Taxi! Smettere di essere uno strano uovo e concentrarsi sulla strada!* (Napoli, 23-27 April 2009)

Bustling, chaotic, anarchic Naples.  Jewel of Italy’s south.  Birthplace of at least three popes and a couple of kings and queens.  Sacked and invaded by the Goths, Byzantines, Normans and other long-forgotten races in times immemorial since its founding during the 8th century BC.  Glorious, romantic, dilapidated Naples.  Its history and virtues recounted and extolled by countless poets, writers, artists, bards and troubadours throughout the ages.  The subject of many a cautionary tale (“watch your bags – the city is full of pickpockets!”, “oh, and watch out for the mafiosi too!”) and of Northern Italy’s scorn (“it’s dirty – get out of it as soon as you can!”).

We stepped off the plane onto the tarmac of Naples airport, the Italian morning sunshine making us blink as it slowly thawed our English-spring frozen bones.  The April air was heavy with the scent of spring – common enough in Europe at this time of year – but deliciously overladen with the ripe, sultry lusciousness only found in a city of the south.

But despite the weight of history, of legend, of Hollywood myth, where would Naples (or Italy) be without its food, coffee, shopping, mad taxi drivers and peacocking males?  Or, in other words, where would Italy be without those things driving three girls to the Continent for  a weekend of fun?

Ich Bin Ein Doughnut* (Berlin, 16-19 June 2009)

Seven years of living in Europe and I’d not once made it to Germany.  And I had concluded that for all intents and purposes, I probably never would, unless an occasion demanded it.

“But you can’t leave Europe without seeing Berlin,” a friend exclaimed, aghast.  “Berlin is awesome.”

I was unconvinced.  Germanic food had never really appealed.  During visits to Vienna and Salzburg, I had initially attacked the gulasch, sachertorte, sauerkraut and apfelstrudel with gusto.  But prolonged consumption of dumplings, stew and offal had left me nauseous, plump and err… longing for a Marks & Spencer salad.  And a country known for punctual trains, dour burly, efficient folk (permit me the stereotypes, please!) and the shrill synthesized electronic beats and heart pounding bass of techno was quite the antithesis of my ideal café (con leche/au lait/latte)-quaffing people-watching foodie-fuelled break in one of the laidback, emotionally volatile Continental nations.

Still, there was that undeniable slice of history that Berlin inhabited.  I’d been fortunate enough to visit Moscow, St Petersburg, Vienna, Paris, Versailles, Rome, Budapest, Prague, Amsterdam and London, of course.  It was time to venture to the Bundesrepublik Deutschland.

Bellini-esque: Intro – Venice 3-6 May 2007

Beauty. Art. Achitecture. Faded glory. The city where Robert Browning died. Where Byron kept his fiery mistress Margarita Cogni. A striped shirted man standing at the rear of a gondola, belting out an aria as he steers the craft through a picturesque, narrow canal while his charges, a couple, canoodle. An unpleasant watery stink. Titian. Caneletto. Pigeons.

Venice means many things to many people. To my father, who visited during the honeymoon with my mother some two decades ago, it meant amazing food. To my housemate, the city would be full of Americans believing they were being faah-bulous in flouncing about far from home, in a city so steeped in history and culture. To a single friend, it would be a ground hog day Valentines’ Day fiasco, a city to be strenuously avoided unless one was with a lover. To a colleague, getting lost in its maze of lanes was one of life’s greatest pleasures. Yet another person hoped it wouldn’t be a chocolate box city, full of tourists and locals catering to them, but with very little real work being done.

Superb (Overheard) Conversation

Standing in line to enter Château Versailles on our second visit (more on why later), it became evident that terrorism’s arm had stretched far enough to permeate even this touristey outing to the Sun King’s domain on an overcast, muggy September Sunday afternoon. My idle musings on various means and methods of annihilating all who stood before me in the ever-increasing queue was interrupted by a piercing (American) female voice.

American Lady 1: Why does Osama hate us so much?

American Lady 2: Well, honey, you have to understand – he’s an extremist. Oh by the way, that’s a lovely jumper you have on.

Fact – more comical than fiction, non?

Cheese eating warmongers (Le Marseillaise translated)

A French friend remarked after the France/Portugal match that she had never heard the Marseillaise sung as many times before as during the match.  As an Australian who belted her little lungs out singing Advance Australia Fair (followed by the dolourous God Save The Queen) every morning during school assembly, I found this quite bizarre.

From high school french, I recalled (possibly conjured!) a reference in the fourth verse to the crushing of Teuton heads but thought that verse was no longer sung.  She explained that no, even the first verse spoke of ’sowing fields with blood’.  Noice.  Le Marseillaise had also, apparently, in recent times, been hijacked by the more rightwing and xenophobic elements of French society.

My curiousity piqued, I did a bit a digging.   No reference to Teuton head crushing but lots of references to tyranny, slavery and erm… war.  In comparison, Advance Australia Fair with its talk of ‘golden soil/and wealth for toil/our home girt by sea’ is positively coma-inducing.  But it’s all context isn’t it?  Le Marseillaise was originally a marching song and its rousing (and catchy!) tune befits a battle song for a nation forged by blood.  As opposed to an anthem which… er… was not!

For the Wikipedia entry containing the lyrics en francais et anglais, click here.