Life in General

Rambling River Run Repeat #9

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We’ve been in Germany for a few days now and I was feeling uneasy. Something was wrong. Something was missing. Was there a Zulu horde just over the next hill, shadowing our every move or were we a modern version of the Roman legions about to be vanquished in the Teutoberg Forest. It was quiet…too quiet. Then there it was. Not welcome or reassuring in the least but disdainfully expected. The wump, wump, wump of thousands of windmills. If they could move like so many triffids Custer’s Last Stand would have been like a paper cut. But with all of the trouble in the Middle East, a ready replacement for fossil fuels has to be a good thing, right? Apart from the oil you have to put in them to keep them running. And you can’t strap one to the roof of your tractor. Enough of that.

There’s a part of Barvaria called Franconia which sounds like a cross between France and some medieval Disneyworld and while it’s people aren’t a Germanic equivalent of your average French waiter they are the opposite of those occupying the happiest place on earth. The locals say that if a Franconian is smiling it’s because they’re drunk which I guess is a good thing because if drunks are required, you want happy ones. Sober Franconians on the other hand, aren’t the type of people you invite to a party (unless they get drunk on the way). “It could be worse” is about the most enthusiastic complement you will lever out of a Franc or Frances apparently. The legendary German sense of humour must have had its origins here.

In the past, property in this part of the world was worth more if it was covered, at least to some extent, with grape vines. I guess there also had to be someone nearby with the wherewithal to turn their fruit into booze (otherwise what is the point) but that doesn’t appear to have been part of the contract. Anyway, there are grape vines up and down the Rhine and Main Rivers’ valleys with up being the operative word. Building terraces or heaven forebid, growing on flat land is for pikers. You have to assume there were property scams a-plenty judging by some of the vineyard locations. How you can successfully manage a block of land which would be more accessible if it was on the side of an Egyptian Pyramid, is beyond my comprehension.

I started writing this episode a few days ago. We’re now in Amsterdam, in the departure lounge of our boat, which for the last three weeks was the bar. We’re parked next to a large blue cruise liner which is currently home to 1000 refugees. When we got off our boat yesterday to do a canal cruise and look at tulips which are now blooming, we were told to keep our belongings close and beware of pickpockets. I draw no link between the two.

Adieu until the next adventure, or unless I think of something else to write about in the meantime.

Rambling River Run Repeat #8

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I thought of something to write so disregard #7. But before we get onto Germany, a bit more on Austria. You my dear readers, know this isn’t a travelogue where you can read about what best sights to see or hotels to stay in. I’ll leave that to travel agents. We’ll talk about other stuff here.

We’ve recently been to Salzburg (not to be confused with Strasbourg as I frequently do) and if you didn’t know, Salzburg is famous for Mozart and The Sound of Music. They also gave us yodelling, according to them – not something I would mention in polite company. Had they also gifted the world rap music, their work would have been complete.

The guides on this trip have been tremendous and our guide in Salzburg was no exception. At every stop on the walking tour, there was a Sound of Music link…and she’s a singer so it was like being guided by  a South African (for South African she is) Julie Andrews. We got the whole sing-song repertoire. But at the end she became a (metaphorical) horse. Before you affect offence by proxy, I mean, like a working horse, as soon as we turned for home the pace accelerated markedly, much to the chagrin of the athletically challenged in our group. An international incident was avoided by a tactical change-up. I’ve never understood why “change-up” means “slow-down” when it should mean “speed up”.

When it comes to attitude to table service, the Eastern Europeans love us, the Austrians are indifferent and the Germans have turned into the French. The EU has a lot to answer for in the overall scheme of things but this development is ridiculous. We’ve all encountered the French waiter of legend but how did this become a German thing? Are the French infiltrating and blaming Germany for some implied slight? Surely the French can’t blame the Germans (everyone else can – Angela Merkel specifically) for cultural assisted suicide because France was already Algeria with attitude when the migrant tsunami smashed through non-existent borders (Poland and Hungary notwithstanding). But I digress (as usual), as this has only a tenuous link to table service..

To further flog this digression, we have just been to Nuremberg and there’s a very nice statue there surrounded by a wrought iron fence. The fence had a ring built into it a few hundred years ago and if inclined you can spin the ring and it will grant you magical fertility powers. Or something. Anyway, we saw this about eight years ago and back then it was in an easily accessible square. It wasn’t in a square protected by freedom bollards, placed to prevent people of irrelevant ethnicity accidentally ploughing their vehicles into crowds of unsuspecting people, usually around Christmas time. But it is now. Something has irrevocably changed so you can understand why your average German service provider might be somewhat pissed and not in any mood to indulge tone-deaf foreigners like us when they’ve got plenty of their own to deal with.

Rambling River Run Repeat #6

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Spring in Europe – snow in Romania, 6 degrees but feels like minus 2 in Vienna and 4 degrees but feels like minus 4 in Durnstein. Where’s global warming when you could do with a bit. I’m guessing but maybe this means not as much melted snow is finding its way into the river. The last time we did this trip, in summer, the water level was too low so we had to bus half of the journey – the half we’re in now. At this time of the year the danger (to tourism) is too much water meaning the boats can’t get under the low bridges. Having successfully negotiated the stretch between Budapest and Vienna and now Vienna to Passau, we are in front.

There’s a valley between the Carpathian Mountains and the Austrian Alps which the Danube flows through and extends into the Wachau Valley west of Vienna. The Ottoman Turks regularly poured through this valley taking out Bulgaria, Romania and Hungary as they went but they never got past Vienna. The Battle of Vienna stopped them in their tracks. The largest cavalry charge in history -18000 men and horses – had the Mohammed’s searching for reverse on their carpets on September 12 1683. Then as now, the Poles were at the forefront of keeping uninvited guests out of their country thanks to their king, John III Sobieski who led the charge. The two month Siege of Vienna finished September 11 1683, considered to be the last day the Ottomans had the upper hand in Eastern Europe. Some pundits suggest this is why terrorist scum chose that date for 9/11 in 2001. The only thing that pours in the Wachau Valley now, is wine. And long may it continue.

Now the same area around Vienna has been successfully conquered by hundreds of wind turbines. If HG Wells’ War of the Worlds was written today, in Austria (or Germany or any number of other numbskull jurisdictions) it would be considered a work of non-fiction. Interestingly, immediately on crossing the border into Bratislava in Slovakia, the bird mincers ceased to be like so many dead parrots. I guess the Slovakians had enough of unaccountable, unelected bureaucrats telling them what to do from 1945 to 1989. Not any more.

Speaking of the border between Austria and Slovakia (or Czechoslovakia pre 1989), we breezed through without slowing down yesterday. In 1988 we’d have had to risk being electrocuted by an electric fence or being shot. But let’s try communism again like the Mayor of New York is laughably attempting now although we’ll have to build more electric fences to stop idealistic jackasses flooding in – not. So popular was it considered to be (1956 Hungary and 1968 Czechoslovakia notwithstanding), the commies felt compelled to build the largest housing development in Europe or the World (or something). 120,000 people live there on the outskirts of Bratislava. That’s one hell of a block party.

Rambling River Run Repeat #5

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At various times over past years I have been seduced by the  brazen, in-your-face attitude of New Orleans, the timeless history of Rome, the energy and bustle of Hong Kong and the regal dignity of London but nothing compares to the Monica Bellucci-like grace and beauty of Budapest. You are Cleopatra to my Marc Anthony, Cathy to my Heathcliff, Bacall to my Bogey, Fiona to my Shrek. I went away for a while but now I’m back and you have vaulted again to the top of my charts.

Speaking of charts, we had a dance night on the ship a couple of days back. The most modern song I think, was Crocodile Rock. I bought that Elton John song when I was 17. It was on a pre-recorded cassette tape. I’m now…..somewhat older. And by-the-way, for those of you under 60, the song “Crocodile Rock” is on the long-playing record, “Honky Chateau”. It was released when Elton was still pretending he was straight in about 1972. We also heard songs like “Rock Around the Clock” and “Johnny B Goode” and others that made me feel young because they are so old. I don’t think there were any Taylor Swift or Rhianna songs. I wouldn’t have known if there were.

Watching the dancers I was once again reminded that there is nothing quite as undignified as a man over 40 years of age dancing. Unless you’re Michael Jackson (and there are, or were, some question marks there) or an actual ballroom dancer who knows the steps. So when the ship has a dance night it’s great to see the ladies stand up, close their eyes and teleport back to the mini-skirted, bra burning, pill-freedom of their youth as they shimmy and shake if not quite as fluidly as in their youth. The blokes should watch them. That’s all. We watched them when they were 20, dancing round their handbags, and nothing’s changed. Well, that’s not entirely true, but let’s leave it there and put memories of the Summer of Love back where they belong – behind an opaque curtain made of Indian hemp, cheesecloth and cheap plonk.

Back to Budapest. This next bit fits more with the first paragraph but I didn’t want to spoil the neat “chart” segue into the second paragraph. Anyway, there is only one (very) high rise building in this city because the Danube River is part of the city’s world heritage status so can’t be hidden behind a Manhattan of glass. So there’s only one huge glass tower owned by the local oil company (booo I hear you say, for no good reason) a long way away from the charm of the inner city, a good chunk of which was commenced in 1896, 1000 years after the formation of Hungary. Apparently 1896 is like the Hungarian answer to the question of life, the universe and everything which is, as everyone who has seen or read The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, 42, a number with no connection whatsoever in a mathematical or philosophical way to 1896. Some of the bullet holes from the 1956 revolution are still visible as are some from WW2, again inflicted by the Russians during the siege of Budapest. Bullet holes notwithstanding, what a place.

Rambling River Run Repeat #4

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When the Romanians lifted the severe communist skirt to see what colour knickers it was wearing, they weren’t at all impressed so they shot the two most responsible for such a fashion faux pas. The Bulgars, on the other hand, built a memorial to the Victims of Communism in Vidin. Much more civilised but not nearly as effective. But they had spent 500 years trying to chuck the Ottomans out of their country, only achieving it in the early 20th century so 45 years of communism was a blip. Admittedly 500 years is a bit better than the Spaniards who took 700 years but they did get it done earlier, waving goodbye to the last Abdul in 1492. So your average Ottoman isn’t coming fo earn a few bucks then go home like your average mine worker in a mining town. He’s not staying a few years, he’s staying a few centuries.

Yugoslavia thought so little of communism that they fought a war after its demise to determine who would live where, now that there was actual choice. Sadly, while the region seems to be at peace with itself now, it took a lot of tears to get here. And participants. You can see the remains of bridges in Novi Sad that were bombed by NATO because wars of independence are conducted much more efficiently if you include more participants. Trump’s being criticised for attacking Iran without congressional approval. This was Clinton’s folly, in between trips to Epstein Island.

They have a music festival in Novi Sad each year which, according to the locals is worse than having their bridges bombed. It’s called the Exit Festival and celebrates the demise of communism. The trouble is, when 200,000 people invade a town of 350,000 people, communism doesn’t look so bad. The whole place looks like a giant homeless camp (or California – take your pick). It’s a porno version of Glastonbury if the number of discarded condoms is any indication (I am reliably informed).

So far on this trip we’ve been to Romania, Bulgaria, Serbia and Hungary with a brief immigration stop in Croatia. As far as particular sightings are concerned, the current score is Christian Orthodox churches – 478, golf courses – 0. We might as well be in Afghanistan…apart from the Christian bit. And unlike a number of western democracies I could mention, there doesn’t appear to be much of Afghanistan in this part of the world.

While we’re on the subject of Christianity, we visited the Kalocsa Cathedral in Kalocsa (funnily enough), Hungary. It’s design is Italian baroque style which was introduced by the Catholic Church in the 16th century – sort of a Sydney Sweeney to counter the Protestant Reformation’s army of Karen’s. Jesus was a simple soul we are led to believe, so you have to wonder what he’d make of all of that gold and marble extravagance that characterises baroque. He was a man so we know what he’d make of Sydney Sweeney.

Rambling River Run Repeat #3

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We just racked up another first for the Child Bride – first time in Bulgaria. Let me rephrase that – first visit to Bulgaria. I’ve been here once, I think. Let me explain. Many years ago a colleague and I came here to sign a contract. I was an observer but still partook of the warm, celebratory champagne at 9.00am followed by copious bottles of Bulgarian red wine until they poured us onto our flight that afternoon. It may have been a dream but I’m pretty sure there’s a (fax) paper trail somewhere to prove it all happened.

Our first voyage on the luxurious boat we now temporarily call home was literally across the Danube River from Giurgiu in Romania to Ruse in Bulgaria. Interestingly Ruse is called “Little Vienna”. I have no idea why. Most of the buildings we saw are what they call panel blocks – typical soviet style aparment buildings made from pre-fabricated concrete slabs with the character of gravel. I guess this is what the crappiest part of Vienna looks like. But at least the buildings in Ruse are habitable. Out in the countryside it looks like the Red Army just passed through like a cyclone through Legoland. Most of the buildings don’t look like they’ve been maintained since before they were built. Then we got to Arbanasi and an area nicknamed “Beverley Hills” where the Bulgarian big-shots including the former communist president (everyone is equal but some are more equal etc etc) have holiday homes. Talk about a contrast.

Speaking of contrasts, we’ve driven through plenty of pristine agricultural land in both Romania and Bulgaria and fingers crossed so far and let’s hope it continues,  we’ve encountered zero of those horrendous windmills. You know the ones. The ones that consume more power in their construction and operation than they will ever generate. And after they die, the poor old landowner is left to deal with the carcass that’s left. Don’t get me started. Fortunately we’re not in Germany because there they’re as common as bums, littering the landscape like empty beer cans at a football stadium. I don’t know about Bulgaria but Romania has nuclear and hydro which exempt them from implementing the incredibly moronic energy policies so loved by equally moronic Australian politicians.

Despite economic difficulties, Bulgaria must be in a golden social age right now. They’ve seen off communism and prior to that had to put up with regular and varied periods of Ottoman occupation, or as present day Ottomans like to call it, “migration”. Then as now, the Ottomans thought of ingenious ways to bludge off the local population. For example, if a Bulgarian offered food to an Ottoman, the Bulgarian would be taxed for the wear and tear inflicted on the Ottoman’s teeth. God help us if Australia’s treasurer Chalmers starts to think like an Ottoman.

Rambling River Run Repeat #2

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Before we leave Bucharest we need to acknowledge something as culturally precious to the Romanians as a ute is to an Australian tradie and a Ferrari is to an Arabian prince, a hockey puck is to a Canadian, a casino is to a Chinese granny and a spiked dog collar is to a German swinger and that’s beer. On our first night in Bucharest, the Child Bride and I found a pub a couple of staggering minutes from our hotel. The choice of beers was as extensive as a Kardashian arse with the minimum alcohol content at a heady 5% and most in the 6-6.5% range. The highest was 16%. Light beer is for communists. After four rather substantial glasses, I was ready for a lie down.

We’re now out and about, or if we were Canadian (there they are again), oot and aboot. We know Romania is famous (infamous?) for gypsies and I thought they lived in brightly coloured wooden caravans pulled by horses or hillbilly trucks. It seems that when they are not on the road they actually live in what were once considered to be houses. House pride is not something that would get them into the culture list above. You can tell a gypsy’s home because there’s a bloke who looks like Borat sitting on the remnants of a couch in the front yard surrounded by life’s debris. There’s more shit outside the house than in it. I know this because you can’t fit that much shit into the Palace of the Parliament, let alone a windowless hovel.

We knew it would be cold here in the Transylvanian Carpathian Mountains but it snowed yesterday and will likely do so again today. This was not in the fine print from what I remember and I didn’t bring my beanie and big coat. I have a Korean winter golf hat which has a fold-down flap to cover your ears, but only half of them so it I bump my head it’s likely my ear lobes will fall off.

We visited two castles in the last two days. The first, Peles Castle is more of a palace, like an ornate wooden version of the Hermitage in St Petersburg, on the inside. The outside is rather more extravagant than the box like Hermitage. It was also built relatively recently, like after the Ottomans had been vanquished although it’s doing nothing to stop the Ottoman invasion of Europe currently underway. Bran Castle or Vlad the Impaler’s castle or Dracula’s castle, depending on your preference, is more your neo-barbarian style. It has the swirling turrets and was built up rather than out to protect a pass at the border between Wallachia and Transylvania by the Teutonic Knights in the 12th century. This was long before it supposedly housed blood sucking ghouls which didn’t occur until Bram Stoker (who never visited the place) wrote his book. Vlad did make a significant contribution to the bloodthirstyness of the areas reputation by inserting sharp logs into people he didn’t like or even didn’t know, such was his apparent indifference. And it was actually built to collect taxes, not the blood of wild eyed, bare necked totty.

We spent two nights in Brasov (preferred pronunciation – “bras off”) after Bucharest and it was from here that we visited said castles. If you ignore the communist influence and focus on the pre – Stalin/Ceausescu architecture it’s a very attractive city, if rather cold. But the CB and I did find a a place in the middle of the town square, serving beers, wine and pizzas with a generous helping of gas heater which made a significant contribution to my “would I like to live here” survey which is conducted everywhere I go, if only subconsciously. The answer was…..

Rambling River Run Repeat #1

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Before we move on from Turkish Airlines, a couple of things. We boarded in Bangkok at 10.30am (that’s “am”). By just after midday, the cabin was darkened ostensibly so people who’d had a tough morning sitting around the airport could get some well earned shut-eye. WTAF!!! In reality it’s so the flight attendants can drink coffee and gossip. I have been known to buck the system (other airlines do this) and raise my window shades. If it’s 2.00 in the afternoon, I want some natural light. But these new fangled flying machines have windows that can be darkened electronically by an unseen, unknown controller. Big Brother has invaded the skies. And then to extend the scam on guests who have been duped into thinking they are waking up after a questionable night’s sleep, they served breakfast at about 5.00pm Istanbul time. To steal a quote from Philip Roth; “You can’t bullshit me Portnoy”. Can’t end on a negative note however. The Child Bride and I were in biz class and apart from the wrinkles mentioned above, Turkish Airlines was great.

Strictly speaking, we haven’t started the River Run yet and won’t for another 4 days after we’ve had a look round Romania. Like most of the countries that spent 45 years behind the iron curtain, they’ve been re-learning wicked capitalist ways for a few decades now. Unlike most of their erstwhile comrades, the Romanians said goodbye to communism with a rather spectacular flourish by putting the dictator and his equally disgusting wife up against a wall, on Christmas Day (1989) no less. You’d think therefore, that anything remotely like our Greens Party would have been long confined to the gulag of history. But I’m here to tell you it survives in the baggage handling system at the airport. The bags come out at a speed suggesting a baggage handler walking them over one at a time from the plane to the conveyor belt. Or maybe it’s just a reflection of the time it takes to rummage through the bags which are inadvertently unlocked.

Yesterday was spent wandering around the old town of Bucharest as well as seeing some of the sights. While I wouldn’t normally consider architecture as “the sights” it’s interesting to see the contrasting styles. There’s the elegant European style of the 1800’s and early 1900’s in various stages of repair – some restored to former glories and some demonstrating Gaza chic – there’s the communist sludge that the Russians left all over Eastern Europe like so many of my childhood lego buildings and there’s the Grimms Fairytales brutalist style like the Addams Family and their relatives moved into the neighbourhood. I wonder if that last one contributed to the foreboding reputation, especially when we’re talking about Transylvania. Oh, and a few more recent glass boxes.

You can’t come to Bucharest without visiting the Parliament of the People or the Palace of the Parliament or something. Whatever it’s called, you can’t miss it as it’s the now third biggest administrative building in the world behind the Pentagon and the Thai Parliament. It should be called Ceausescu’s folly because for a number of years it hoovered up a third of Romania’s GDP on it’s construction. He deserved to be shot just for this.

Anyway that’s not the point I am trying, so far unsuccessfully to get to. The longest corridor in the whole building is 200 metres in a straight line and while we were looking down it, a very attractive young lady in high heels attempted to walk along its length. Another lady in our group and the CB made comments about being young once and not missing doing that and other girlie things which caused me to immediately stop listening. But the sight stuck with me and I later suggested that this country is endowed with an abundance of extremely attractive women. Whilst this comment was purely observational, I don’t think my extremely hot wife let me get away with it.

Rambling River Run Repeat – Prologue

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This will be our second attempt at the iconic European river cruise although we have added to the previous effort with the Bucharest to Budapest leg. Low water levels meant we only got half way last time (about 6 years ago) and so had to do the Austrian and Hungarian bits by bus. This time the bad luck’s been related to flights. It’s not the first time the Child Bride and I have had a spot of bother traversing through or travelling to the Middle East. If you’ve read The Dry Argument, secreted somewhere in these pages, you’ll know we headed to Egypt three days after October 7th 2023 which naturally put the kibosh on the Israel part. Now there’s another war we have to avoid so availability of flights or lack thereof has meant three days in Bangkok before heading to Bucharest. Could be worse. So this Prologue has got nothing to do with rivers other than there’s one here and we found a bar next to it.

I’ve been trying to eliminate some of the avoirdupois I have invested a considerable amount of hard-earned in over the years. So far so good as I’ve dropped almost 7kg since Boxing Day. Ominously this travel extravaganza starting with Bangkok then four nights in Romania will last a bit more than a month. So what’s it got to do with my attempts to shrink my ponderous bulk, I hear my dear reader ask? Because after Romania we get on a luxurious river boat and set out on a 26 day odyssey which will eventually conclude in Amsterdam. The weight bit relates to the fact that the cruise is all inclusive 24/7 so all of the sacrifices and sweat of the last few months have been as pointless as a bowling ball. The CB and I were sitting in the Qantas lounge at the airport on day 1 and the first champagne (at 11.30am) beat the shit out of my conscience. I’m not looking forward to stepping on the scales when we get back.

One of the first things you notice here in Bangkok is that the drivers are either very devout or very superstitious or very pessimistic about their (and by extension, our) chances of surviving the drive because invariably the drivers cabin is festooned with deities and amulets. Speaking of religion or superstition or both, our recent travels have taken us to Nepal, Japan, the Middle East and the Subcontinent (also the USA bit it doesn’t really count). In all of those places temples and shrines are ubiquitous. So while we are in Bangkok I refuse to go to a temple, shrine, church, cathedral or monastery. I prefer forts and castles. If this was a literary critique I’d be preferring the War to the Peace.

Notwithstanding my aversion to things of faith (from a tourist’s perspective), we have done some serious touristing while we’ve been here. One thing you notice is the tourist uniform which generally comprises an I Heart Bangkok t-shirt and one-size-fits-all elephant pants. The less said about the young Japanese lady wearing (unwittingly, I suspect) an “I Wanna Bangkok” t-shirt, the better. I bought a Maeklong Train t-shirt at the Maeklong market which the train runs right through the middle of, literally inches from stalls. When you’re told to stay behind the red line you’d better suck in that beer gut. Our health and safety nazis would regulate this into oblivion but thankfully this is Asia and here civilisation hasn’t progressed to the point where a government inspector will wipe your arse and you’ll pay an exorbitant tax for the privilege as is coming to a Western democracy near you.. The other bad news is that unfortunately my shirt will forever smell of fish.

After a hard but pleasant day touristing in the Bangkok heat, the CB and I as usual, are thirsting for an ice-cold ale. At the Bangkok floating market, lunch for three and two beers came to 500 baht – a bit less than A$25 plus tip. Back at the hotel, one beer was 470 baht and one glass of Kiwi sav blanc was 780 baht. You could have swapped a bottle of wine for one night’s accommodation. It was time to go exploring. We found Jack’s Bar, an expat hang-out where a large Singha beer is 120 baht. You also get a view of the river which is like a cut down version of Victoria Harbour in Hong Kong or the Bosporus in Istanbul, such is the amount of traffic. Speaking of Istanbul,  that’s our next stop on the way to Bucharest. Another new experience for the CB – Turkish Airlines.

Sicily Walks #5

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It’s 9.15 am and I’m drinking a Sicilian Pale Ale in a bar in Palermo Airport. Our bags are checked through to Brisbane. I don’t particularly care where they go as long as they eventually find us at home because we have all of our important stuff with us including all the requisite boarding passes.

That’s the celebratory reason for the beer. The real reason is that we dropped off our hire car an hour ago and I bid a poison-spitting farewell to Italian roads and drivers. The 50 or so kilometres from our hotel to the airport this morning was supposed to be a breeze. It was a nightmare. When I checked Google Maps at 6.00am it was predicting a 43 minute trip. The bad news is that it took an hour and a half. The good news is that we didn’t hit anything and noone hit us. God knows how that happened. In the areas where the traffic was heaviest – the outskirts of Palermo city – the lines on the road became as rare as functioning car indicators and it became a free-for-all with lanes becoming multiple choice and when a huge truck decides it wants half of what appears to be your lane and half of the next one over, drivers scatter and aim for the nearest available space. The words of our Syracuse cab driver (see #4) were Nostradamus-like in their prophesy.

I was sweating bullets all the way to the airport, the child bride was finally able to relax in her seat when we got here instead of jumping about like she was constantly being cattle prodded and our travel companion, in the back seat, when not getting hit in the back of the head by a flying suitcase (hard breaking unavoidable) was grinding her teeth to the gums.

Notwithstanding the driving hysterics, we had a marvellous time in Sicily. It was the second series of White Lotus that originally got us thinking about coming here. We even went to where it was filmed – Taormina – which looked nothing like what we imagined from the series. Not to worry because we found plenty to gawk at everywhere we went, the food (with one notable exception) was great, the beer was cold and the wine went down far too easily.

Our trip into Palermo yesterday was by train. The previous night it cost 70 euros for a taxi, one-way for the 25 or so kilometres into town. On the train it was 3.3 euros each. To compensate for the much cheaper price, the ticket machine wouldn’t accept any of our credit or debit cards; only cash. As luck would have it, this was the only time on the whole trip when none of us had any. A very kind American couple gave us the 10 euros needed for three tickets. Lucky I was wearing my Tennessee Titans t-shirt which got the conversation with them started.

These old European cities are always just a corner away from something interesting, historic or both. Anywhere with lots of glass will be soulless and boring comparatively. So walking along the main street of Palermo (Via Roma, I believe) from the railway station, it was easy to find something to photograph which is the determining factor differentiating interesting from boring.

The trains, or at least the one we travelled on between Santa Flavia and Palermo, are clean, comfortable, fast and on time. My recommendation to anyone planning a vacation in Italy is to shelve the car hire plans and catch trains. Apart from the absence of stress, you get to enjoy the incredibly rugged and spectacular scenery (talking Sicily here), none of which I saw when for about 900 kilometres, all I focussed on was the lane marker (when there was one) staying in the bottom left-hand corner of the windscreen. Getting used to driving on the wrong side of the road and not knowing where the front right corner of the car is (get your designers onto that, Mercedes) made centring the car in its lane rather challenging initially as that guard rail in Taormina discovered. Fortunately we got there and here in the end. I just need to know now, how many fines I wracked up by blowing through toll gates.