more sense to start closer to home.

While on the subject, the design of the entire area looks like the designer saw the Sydney Opera House, said "I want that, just more"... Or am I only imagining it?

Rip Off

There is this museum in Sitges with a couple of very old cars at the front. I had a couple of hours to burn before it was time to take my train and I thought a car museum would be a fun way to pass it.
Well no.
The place, the entire house, is this huge DOLL collection. Hundreds and hundreds of them. And I am not talking barbies here – I am talking the antique doll type with the huge creepy head and kinda scary face. It has to be the very bottom of the list of things I'm willing t pay money to see.
Wasn't impressed.

Celebrating the Virgin

Salamanca is a pretty city with historical significance (not exactly sure what) and a very pretty main square. It also has millions of students from all over Europe studying there. Or at least that's what their parents think... In reality they seem to pass the time drinking and smoking at the main square, to which I say “why not”.
Apart from that it is pretty small and has the potential to be pretty boring.
I think.
However, when I as there it wasn't boring at all thanks to the local festivities of the Virgin (not sure what Virgin exactly they were celebrating... I'm Jewish... We take virgins for granted...).
The core of the festival is the entire town comes out at night. There are shows and concerts etc at the main square. And what's even better – they have this thing where most restaurants in town erect their own stands in the little streets around the plaza mayor, where you can get your tapas AND a beer (or wine) at a standard rate of 1.80 Euros.
Not sure how it is all related to the Virgin (or even if the Virgin would approve) but as you can imagine it's all a pretty pleasant affair. Less than 10 Euros and you are pretty tipsy, pretty well fed and all in all pretty about the whole Virginity thing. I didn't even mind the Spanish music.

Getting a Spanish Phone!

You'd think that you could just walk into a shop, pay money and get a local SIM card for your phone.
Well, you'd be wrong.
There's this registration process that needs to take place. You need to produce a government issued ID and the nice gentleman behind the counter needs to enter all that info into his system (takes forever – the nice gentleman takes his job very seriously and is not SUPER SHARP) and then... well then you can pay and get the card.
Now the reason I am telling you all this is that I just happened to look at the output of everything he entered, and thought it's worthwhile sharing.

Let's start with the fact that the kangaroo on my driving license (together with the word AUSTRALIA) didn't make anything click. I am registered as an American.
My date of birth is September 19, 1990. (No idea where that date came from, doesn't appear anywhere on my license).
But the best part is my name. In the Spanish Telecommunication Police records I appear as Mr ALEXANDER PADDINGTON.
I couldn't stop laughing (out loud!) for about 25 minutes...

Does Anyone Even Read This?

If you do - apologies for the lack of update. It's a combination of blogger being either down or malfunctioning for 50% of the time, and of me not having the internet in my current apartment.
It's very cute and very Roman, but not really connected in a 2008 way. More like 1958... You want something - just yell loud enough and the old lady in the corner shop will get it for you.
I did manage to identify a couple of startegic street corners where I can hijack unsuspecting wi fi, and also found that I can connect to the network of Santa Maria in Trastevere church down the road...
The blog may be skipping a bit backwards and forwards from now on, but I reckon if Quentin Taratino can do it, so can I.