The carnival is over (Venice)

Yes dear reader, I am aware that I have used this title before but in this instance I have no choice but to recycle. The reason will become apparent as you read on.

I struggled to get the day underway. It was much easier to stay in bed and doze, but this is our last proper day in Venice. Tomorrow, Tuesday is a transit day from here to Rome airport for the night flight to Abu Dhabi and then on to Sydney.

There are still things that we have to do in Venice, although I'm not sure we would feel compelled to return. Today we planned to see some more of the Biennale exhibits and visit the Correr Museum (and not get lost). Well, as Meatloaf sang, 2 out 3 ain't bad.

It was another perfect day, blue skies, no cloud, slight breeze to keep the temperature down and negate the impact of the humidity. We had our usual breakfast downstairs at our local in the Campo and walked down the alley to the main walk along the canal. From there we turned towards the Venetian version of the botanic gardens, the Giardini Pubblici, except they hold the major Biennale exhibition there.

Lifestyles of the rich and famous, Venice style.

I'd like to say that it was pleasant morning's walk, but it wasn't, at least to commence. Flooding toward us was tour group after tour group, literally. They covered, in places, the entire expanse of pavement. Group after group, slavishly following their leader's little elevated rag on a stick. Disregarding any of the niceties of pedestrian behaviour such as keeping to the right. On one bridge we were forced to wait until they had passed because to attempt a crossing could mean being swept in the other direction and being lost in Venice forever.

I think he could do with a scrub and a weed.

It would appear that many of the marauding groups are day trippers. Yes the most dreaded and feared of all tourists. They arrive in swarms by boat, disembark and locust-like sweep all before them, making noises like the ring wraiths in Lord of the Rings. Anyway, we dodged them, and in a few short minutes were out the other side, boats and groups behind us, into a gentler, quieter part of Venice.

We walked slowly, with sufficient space to outstretch my arms should the mood take me. And it did. Down the Cal Garibaldi and into the gardens where there is an interesting fountain. Interesting only for its inhabitants, a couple of very large koi carp, some goldfish and many turtles. They are red-eared sliders, apparently an introduced species.

The entrance to the park, beyond the fountain, is a wide, tree-lined walkway dotted with benches for people to sit and chat in the shade. A very pleasant place to meet your friends. We walked the length of this boulevarde onto the the boardwalk that runs next to the sea. The vista of San Marco was very different from what we were used to and provided a better picture of the vision the original founders had of Venice. We wandered slowly, enjoying the lack of people and arrived at the entry point for Biennale. What we had thought would be random sculptures, works and installations scattered throughout the gardens was actually a series of permanent exhibition halls - closed Monday. Today is, of course Monday. Much like Mark Twain musing on golf as a "good walk spoiled" we felt the same. We turned for home.

Graffiti on a statue in the park. Christians share a different view.

Back home, we sheltered from the early afternoon sun because it can be very strong. Feeling rested and brave enough to battle the crowds again, we ventured out to get some cash and then to the Correr Museum. It was close to the apartment just at the other end of San Marco Piazza and there was an auto teller there as well. To reinforce my notion that it was almost time to head home, I joined the queue at the auto-teller only to realise that I hadn't brought Jayne's card. No problem I'll use mine and reached for my phone, also at home. Oh well, to the museum. We were walking up the stairs to the museum when it occurred to me that I had also left the camera at home. Really? Where was my brain?

The Correr, like the Accademia had a standing exhibition of renaissance era art works as well as a modern exhibition. It also had older works dating back to the Etruscan, Mesopotamian and Egyptian civilisations. Even Jayne commented that there are only so many religious paintings you can look at, so the camera was not really missed. They also had another interesting painting by Hieronymus Bosch, a Dutch painter we had seen at dell' Accademia. Critics talk of his detailed work and blending of creatures to create a bizarre hybrid. He obviously had a significant influence on the work of Monty Python cartoonist Terry Gilliam. Bosch' work is either influenced by drugs or he is just plain weird.

The modern exhibition was by Shirin Neshat, an Iranian artist who presented a photographic series and an interesting short film called Roja. The film explores the concept of longing for homeland and opens with a shirtless male figure miming the words of The Carnival is Over that is being sung by a female. Hence today's title. In the credits it states that the song is a Russian folk song from the 1880's and was only translated into English in 1965 when it became the signature for Australian folk group, The Seekers.

Venice has a tower with a lean  as well

One the way to the museum, one of the spruikers from a restaurant around the corner asked if we wanted a drink. I told him we would come in on the way back and we dropped in to have our first aperol. Quite a refreshing drop it is too. It was, like many of the restaurant/bars over here, relatively small, but it had an extensive menu so we thought we would come back for dinner. Before that, there was one last bottle of wine to be finished on the altana.

It was much funnier than the picture shows

Later in the evening we heard what was more than the usual sound of the gondoliers from the canal below. Jayne was surprised to look out the window and see a gondola coming from the opposite direction to what they usually travel. There was a line of gondolas heading in the usual direction down to the Grand Canal and one lone, brave gondola going against the traffic. We had assumed it was a one-way street. Certainly this man heading in the wrong direction was causing major issues and was getting a serve from every gondolier that rounded the corner. Part of the problem was the blind corner that needed to be negotiated. The number of people on the bridge increased as did the people watching from windows. The embarrassed passengers didn't quite know where to look, although at one point the female passenger looked towards our window and I gave her the thumbs up - which she returned with a rueful smile.

We cannot understand how this rogue gondolier managed to come the wrong way down the canal - the gondolier fraternity seems pretty tight - could even be a generational thing. The services run in very defined segments of the canal - it does not seem like you can just go wherever you like - you hire, you get on board, you are paddled around a specific canal route (serenaded or not depending on how much you are willing to pay) and then you alight.  Jayne wondered if this was the beginnings of the invasion of Uber gondolas in Venice? That would be a fascinating battle!

Dinner was pretty good - again. The food has been pretty wonderful from start to finish. Last night a caprese salad and calamari followed by lasagne and pizza. I dreamed of my bike last night because I think I need the exercise to help remove some of the excesses of the trip.

This will be our last post for a while, as I tap away at the keys we are on the Frecciarossa to Rome to transit to the airport and then Sydney. Next time I write to you dear reader will be from home in Redfern.

None shall pass (Cinque Terre)

Part of the reason we had to catch the train.

We both struggled to get out of bed this morning after another disrupted, hot night. It's our last day in Cinque Terre and we are going to visit Manarola. The only town we won't have been to is Corniglia. The 377 steps up to the town from the railway station have effectively ruled it out. We would have happily walked to Manarola - less than a kilometre from Riomaggiore, but the Via Dell'Amore is part of the Azzurre Sentiere that has succumbed to nature and, to quote Aesop Rock, "None shall pass!" (I apologise for the white-boy hip hop, particularly since he misquoted Gandalf anyway).

The usual breakfast, double espresso, OJ and pastry helped get us going. The ticket machine at the station was a possible hurdle. There are only two machines and they are very slow and perhaps not so easy to operate because the queues the other day were monumental. I thought I'd purchase tickets online but the site would not allow me to buy tickets for the morning, so the machines it would be.

Predictably there was a line up at both machines. Equally predictably we had only 10 minutes to catch our train and the next one was a 30 minute wait. The machines are slow because they want to talk to you, to warn you about pick pockets, to ask you to verify your selection and they offer a ticket for one way only and you need to repeat the entire process to get a return ticket. These would not be tolerated on the Metro, the Tube, the New York subway, or even Redfern station ...

The happy owners of two tickets each, we ran down the tunnel to the platform as the train was arriving. I tried to validate the tickets before I got on board, and think I managed to validate two out of four, but this could wait until Manarola. Thankfully the train was a little late - TrenItalia, late, who'd have thought it? Well, it worked in our favour today.

Manarola, a postcard photo

Looking towards the harbour

As I said, Manarola is less than a kilometre from Riomaggiore but since the track is closed, the only access is by water ferry or train. I suppose you could follow the road up and over the mountain but that would be far more than a kilometre and would take a lot more energy than the train.

Manarola is similar to Riomaggiore in that it is carved into the side of the mountain, it has a small harbour and many colourful buildings. There were the usual tourist stores selling over-priced merchandise, bars, restaurants and of course, a church and tower. It appeared to as that it was like the other towns we visited yesterday, far more crowded than Riomaggiore. There were the usual, ubiquitous tour groups, slavishly following the rag on a stick and plenty of other people pouring away from the station to the village itself. The flow of humanity headed for the water and then thinned somewhat as people were distracted by food and drink. The more determined tourists walked around the edge of the harbour towards the blue track. The water looked very inviting although, not knowing what to expect, we had not come equipped for swimming.

Looking up hill.

We thought we should have our regular rest and beer even though we hadn't walked far today to really earn either. The usual problem prevailed, the bars closer to the water were packed and the ones a little further away didn't serve draught beer. So, it was back home for refreshments.

Today we went further up the hill to Bar Centrale. Now I'm not criticising the speed of the service, but I did see two couples leave before placing an order and there was a skeleton sitting in the corner of the outdoor seating area with a bony finger raised perhaps to call the wait staff. Indeed, it took us petitioning three different wait staff before one could manage to provide us with il conto so we could pay and be on on our way. We also noted our 19€ was still sitting where we had left it on our table as we walked past 5 minutes later, having purchased some wine for our afternoon happy hour. Very trusting or relaxed people, the Italians.

Bar Centrale was however a great place to people watch and Jayne enjoyed watching the postal workers trying to deliver parcels. Unload the truck. Load the trolley, check the address, disappear into the crowd, return 15 minutes later with the parcels. Place them back on the truck, select a new parcel. Repeat. It was cause for celebration when a worker returned empty-handed.

The shirtless brigade continue to amuse. One guy turned up for lunch sans shirt. How do you think that would go down in Sydney say at Barangaroo or the Opera Bar? Not so good I suspect. Mind you, if I had a body like the one today, I would take my shirt off too. Sadly, though, in my experience, those who generally remove their shirts would be best to keep them on.

Now THAT is a handbag ... or is it a re-purposed wedding dress?

We are relaxing on the balcony listening to the waves and the sounds of Riomaggiore pre-dinner. You would know of my deeply entrenched love of all things Austen dear reader, her focus on the minutiae of life, all that bores me stupid. Well, I firmly believe we are there again. The current generation of selfie-takers, documenting their every move (I hope not movement), surely has surpassed her mindless commentary on balls and match-making. We just watched someone lean out of their window and take a photo of their bottle of beer. Admittedly it was an Italian beer, a Moretti, but really ... imagine slide night at his house on his return to the UK (yes, I'm profiling) and here is a picture of my first beer in Riomaggiore with the harbour in the background, and here is the beer I had at breakfast, and, oh, this one is great, here is the beer I had sitting on the stairs when I was too drunk to walk to the apartment. Seriously! What is that!

Coming to UK bookshops: "The beers I have consumed with picturesque backgrounds".

We may never pass this way again (Cinque Terre)

And so today Jayne went, what, in Australia, we would call bushwalking. More on that later, but I'm still laughing, in a supportive way. It certainly gave us today's title, a nifty little number by Seals and Croft from 1973. They are not a patch on Australia's only true, legendary R&B band, Stylus, ahhh, much love from the '70s.

They say, whoever 'they' are, that New York is the city that never sleeps. Well, perhaps 'they' are not so well travelled, because Riomaggiore definitely does not sleep. We pulled stumps around 11:30pm and they were still kicking on and I heard them into the morning. Mind you, they sleep a little later, but only a little. The bottle bins were being emptied at first light. It was like the recycling truck out the front of our house in the old days when they only did recycling once a month. Lots of crashing, breaking glass.

Eventually I prised myself from the bed and turned my thoughts to breakfast. No fresh OJ today but the coffee was awesome and the focaccia was, well, more than enough. Then it was through the tunnel to the train station and crowds. They are lemming-like, the crowds. Get to the platform and stop and stand there blocking access for everyone else. If only there was a cliff I could direct them toward ... hmmm. Now that's a thought.

The train arrived and half of Asia alighted, eyes glazed, focused on a tour flag. DO NOT stand between them and the tour flag dear reader, that is a death-defying act. One could easily be trampled. It is almost as terrifying as a Jane Austen character encountering a gypsy (or an erection). At least gypsies existed in Austen's time, the latter just caused one to feel flushed.

I digress. The train is quite unremarkable from a vista perspective because most of the journey between the 'five lands' is in tunnel. An engineer might view this very differently, however, for me it is just darkness and being trapped with people with whom I would choose not to die. One could grow mushrooms there.

Monterosso beach

Monterosso from part way up the mountain

We travelled the length of 'Cinque Terre' to Monterosso Al Mare through the other towns (yes Maz, I said hello to Manarola for you). Monterosso was certainly larger than Riomaggiore despite what the Lonely Planet guide says - I'm not sure what they use as their yard stick for 'largest'. The town features private beaches of black sand and multi-coloured umbrellas - no stones in sight. It seems very uncrowded - that is, until you hit the "historic town centre" and that's when you know you are in Cinque Terre.  Monterosso is not the photoshoot destination of the five lands - in fact the other lands tried to kick it out of the club in the 1940's. But it is picturesque and affords one of the two still available stretches of the original "goat track" hiking experience - the Sentiere, that originally was the only way to get from village to village, pre-TrenItalia. You used to be able to walk from Riomaggiore to Monterosso but landslides took out significant portions of the track and now you can only walk between Monterosso, Vernazza and Corniglia.  The rest you either have to train it or ferry it (today however, the ferry was suspended due to swell... they should try the Rottnest Island run to see what real swell is!)

Same again

Anyway, Jayne suggested we do the walk from Vernazza to Corniglio.  I suggested that doing the first stretch from Monterosso to Vernazza might be better because Corniglio, unlike the other four towns of the Terre is set up on the cliff away from the water. Even arriving by train you need to climb 377 steps to the town from the station. In Jayne's terms, that's more than the climb to the top of the L'Arc de Triomphe in Paris - and that is her benchmark.

Alora, we set out for Venazza. OMG. OK, I'm happy, I'm walking, the scenery is to die for, but the path is steep, like seriously steep and the steps aren't that solid or secure. I'm worried for Jayne - think 2012 dear reader and if you are new to my blog, the posts from Paris of that year. We left Monterosso and up and up and up we went. We met another couple of Aussies on the climb. One lady who was a part of a tour group and eschewing lunch with the crowd and a single young guy who was enquiring about the cost of the walk and where you pay.

I was trying to remember Jayne's description of the walk from yesterday; this climb didn't seem to be in keeping with what we had discussed. It was well-trodden and well-sign posted, but the markers were all red, I recalled Jayne talking about a blue track. Up and up we went. At one point we paused for breath and water and the view. I looked across at Jayne whose face now bore a striking resemblance to the track markers and said, "This was your idea and I still can't believe you suggested it." In all my years bushwalking, Jayne has accompanied me once and that was before Cait was born!

I told you it was steep - yep, that's Jayne.

The track continued to wind up the mountain side and we continued to play leap frog with other walkers. I was most annoyed with the lack of walker etiquette. Several times I stepped aside when I saw people walking towards to me because the track was too narrow in parts to allow anyone to pass safely. Only to have people from behind me just walk past and cause the oncoming walkers to stop for them.

Despite Jayne's glowing visage and huffing and puffing, she did extremely well and we either kept pace with or passed people who were younger than us. Although at one drink stop, Jayne did remark, "And I had to pay to do this". Despite the heat, humidity and significant level of exertion required to complete the track, we remained Australian and did not succumb to the European need to remove your shirt. This is clearly an unisex affliction as we saw a number of young ladies walking in their bras, carrying their shirts and many, many more shirtless men. Many of them should have taken into account other walkers and left their shirts on.

Vernazza.

We saw some interesting sights. People with inappropriate foot wear for the length of the walk and the grade of the track. People who were obviously ill-equipped to do such a walk in the heat of the day and weren't carrying water, although one man did carry one of his shoes. Significantly overweight people who should have been sitting in the shade somewhere. A girl on crutches - seriously.

Along the track, we came across two separate entrepreneurs: the first had set up a drinks and and other refreshments station, catering to walkers who were about to expire. He was squeezing oranges. Not sure what the mark-up was but the monopoly ensured significant recompense for any exertion in getting the wares up the track in the first place.

The second industrious marketeer was selling... jewellery of all things - not sure what business he was doing since earrings do not, in my book, fall in the category of essentials on a taxing walk but he had carted the stuff up there, table and all, so presumably he thought he had a market.

The estimated time for the walk was two hours - we did it in an hour and 40 minutes. Just as we were walking into Vernazzo, a medical officer was heading up the track to save some ill-prepared person.

Vernazza harbour

Finally we were in Venazza and went in search of a bar and two large beers. While there were plenty of bars, they were all packed and I had no intention of squeezing into a seat in the sun. Our search took us back to the train station so we caught the next train back to Riomaggiore and two large cold draught beers, in the shade away from the crowds.

Once we had returned home, Jayne reread the walk descriptions to discover to her disgust that we had, in fact, walked the red track, not the blue track - the one 90% of walkers tackle. The red track we had completed was designated for experienced walkers and therefore only attracted 10% of the foot traffic.

Our hosts had recommended a particular restaurant but suggested that we would need to book. The earliest sitting we could get for dinner was 9:30pm and that is usually past my bedtime. We declined the offer and found another place at 7pm. A group of young Aussies arrived just after us and Jayne was sure she knew one of the boys in the group. If he recognised her he didn't let on, so we continue our journey not officially having seen anyone from home (that we hadn't organised to see).

Arty shot of a flower.

Warning: the following scenes may offend some readers. The night proved to be even noisier than the previous one. You would know dear reader that I don't often identify groups of people by country of origin. I prefer you to apply your own racial profiling, but I am about to make an exception. If I had any idea where those ridiculously bloody loud Americans that woke us up at 2:30am were staying, I would have dropped in early this morning to say hello. And then hold pillows over their faces until they turned blue and stopped struggling. Inconsiderate morons.