One good deed deserves another.

Here in the Dordogne, I have found a little paradise, complete with a plethora of huggable furry creatures & four very kind & loving people, who have opened up their home to little old me.

Set in the countryside of the beautiful town of Brantôme, The Phillips family run a sanctuary for retired British Police horses.  Not only do they have over twenty horses, wiling away their days in the surrounding grassy fields, but they also have nine dogs, most of whom have been rescued, three cats & three very plump chickens.  As you can imagine, with me being a rather large animal lover, I am quite in my element here.

During my stay here, I have learnt that The Metropolitan Police, does not offer any financial support to the rehousing of Police horses, once they are retired from service.  Which, considering what these animals go through when on duty, on the streets & during riots, along with their length of service (the average horse lives for over thirty years), I think is appalling.  If it wasn't for people like The Phillips, offering these horses a final home, they would simply end up being euthanased.

Unfortunately, the majority of the horses that come to Brantôme, arrive with both physical & psychological issues, which take both time & money to treat.  Every penny that the family make, through fund raising events & renting out their holiday gîte, goes on paying the sizeable veterinary bills that roll in each month, along with the huge amount of feed they need, to cater for all of the horses.

To help raise further funding, BPH offer the public the opportunity to come & visit the sanctuary in the Spring & Summer months, providing a guided tour, whereby guests meet all the horses & learn about their stories & sit down to a delicious cream tea on the lawn, all for €10 per person.  During my time here, they have been speedily erecting a Summer House in the garden, ready for the start of the season, which they intend to stock with gift items, that will be available for guests to purchase during their visit.

They also introduced a membership scheme a year ago, hoping to secure regular donations.  A year's membership costs €10 per person, which is a nominal fee, but having funding trickling in each year from paying members, is something the family rely on, in order to keep going.

I'm sure that anyone who's done stable work before, will know how much time & effort looking after one horse takes, let alone over twenty & with only four people to do all the work, it can be a struggle to find the time & energy to plan & organise events, maintain the vast property & do necessary building work, let alone deal with marketing & publicity, in order to raise awareness & much needed funding.  Sometimes, there simply aren't enough hours in the day.

Having spent two weeks at the sanctuary, mucking out the stables, helping to groom the horses & developing some favourites, I can honestly say I have fallen in love with the place.  Seeing how much love & dedication the family put into caring for the animals, is really touching & I don't think I could express strongly enough, how much praise I think they deserve.  I've decided to stay on a little while longer & offer my services, both with marketing & general help, so you may be reading a little more about them in the future.

If you would like to find out more, donate, or come for a visit, you can find further information on their website here, or their Facebook page here.  You can even find them on Twitter here, because even horses like a tweet!

A Week In Pictures

I find myself in the heart of the Dordogne, where the sun has finally come out & I can feel the warmth on my skin once more.  I couldn't be happier & I couldn't be busier either!

Having made no secret of my love of animals & especially, my desire to work with horses, my dear friend Lucy, put me in contact with her family friends, who run a wonderful sanctuary, for retired British police horses, down in Brantôme.  Thinking I'd spend a week or two mucking out stables & doing general equine related activities, I have found myself falling in love with the place & getting overly involved with all aspects of media marketing, in an attempt to raise awareness, for what I feel, is a most wonderful cause.

I want to fill you in completely on this most wonderful place, so I'm going to make some time in my, seemingly busy, schedule & post something special!  In the meantime, I bring you a pictorial update from the past week, which includes my gardening efforts, a trip to Aubeterre & Bergerac & some of my new four legged friends.

 

For regular pictorial updates, you can find me on Instagram, under @ouijetaimeaussi

Rare as is true love, true friendship is rarer.

So, I survived my first ever BlaBlaCar experience!  After an eight hour car ride, with four French men, all of whom did not speak English, I managed to make it to Limoges, with all my money & dignity in tact.  To think of the times our mothers told us not to talk to strangers & there I was, in a car with four of them, being trusting enough to have a doze in the back seat.  Oh how things change.

My favourite friend Kate & her husband Cheese, came to collect me from Limoges train station, dogs in tow.  I was so happy to see them.  Traveling is a wonderful thing, never let that be denied, but darn is it tiring, especially when you're on your lonesome.  Having the opportunity to just chill for a while & spend some time with friends is something I really appreciate nowadays.

For two whole weeks, that sadly sped right by, we baked our way through Google, watched every new release film we could find online, took daily dog walks through the countryside & snuggled up in front of the log fire, chatting & bursting into tears of laughter, usually over some ridiculous meme, that predominantly seemed to involve cats.

One evening, we decided to attempt to make quinoa vegan meatballs.  Unfortunately, I was in charge of cooking the quinoa & it turns out I lack portion control.  Having a lifetime supply of cooked quinoa on our hands, we took to Googling recipes, in an attempt to use it up.  This resulted in; Quinoa Apple Spice Cake, Quinoa Pancakes & Quinoa Chili, among other things.  Let's just say, I'm now an encyclopaedia of quinoa recipes.

We also took to baking something sweet & delicious everyday & it had to be everyday, because we would make something so yummy, that we would devour it all in one night.  Scones, brownies, chocolate fudge cake...My purist healthy eating regime took a bit of a detour, it has to be said.  I'd gone from cutting out sugar almost completely, to wolfing down numerous cupcakes, smothered in chocolate buttercream icing on the reg!  Damn you sugar & your deliciousness!

One weekend, Kate & I took a mini break to her friend's house in Angoulême & we all went out in the evening to the local cinema, to watch 12 Years A Slave.  Having not been to the movies since Christmas, it was a really nice treat to go.  Handy that they had it in Version Originale too.  Upon our return, with the weather being cold, wet & miserable, we took to watching copious amounts of films online.  American Hustle, Blue Jasmine, The Wolf of Wall Street & five others.  I do love a movie night!

Everyday, we'd take the dogs out for their stroll around town.  Most days were wet & cold & both the dogs & my Hunter wellingtons tended to come back muddy.  My new pink coat from Zara, took a beating too & is now in dire need of a dry clean.  (Perhaps I was too optimistic in busting out the pastels.)  We did have a couple of relatively warm & sunny days though.  I honestly cannot wait for Spring!  The feeling of warmth on my skin & the sight of bright blue skies!  Oh when will it come!?

All in all, I had a lovely time with my friends & I was genuinely sad to leave them.  I shall deeply miss throwing on my 'stretchy pants' & snuggling up on the sofa, bowl of crisps to hand & watching a movie with Kate & SamIAm the cat, curled up on my lap.  I'll miss chowing down on Cheese's fresh baked bread, toasted in the mornings, with lashings of honey & smothered in margarine with our lunchtime soup, & I'll especially miss the dogs, & their overexcited morning greeting.

Just in case they start to forget me, I left them with Nigel the nectarine tree, who will hopefully do me proud & provide them with plenty of fruit in the summer…in time for my return.

Nice, where the sun don't always shine.

There was a part of me, that assumed, that once I reached France, I'd just know what to do.  I've always thought of France as my spiritual home.  I don't know why exactly, it's just, whenever I'm there, no matter what part of the country I'm in, I always get that feeling, that I'm where I'm meant to be.

Now don't get me wrong, I've had my ups & downs with France.  For starters, after two years of French class, my ability to speak the language is still embarrassingly poor.  Then, of course, there is, I feel, this slight elitism about the French.  In Italy, if you try to speak Italian, even if you are piss poor at it, they love you for trying, they embrace you.  Yet, in France, if you try & speak French, predominantly speaking, they still seem to dislike you.

Of course, I don't want to tar an entire nation with the same brush.  I have met lots of French people who have been wonderful & whom I am still in contact with.  It can just be very frustrating & somewhat isolating, when you're in a country that you love, trying to incorporate yourself & you feel as though you're being rejected.

So there I was in Nice, waiting for the feeling, that feeling of direction to wash over me & it just wasn't there.  I started to feel more lost than ever.  Was I doing the right thing or had I just rushed leaving Italy.  I suddenly wasn't sure & my indecisiveness took hold & spun me into a black hole of self-doubt.  The kind that sends me off into self-destruct mode.

Making friends with a Chilean guy in my room, we caught the number 100 bus from Place Garibaldi & spent the day in Monaco.  For €1.50 & forty minutes, it seemed madness not to.  It was so warm & sunny, it felt like spring.  The pair of us walked around in nothing but our T-shirts.  It was bliss.  For a brief moment, I actually allowed myself to stop thinking about what to do next & actually just enjoy the moment.

The pair of us walked up to the Jardin Exotique & sat & ate lunch, overlooking the city, with the sea glistening, outstretched in front of us.  I felt happy.  If not just for a moment.  Chilean asked me what I was going to do next, where would I go after Nice.  I couldn't answer.  I hadn't thought further than getting there.

I wasn't worried about money.  I wasn't worried about having somewhere to stay.  I was worried about doing the right thing.  Like honestly, what had made me come traveling in the first place.  It's so easy to sit at home & think the grass is greener in the Mediterranean.  That life would simply make sense somewhere else.  Somewhere warm.  But what happens when you get there & realise, it's not about the place, the issue is you.

That evening, panicked by my own indecisiveness, I sent frantic messages to my friends, posted statuses of distress on my social networks & then, gave in to the hostel's Happy Hour & got drunk on €1 beers.  I could actually sense myself falling into a spiral of incomprehensible madness.  I actually couldn't think straight.  I'd forgotten why I was there.  Lost all that inner peace I'd found in the monastery.  I was a mess.

Hungover the next day, I packed up my things, checked out & wept into my complimentary breakfast in the hostel's bar.  An American guy I'd spoken to the night before, in my drunken depression fueled fog, came to join me.  He was about as clueless as I was.  There's something about New Yorkers though, they radiate this sense of overbearing wisdom.  Consistently psychoanalysing you & reducing you to tears.  Yes, I cried.

Strangely, despite myself, I found that, through my hatred of him, I somehow ended quite liking him.  It was a clear cut case of a love-hate relationship.  Leaving our things in the hostel, we took a stroll through the streets, along the beach & ending up at the castle, overlooking the sea.  There was a busker playing L'Autre Valse d'Amélie on the accordion, which practically gave me chills.  When he then started playing La Vie En Rose, I closed my eyes & I could almost believe I was in Paris.  It was a perfect moment in time.

Returning to our hostel, it was time to make a decision.  I could travel along the coast & work my way up to Paris, or I could head to my friend Kate's in Chabanais.  One was logical & the other was intuitive.  I chose the latter; head to Kate's.  Unfortunately, having been spoilt in Italy, with cheap & easy public transport, I was completely naive when it came to getting around France.  Looking into the train to Limoges, I was shocked when I saw it was going to cost over €150!

This revelation threw me into a panic.  Cue another meltdown.  Thankfully, Jean, one of the guys working at the hostel, who I'd made friends with, came to the rescue & pestered me into looking at BlaBlaCar, a car share website, a few people had mentioned to me.  I hadn't really liked the thought of it & so hadn't bothered to take a look, but ended up being so glad I did.

Essentially, people making long car journeys across country, sign up to the site & advertise seats in their car for a set fee.  All you have to do, is pick someone going your way & contact them to reserve a place.  I managed to find someone who was leaving Nice & driving directly to Limoges, for €50.  Saving me over €100 on train fare.  Only issue was he wasn't going until the following day.

Villa Saint Exupery was now fully booked, because of the impending carnival, so myself & New York, who'd decided to head up to Lyon on the train the next day, found another hostel round the corner & checked in for a night.  Perhaps some time with friends was what I needed, to shift me back into reality.

Sometimes you can't make it on your own.

Once upon a time, when writing my bucket list, I added 'go traveling alone' to the list.  I had always envisioned packing a bag, dropping everything & just catching a flight somewhere.  Quite without a plan & entirely on my own.  When I was nineteen, I bought a business class flight (clearly had more money than sense) to Rome, booked up a swanky four star hotel (again...) & fully intended to spend my twentieth birthday there, alone.  However, as the departure date drew closer, my nerves set in & I ended up asking a friend to come with me, who, thankfully, said yes.  This became a little bit of a repetitive pattern through the following years.

So, when I finally made it to Amsterdam last July, all by myself, with only my wits to guide me, I was quite impressed.  After nearly a week, I left Amsterdam & took a flight to Naples, then a boat to Sicily & three months later ended up in Rome.  I almost felt silly that I'd ever been so scared to go anywhere on my own.  However, my new found confidence took quite a battering during my journey from Milan to Nice.

Having had a crappy afternoon, attempting to leave Milano Centrale, I had finally settled into my seat on the train to Albenga, iPhone plugged into the nearby power point, happily abusing my data allowance.  With only a few hours until I was due to arrive in France, I figured I might as well use as much of it as possible, as my Italian sim was due to be defunct.

Arriving at Albenga at around six o'clock, I strolled out of the station to the awaiting buses outside.  None of them were indicating Ventimiglia, my destination of choice.  Spotting a very attractive hipster kid in a beanie & skinny jeans, I moved closer & asked him if he was going in my direction.  He was.  Brilliant.  I could cosy up to him on the bus & possibly arrive in Nice with a new boyfriend in tow.  I can't deny, I am a hopeless...optimist.

Finding the bus we wanted, we queued up & Hipster boarded first.  I showed my ticket to the woman guarding entry & she just started waffling on at me in Italian.  I may have spent four months in the bloody country, but there is a limit to my vocabulary.  "Parli inglese?"  Venom crossing her face, she told me my ticket wasn't valid for the bus & I'd have to go catch a regional one.  My face washed with horror.  That bloody swine in Milan had sold me the wrong ticket.  Bastard!

Hovering round once again clueless, without my hipster boyfriend, I approached another official looking person, who looked at my ticket & told me to get on the bus I'd been shunned from.  "But she won't let me on!"  I said, to which he responded with a quizzical look & told me to wait.  So I waited.  Then the bus drove off.  Then I panicked.  Grabbing the guy again, I kept asking him where the bus to Ventimiglia was.  He pointed to another bus & sent me off.

I handed my ticket over to the bus official outside of bus number two.  Nope, apparently his bus wasn't going to Ventimiglia, apparently there now weren't any ruddy buses to Ventimiglia.  By this time, I was holding back tears.  He told me I'd have to get on the bus, get off at Imperia & get the train from there & that I'd have to go back into the station & pay a little extra for the privilege.  I started wailing about how I bought the ticket in Milan & they'd told me to get the bus & yada yada.  Bus Official couldn't handle my hysterics & ended up telling me to just get on.

The very sweet driver thankfully spoke English & told me he'd let me know where to get off & how to get the train once I'd arrived.  Sadly though, by this point, it was all too much & by the time I took my seat, I burst into tears & cried the whole way there.  Maybe traveling on my own wasn't as great as I thought it was.

 

Arriving in Imperia, the driver didn't stop at the train station like he said he would.  All these elderly Italian woman started shouting at him, demanding he pay their taxi fare to the station.  That's one thing I've learnt in my time in Italy, don't get in the way of an Italian's temper.  The driver, attempting to be reasonable, locked up his bus, grabbed some of their luggage & walked us all down to the train station.  "This is Italy, it's all crazy!"  he said & I was inclined to agree.

It was 7:50pm by the time we arrived at the station.  Thankfully there was a train to Ventimiglia at 8:10pm, so I figured I didn't have to wait too long.  The only issue being that I was supposed to arrive in Nice at 8:30pm & so, it suddenly dawned on me, what if I'd missed the last train there.  Whipping out my phone, I went online & saw that the very last train to Nice Ville from Ventimiglia was at 9:20pm.  I knew the train to Ventimiglia was supposed to take forty minutes, so I figured I'd make it in time.

Standing on the platform, half my makeup down my face, feeling very agitated, I could feel myself about to explode when at ten past eight the train had not arrived.  Another five minutes went past & I ended up asking a fellow commuter, if it was due to come at all.  He assured me it was coming.  Italy, a land where the term 'on time' doesn't exist.  Another five minutes went by & I almost wept as I saw it approaching.

A few more tears, several hundred time checks & a conversation with some creepy Italian man sat across from me & finally we arrived in Ventimiglia.  Another passenger left the train as I did & I saw him check the board & then run to change platforms.  Worried it was the train for Nice, I did the same, only for the board at platform two to be blank & next to it, on platform three, only Cannes was showing.  "Nice!?" I asked the guy, who at this point was stood smoking a cigarette by the waiting train.  "Sì!"  By now distrusting anyone's advice, I asked him again.  "Nice Ville!?"  "Sì!"  I looked at the board, back at him, back at the board.  "Are you sure?"  "Honestly, I'm getting off there."  Deciding to trust him, I hopped on & crossed my fingers.

Train Guy & I conversed a little on the journey.  He was Italian, but had been living & working in Nice for two years as a chef.  He apologised for his pigeon English & I assured him his English was far better than my Italian, or French for that matter.  I showed him the map of where I was staying & he assured me it wasn't far from the station.  When we arrived in Nice, he told me he would take me to my hostel, as, whilst Nice was not a dangerous area, myself being a 'small blonde girl' alone might pose a threat.

Off we set, the pair of us, down Avenue Thiers, turning right, down Avenue Jean-Médicin & walking all the way down to the end, before turning left to go down Rue de l'Hôtel des Postes, where, much to my delight, I saw my hostel, Villa Saint Exupery.  I was so overwhelmed with relief to have finally arrived, I hugged Train Guy & thanked him excessively!

So, whilst I do feel rather confident in my abilities to get around, country to country, on my lonesome, sometimes, just sometimes, it's rather nice to have someone to help.

Milano, where even the pigeons make me sad.

 

Before I had even flown back to England, from Rome, at Christmas, I had put together a general itinerary for when I returned to Italy in the new year.  I would fly to Pisa for the day, then onto Florence, for two weeks of WWOOFing on a horse farm, catch the train to Bologna, then Venice, Verona & Milan, all for a day each.  Finally traveling across to Genoa, for a week of WWOOFing, before catching the train to Nice & seeing where the wind took me.  On paper this all sounded great, very organised & within budget.  Sadly, in reality, very little of this has gone to plan, but, as mère says, you can't plan life.  Seemingly, never a truer word has been spoken.

So, as planned, at the beginning of February, I flew to Pisa & spent the day there alone, sightseeing.  Then, the next day, I caught the train to Florence, only the farm I had intended to stay on, ended up turning me down & with it being too late to find a suitable replacement, I ended up just booking a hostel for the night instead.  This then turned into two nights, after arranging to meet Kate & then obviously meeting Italian Beard & combining it all with one too many drinks & staying out all night.

Having one of my mini meltdowns about what to do next, I decided to scrap going to Bologna & headed straight to Venice, which once again, ended with me staying for far longer than anticipated after various events & meeting of people.  After finally leaving Venice for Verona, I made the last minute decision, at the train station, not to stay for the night & instead head to Milan after a few hours.

Sometimes, you just have to go with the flow & things end up turning out better than your original plan.  The only issue with all this free flow, is it can end up being a little financially challenging, which I discovered when I got to Milan, late Monday evening.

After checking into the New Generation Hostel, two metro stops from Milano Centrale, soggy from the rain & starting to feel rather under the weather, all I wanted was to sit in bed & watch TV.  Setting up camp on my top bunk, surrounded by snacks & blankets, I allowed myself an hour of Homeland.  Blubbering my way through that, I thought it was probably a wise decision to check my overseas account...Witnessing that my month's budget had been devoured by too many unplanned nights in hostels, dozens of museum entry fees & several train rides, all in a week, I felt a little sick.

Already feeling ill, the thought of my impending poverty pushed me rather over the edge.  I'm afraid that, generally speaking, I am terribly disorganised in my own life.  Put me in an office & I'm fine.  Ask me to advise you on your life plan & I'll happily give you direction.  Place me in front of a mirror & I'll fall apart & seek answers in all the wrong places.  I think the issue is, faced with more than one option, I crumble.  Self doubt washes over me & I find myself unable to trust my own decision making skills.  Currently, I am standing in the middle of a roundabout, surrounded by sixty different exits, all perfectly acceptable options & I have no idea which route to choose.  Grilling everybody for their opinions, only to never really find the answer I'm looking for.

After some frantic emails to mère, I decided to wipe Genoa from the itinerary & hop on the train to Nice the following afternoon.  Maybe France would ease my soul.  So, sleeping on it all, I arose the next day, packed up my things & headed for the station.  Deciding not to shell out another €5 at the Left Luggage department, I kept my things with me & went & bought a ticket for Nice.  Italian train stations, predominantly the larger ones, require you to take a number, quite like you're waiting in line at a deli for a few slices of prosciutto.  Despite having eighteen desks, only eight were actually manned, which resulted in me waiting over twenty minutes for my number to be called.

I paid €38.50 for my train to Nice, which, although was very cheap, unfortunately was not direct.  Due to a break in the line, I was informed I would have to catch the train to Albenga, then get a bus outside the station to Ventimiglia & catch another train from there to Nice Ville.  Inwardly rolling my eyes, I took the ticket & headed out of the station, looking to spend a few hours sightseeing in Milan.

Milano Centrale to me is like a vortex.  Every time I tried to leave, I seemed to end up back inside, clueless.  I asked half a dozen people where the Tourist Office was, so that I could get my hands on a map & every one of them sent me off in different directions, which never ended at the elusive destination I was aiming for.  I'd made a note in my notebook about the buses, but had failed to say where outside of the station I caught them, or even where I was supposed to get them to!

I figured I could just hop on the metro, but equally wasn't sure what stop to get off at.  Losing my patience, I began to abuse the internet on my phone for answers, only for my phone to start threatening me with a dead battery.  Feeling overwhelmed by my ridiculous situation, I sat on a bench, on platform twenty two & just began to weep with frustration.  There I was, twenty six years of age & I couldn't work out how to get out of a bloody train station!  I mean honestly, it's so ridiculous.

Sobbing away, I took out a bread roll & started nibbling away on it, feeding the falling crumbs to the pigeons, which had gathered around me.  Finally getting a grip, I got up, brushed myself off, took a trip to the train information office, asked, once again, where the Tourist Office was & an hour after I had first arrived, I finally found the place, gleaming at me in front of platform fifteen!

Grabbing a map, I sped downstairs, spent €1.50 on a single ticket & jumped on the metro to the Duomo.  Coming up for air, I felt so stupid at how long it had taken me to get there.  I took in the cathedral, the whole of the square, the people & just felt relieved.  Stupid, but relieved.  With time running out before my three o'clock train, I took a stroll down the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, round the various side streets, had a quick look in the & Other Stories store & took a brief break outside the cathedral, before rushing back to the station & onto my train, which, thankfully, came with a power point for my phone.

There's going with the flow & there's just simple disorganisation.  Seemingly I need to learn the difference.

Verona, Verona, wherefore art thou Verona

Arising very early last Monday morning, I threw on my clothes in the dark of my hostel room, attempting not to wake all other sleeping inhabitants & hopped onto the vaporetto to the train station.  Having learned my lesson from my bus ride to Venice, I had been sure to make a visit to the station the day before, with Jessica, to inquire about the cheaper regionale trains to Verona.

Running roughly every forty minutes, the regionale train costs €7.60, which is far cheaper than its alternative option, which costs €23 & majoritively speaking, if you're savvy with picking your departure time, the journey duration is the same.

My ride to Verona was smooth sailing & just over an hour, however, once there, having been unable to locate affordable accommodation in town, I made the last minute decision to only stay for the afternoon & head to Milan for the night.

Throwing caution to the wind, I made a visit to the Left Luggage room & parted ways with €5 & Sir Fleming's little hand luggage suitcase, which he has thankfully lent me for the trip.  Annoyingly, as you pay per bag, I was still left with a very oversized & ridiculously heavy plastic bag of, quite frankly, crap, that somehow, I have managed to accumulate, in the short time I've been back in Italy.

So off I went, bag of crap in hand, to the ticket office & bought myself a one-way ticket to Milan for the afternoon.  Costing €11.65, the trains for Milan leave Verona regularly & the ticket does not fix you into a set time.  Left Baggage on the other hand, gives you five hours & so, with it at that time being ten in the morning, I figured I should attempt to make it back to the station for three.

The weather in Verona was dire.  Cold, wet & miserable.  I remember watching Letters to Juliet & how beautiful Verona looked.  Me being me, after watching any film that's set outside of England, I become immediately enamoured & start adding destinations to my travel wishlist.  In reality, few places tend to live up to their onscreen beauty.

Having been unable to locate a tourist office in the station & therefore procure a map of the city, I wandered around outside, rather cluelessly, for some exaggerated period of time, attempting to work out which bus I needed to get on, in order to actually reach anything of interest.  Eventually reaching a 'sod it' state of mind, I hopped on a bus destined for Piazza Bra, minus a ticket.

It had taken me long enough to pick a bus to get on, I wasn't about to faff about trying to find somewhere to buy a bloody ticket.  Thankfully, no one in Italy ever asks to see your ticket (don't hold me to that, sod's law you'll now be asked) & even more thankful, it turned out Piazza Bra was the right place to be.

Jumping off right outside a tourist office, I went & grabbed a map of the city & began to locate & circle points of interest.  Unfortunately, my attempts to pack in a morning of sightseeing, before speeding off to Milan, was scuppered by Verona's Monday opening hours.  Both the Arena & Casa di Giulietta, along with essentially all points of interest, were closed until after one.  Brilliant.  Sodding brilliant.

With the rain beating down my enthusiasm & the wind breaking my umbrella, I wandered around, past the Arena di Verona, a smaller version of the colosseum in Rome, up Via Giuseppe Mazzini, passing all the shops & ended up in Piazza delle Erbe, looking at their pitiful market stalls.  Wandering off to the Duomo & being bemused to find an entry fee sign, I ended up in a store doorway, hiding from the rain.

On the verge of tears, my phone dying of battery & my useless umbrella leaving me soggy, I felt tired of traveling.  What was I doing here.  What possessed me to give up the comfort of my beautiful home, my pink Smeg fridge, my French grey walls & my comfy wrought iron bed, to be here, standing in the rain catching a cold.

Just as I was about to throw down my bags & give up entirely, I looked to my right & there, just within sight was a rather nice looking cafe.  Walking closer to get a better look, I was amazed to see the word vegana chalked onto their sandwich board outside.  Could it be, I'd stumbled upon a vegan friendly eatery.

Creeping in, I fell in love with the interior.  Recycled vintage furniture, exposed brick, wooden floors.  All my favourites.  I ordered the cake of the day, an apple tart & it was delicious.  Relaxing into a seat, I plugged in my phone, whipped out my map & gave myself a pep talk.  Deciding that my love affair with Verona was null & void, I decided to cut all losses, wait for one thirty, go check out the Casa di Giulietta & then bugger off back to the station.

The courtyard at Casa di Giulietta is small & not at all like it is in the film, but I really liked it & it's free entry.  There is the statue of Juliet, which, it is said, if you rub her right breast, you will find new love.  So, obviously I gave her a good old grope.  There's a huge gate, laden with multicoloured padlocks, scribbled with people's initials & plenty of gum.  Literally walls covered in chewing gum.

I sacked off paying €6 for entry into the house & having fully grown weary of Verona & the rain, I headed back to the station, via another free bus ride, picked up my bag & caught a train to Milan.

Oh Venice, how you suck me in.

Sunday morning, I woke early to check out of my hostel & whilst packing up, I met my new roommate, Jessica, an American student, studying in Marseille.  We chatted about life in France, my date with Italian Beard & my plans to leave Venice.  I was kind of sad that I should meet her, just as I was leaving, but, unfortunately, this is the life when you're traveling.  Everyone is just passing by.

Having wasted my one full day in Venice, marching at great speed towards empty destinations, I wanted to make sure I at least saw the Guggenheim before I departed.  Unfortunately, me being me, despite wanting to evacuate the island pronto & catch the train to Verona early, I felt guilty about abandoning IB & so ended up messaging him, to see if he still wanted to go.

Leaving my bags at the hostel, I hopped on the vaporetto for Accademia, only for it to turn out to be going in the wrong direction.  Thus, instead of two stops, I had to endure about seven & was sat on the bloody thing for an hour.  You'd think I'd have got the hang of this by now.  Clearly not.

Locating IB, we headed off for the Guggenheim, paid the €12 entry fee each & dumped our bags at the bag check.  I'm no expert when it comes to art, but I do have a fondness & a keen appreciation.  IB being an art student however, made him my tour guide through the entire building.  I started to appreciate art less after that.

Gawping at the works by my favourite artist Pollock, eying up some prints by Warhol & getting lost in the surrealism of Dalí & eventually ending up at my most favourite of places, the gift store!  Made sure to buy a postcard or two, one to send, one to keep as a souvenir.  There's something about the glorious, overpriced tat of a gift store, that makes me overwhelmed with glee.

Leaving the Guggenheim behind, we strolled off to another museum, which for €15 entry, I decided I'd had enough of art for the day & so, left IB to it & went off to snap photos.  Meeting up with him an hour or so later, we finally made it into the St Maria of Salute Basilica for a look around.  Nothing to write home about, but at least it was free entry.

Finally the time came to depart Venice & thinking IB was going to come with me to my hostel to collect my things, before heading to the station, I was surprised when he essentially dumped me at the vaporetto stop, in order to walk to there, alone.  An awkward goodbye & he was off.  Ciao, thanks for...well, not much really.

Solemnly heading off to my hostel, I sat in the lobby, attempting to charge my dead phone & decide what on earth I was doing.  After a message or two to Miss Charlotte, I finally gave up on the idea of going anywhere for the day & checked back into my hostel.  I don't know what it is about me & decision making, but I get myself in such a twist, I really do.  You should see me try to decide between lunch options!

Ending up back in the same room, even in the same bed, I was happy to see Jessica again & the two of us went off on the vaporetto, once again, to San Marco.  We spent the evening getting to know each other, chatting & swapping stories.  Mine seem to mostly revolve around men, which is somewhat worrying.  'There's always a guy!'  There is though, there really always is.  Just a shame I can't seem to find the right one!

Venice, where love is but a mystery.

I've been absent, I apologise, you see, the past week has been rather hectic...

Last Saturday morning in Venice, I awoke with a feeling of nervous excitement.  What if Italian Beard & I didn't get on.  What if it was the alcohol that had made him so alluring.  Getting ready, I headed down to the vaporetto stop & took the number two to the train station.  Praying to God this meeting was going to go well.  Just as I was head down, typing away on my phone, IB appeared beside me.  He was still good looking in the daylight.  A relief.  Dressed in skinny jeans, Converse sneakers & a beanie.

We walked over to San Marco square, the weather being less than impressive.  Thankfully not too cold, but very overcast.  I was hoping to palm my camera off on him all day, make use of his photography skills, but when he took out an SLR with a very impressive lens, I began to feel shy about my measly number.  Having wanted to spend the day taking excessive amounts of photos, I found myself almost too embarrassed to take any at all.  Was he going to judge me on my snaps.  They were never going to compare to his.  He was fiddling with settings, doing test shots, I normally just point & shoot.

After a little while, we took a break on a bench & attempted a conversation.  I soon realised our outlook on life was somewhat separated & my disappointment began to set in.  It was nearly noon & IB wanted to go somewhere for lunch.  I usually snack, backpacking round Europe for six months doesn't often afford you the luxury of eating out.  Whipping my phone out, I found some vegan friendly places to eat, through the HappyCow website.  Picking one, I located it on Google Maps & with IB saying he knew where  it was, we went off in search of it.

Walking along to the Castello district, past the Biennale, the streets becoming more & more desolate, my feet beginning to tire, there seemed no sight of an eatery.  Over an hour went by, looking, looking & still, nothing.  Checking Google Maps again, it seemed we were no where near the place.  We both became so famished & tired, we gave up & IB picked a bar to sit at, back in San Marco.  I looked at the menu, €6 for a panini!  Cripes.  Spent that for a week's groceries in Pisa.  Still, I was sure he'd be a gentleman & pay.

Ordering a vegetable panini, minus the mozzarella & a small bottle of water, when it came, it severely lacked any flavour.  Conversation between IB & I had equally dried up to an implantable level.  When the bill arrived, €14.50, IB said he had €10 & put it down.  I equally only had a €10 note, so threw it into the pot.  Okay, I thought, €4.50, it's not too bad.  But when the change came, which was already short a euro, IB gave me €2!  €8, I spent €8 on a panini & a sip of water.  I was beside myself with annoyance.  Should I say something.  What could I say, thanks for spending €80 on the train to see me, but hey, could you give me my change please?

Being an art student, Italian Beard wanted to go see the Guggenheim & the St Maria of Salute Basilica.  Off we set, in their direction, blindly following his lead once again, presuming, that as an Italian, who'd been to Venice before, he'd know his way around.  However, this turned out to be rather a misconception, as we turned left & then right, over a bridge, round a corner, came to a dead end, back round, over another bridge, round another corner & so on for several hours.

My feet began to hurt, I was tired & getting hungry, still smarting from my €8 panini.  It got dark, it got cold.  Finally, we made it to the Guggenheim.  It had closed minutes before.  Drat.  A few minutes walk away was the church.  Also closed.  Double drat.  By this time I wanted to punch him in the face.  As a first date, things were not going well.

IB then wanted to go & check in at the police station, where he was bedding down for the night.  His father is a policeman & so, as family, he gets to use the accommodation available at any police station all over Italy.  Still worked out more expensive than the hostel I was staying in, but hey, I guess it's the novelty factor.  The station is set just outside of the main island, in Venice Mestre.  A ten minute bus ride away.  Once there, he checked in & then not long after, we hopped on a bus back.  All a bit pointless really & I was starting to feel as though the whole day had been.

By the time we got back to San Marco, it was late.  We'd picked Frary's vegan friendly restaurant, in San Polo for dinner & it closed at ten thirty.  Speed walking in the dark, I indicated to turn right, he said to go straight.  Off we trekked ahead, coming to a dead end & ended up doing a u-turn back to where I had bloody said to go.  Looking at the time, it was now ten twenty & I was about ready to eat my arm, after first ripping it off & beating him with it.  Finally we made it to the restaurant & thankfully, despite the time, they let us in to eat.

Frary's is a middle eastern restaurant, run by a group of Italian woman, that serves non-veg food, but has both vegetarian & vegan options.  I had a mammoth bowl of couscous, laden with roasted vegetables & accompanied by a vegetable soup, which I poured over, like a sauce.  It was quite delicious & I would recommend a visit.  Sadly, despite the good food & Billie Holiday playing out my favourite songs, the atmosphere between IB & I was awkward to say the least.  Every time I tried to strike up a conversation, he just seemed so uninterested.  I just gave up in the end.  At one point we sat in silence, both on our phones.

It is safe to say, that my hopes for an Italian photographer husband had dissolved.  Grateful that he paid the bill, we left, hopped on a vaporetto & departed ways at different stops.  It may be the most romantic thing someone's done for me, coming to Venice to see me, but sadly, it was clear, that being good on paper, just isn't enough.  If there's no spark, no common ground, then really, there's nothing.

I lost myself to Venice.

Waking up in Florence, after two hours sleep, I forced myself up & back into last night's clothes, in order to catch my bus to Venice.  I can't lie, I was harbouring an odour; a concoction of cigarettes, alcohol & my unwashed skin.  Things were not improved by last night's makeup still plastered precariously on my face.

Arriving excessively early for the bus, I sat & chatted to a young German girl, who was on her way to Milan.  We caught the bus to Bologna together & then parted ways.  I never even asked her name.  That's the strange thing about traveling, you meet so many people.  Some go on to be acquaintances you keep an eye on through social media, others lifelong friends & some, you never even know their name.  Such is this life.

Arriving in Venice after a five hour snooze, I wheeled my bag into the tourist office & bought myself a Rolling Venice Card.  This card is essential & if like me, you are twenty nine & under, it comes with a reduction.  For seventy two hours unlimited travel on all public transport, it costs €20 & an extra €4 for a booklet, which equally offers you reductions on everything from shopping to galleries & museums.  Without this, it is €7 each time you want to take the vaporetto!

Off I went to the nearest vaporetto stop, validating my card on the machine outside, before hopping on the number two & arriving on the island of Giudecca, by way of the Zitelle stop.  Checking in at the Generator Hostel, I was pleasantly surprised by how awesome it is!  For only €15 a night, this place is incredible & makes me wonder why all hostels aren't this way!  There's a free photo booth, a mish mash of vintage furniture & giant button-back leather sofas all downstairs, surrounding a cocktail & coffee bar.  The elevators are touch screen, there's exposed brick at every turn & the bedrooms, although lacking some essential lighting in places, are clean, modern & come with an en suite.  Having hostels in Barcelona, Berlin, Copenhagen, Hamburg & Dublin, I would say, if you're off on your travels, choose the Generator!

It was already late in the afternoon by the time I arrived & so, after dropping my things off in my room, I decided to go for a stroll around Giudecca, to investigate the island.  The weather was at times rather drizzly, but for most of it, there was some sun & so, I managed to take a few snaps.  Everything in Venice wants to be photographed.  From the laundry drying on lines between buildings, to the gondolas floating impatiently at the dockside.  Everything screams at you, demanding attention.  Although, I am convinced that I need a new camera, as I swear, all of my photos seem to come out blurry!  It's probably just my lack of photography skills in fairness, but I'll blame the camera in any case. 

Having my fill of the tiny island, I decided to take myself across on the vaporetto to San Marco, still using line two.  It was getting dark by this time & cold.  I took the advice of my friend Katie & decided to just get lost.  Strolling down alleyways, taking a left, than a right, over a bridge, round a corner.  So many shops, gleaming with trinkets & surprisingly very few people around.

Time ticked on & heading down yet another tiny road, I overhead someone ask for directions.  The Italian gentleman they were asking, responded, informing them that said vaporetto stop was closed.  Suddenly I panicked.  I didn't think to check what time the buses stopped!  Wide eyed, I started to head back for my stop, only I realised, I really was lost.  It got darker, it began to rain, the cold set in, I became fraught, imagining myself stuck on the wrong side of Venice all night.  Finally finding a stop, I leapt onto the bus as soon as it arrived & felt relief wash over me.

Unfortunately, it soon returned, as I came to realise this was not the right vaporetto.  Heading further & further away from where I wanted to be, I couldn't decided as to whether it would be better to hop off when I could, or stay on in the hope it would come back round.  Feeling sick that I'd miss the last bus, I finally asked one of the staff on board, who told me to stay on, as the boat would go full circle & I could get off where I started & then get on the right one.

Over an hour later, I finally made it back to Giudecca & back to the Generator.  Still feeling the sway of the boat, as I sat on my top bunk.  Maybe getting lost in Venice wasn't such a great idea after all.   Pulling my phone from my bag, I saw I had a message, from Beard, he was coming to see me in Venice the next day.  Could it be, things were on the upturn?

Oh Florence, the city of hope, continued.

Arising early yesterday, I threw on some clothes & headed to the kitchen for the free breakfast.  Sadly, it seemed I wasn't early enough & just about managed to scrape enough fruit together, to fill a bowl.  Afterwards, attempting to get organised, I showered, packed up my things & checked out of the hostel.  I still hadn't actually worked out where I was going after Florence or what the hell I was doing in general, but let's face it, I'm not known for my organisational skills.

Deciding to stay another night in the city, I found a cheaper hostel online, not far from the train station for the night.  Plus Florence, cheap, clean & fully equipped with an indoor pool, gym & rooftop terrace.  Still no sodding cooking facilities though!  In fact, this one doesn't even come with a microwave, you simply have to plump for the in-house restaurant.  Moving my luggage to the new accommodation, I made it my mission to spend the morning laying concrete plans for the next few days.

Despite some initial gut feelings that were putting me off going, I eventually committed myself to heading to Venice next.  My guide books had told me the fast train was going to cost about €45, which, I was nearly sick at the thought of spending, but seemed to tell me it was cheaper on the slower regional train.  However, when I looked online, I could only find the hefty priced version & so, being on the budget that I am, I decided to take the bus, a snip at €24.  However, with the website not being entirely clear where the bus depot was, I spent an hour stressing out, trying to find it.  Eventually, locating it on Via Santa Caterina da Siena, I booked it for 8:55am the next morning.

The bus from Florence to Venice is run by a combination of three bus companies, Baltour, Eurolines & Sena.  There are three departure times a day, 8:55am, 9:30am & 4:15pm, each taking five hours.  The first two require a change in Bologna & the latter is direct.  The first bus leaves from Via Santa Caterina da Siena, whilst the other two go from outside the city center.  Hence why I chose the first.

Feeling smug with myself, I booked up two nights in the Generator Hostel in Venice, through booking.com & went off to enjoy the markets I didn't have time for the previous day.  Firstly I walked to Piazza della Repubblica for the flower market, there every Thursday, 10am - 7pm.  This was a little disappointing.  In my mind I was thinking Chelsea Flower Show, in reality, it was a bad day at Homebase.  Deflated, I popped down the road to Piazza di Mercato Nuovo, for The Piggy & Straw Markets.  Stalls upon stalls, laden with brightly coloured fruit & vegetables, all willing me to photograph them.

Spurred on, I headed back to Piazza dei Ciompi to try to catch the Mercato delle Pulci flea market.  Thankfully, this time it was open, although, not all the hut-like stalls were, which was so disappointing, as I could see through their windows & it seemed as though all the best ones were closed.  Regardless, I still really enjoyed poking around at all the vintage ware & managed to buy a 1966 postcard, originally written & posted to Rome.  Not exactly necessary, but I liked it.

My last market for the day was in Piazza Ghiberti, but this was a bum note, as it was just another leather market & I'd seen it all before in San Lorenzo.  Having exhausted Florence's markets, I headed over to Via Ricasoli, to have a look around Galleria dell'Accademia & gawp at the wonder that is Michelangelo's statue of David.  Gosh, it was magnificent, it truly was.  How any man can carve such wonder out of stone, is beyond me!  Although, I have to say, that penis was very detailed.

Evening looming, I retired to my hostel & ended up making friends with my Mexican roommate.  Sadly he spoke little English & my Spanish is non-existent!  We somehow managed to hobble a conversation together, enough for him to tell me he'd been to the train station & managed to locate the cheap ticket for the train to Venice!  Bastard!  Of course, it was all too late by then, I'd booked the sodding bus.

Leaving him my number whilst he was in the shower, I headed back out to Piazza Duomo & met up with Katie, a very talented illustrator & fellow Brit, currently living in Florence, who I'd been in contact with through Instagram.  Ah social media, how you bring people together.  Katie, myself & her Finnish friend Salla, took a stroll across the river to Piazza San Spirito, for a vino bianco, my first in two months, at a little bar called Volume.  Sat outside, chatting away, the Mexican rang & later came to join us.  Unfortunately, Katie & Salla aren't Spanish speakers either, so poor Mexico got the cold shoulder most of the night, which I felt quite bad about.

There I am, sat sipping my vino & as I look across, I see Beard's doppelgänger sat at a table in the corner, giving me the eye.  Actually had to double check that it wasn't Beard!  Same face, same facial growth, but no tattoos.  Obviously I was interested & after a couple of hours of subtle glances & wry smiles, I eventually went & introduced myself.  What followed was me discovering my future photographer husband & rolling into my hostel at 5am.  Oh Venice, perhaps you come too soon.

Oh Florence, the city of hope.

Originally I had intended to spend two weeks in Florence, WWOOFing on a farm nearby, that housed forty horses.  I've wanted to work with horses in Italy for some time now & the place I'd found sounded ideal & were the only ones who needed help in winter.  Alas, they did not want me once they found out I was a vegan.  (I know, right!)  So, in the end, I decided to stay for just a few days & oh, what a few days I had!

Having not entirely realised how small Florence town center is, I paid a little extra & stayed in the Academy Hostel, as it is situated right round the corner from Florence's main attraction, the Basilica di Santa Maria Fiore.  The hostel itself was nice & the staff friendly, but what is up with all these hostels & their lack of kitchen facilities!?  I have quinoa to cook damn it!  Don't they know how hard it is to be vegan when traveling!  Pffft.

On my first day in town, having arrived quite late in the afternoon, I dropped my things off in my room & headed out, first stop being the Duomo.  I almost cannot describe its magnificence.  The patterned marble facade is beautiful.  I'll say one thing for these Italians, they're resplendent when it comes to architecture.  Entry to the building is free, so obviously I didn't turn it down.  I was so disappointed at first though.  The interior was so bland, so lacklustre, after the initial allure of the outer shell.  Then, as I moved towards the alter, I looked up & there, beaming down from the dome was The Last Judgement.  A ridiculously large fresco, covering the entire surface of the dome's ceiling, leaving me breathless.

The weather was far better than I thought it would be, even to the point, I shed my jacket & strolled around in just a sweater & jeans.  Meandering around the city streets, I came across Shake Café, a gelateria on Via Degli Avelli, specialising in natural juices, along with healthy wraps & salads, including tofu filled, vegan friendly options.  When I saw they did milkshakes with the option of soya milk, I forgot about my soy intolerance & marched straight in, ordering a Vanilla Sky (Vanilla, banana & honey).  It was so delicious that it was gone by the time I crossed the piazza to enter the Basilica Santa Maria Novella.  Which, by the by, is not free, as the internet informed me & so refusing to pay to enter a church, I didn't bother with.

Keen on visiting every market happening in the city, I headed to Piazza San Lorenzo, to take a look at the leather market.  Walking down the streets, encased by stalls, it felt more like a cattle market, only with me as the goods.  Every seller trying to hussle me, catcalling & trying to convince me to buy their overpriced, hideously coloured leather jackets.  Be gone swines!  I don't want your tat!  Although, I will admit, I did end up parting with money for a small leather drawstring bag, from a mature female seller at the end of the line.  I'm convincing myself it'll be great for summer & perfect for festivals, that's my justification, anyway.

With the night closing in, I made a final attempt to reach the Mercato delle Pulci flea market, in Piazza dei Ciompi.  However, just as I was hovering under a street lamp, attempting to find my direction, map in hand, a voice called out to me, asking if I needed help.  Sounding American & handsome, I turned to look & happily saw that the voice did in fact match the face.  Only, he wasn't American, but Italian, fluent in English, with a quaint, well traveled accent.  Sadly he was heading in one direction & I another, but he gave me his card.  Unfortunately, by the time I reached the market, it was too late & was closed.  Disappointed, I grabbed some bread from a nearby bakery & trekked off home to my hostel.

The Academy Hostel offers free pizza & wine to its guests in the evening.  Obviously a margarita isn't exactly vegan friendly, so I got comfy in the kitchen with my olives & legumes, but bless the receptionist, she came up to me, mid meal, brandishing some bruschetta she'd made, just for me.  I do love a good bit of customer services.

To be continued...

Ciao da Pisa!

After a two month break in England, I have finally made it back to Italy.  A brutal early morning wake up call, a few sobs at the airport, hugging mère goodbye & a short flight & I am in Pisa.  Land of the wonky tower. 

Getting the Lam Rossa bus from the airport to the Piazza dei Miracoli, a snip at €1.20, I walked around the corner to my hostel, Hostel Pisa Tower.  Handy location & for €16 for the night, I can't really complain, although, with no real kitchen facilities, being a vegan in Pisa is not a convenient option.

Having only a day in the city, I decided to follow an itinerary by Around Tuscany.  Although, rather in reverse.  Starting back in the Piazza dei Miracoli, I obviously went straight for the Torre Pendente & oh, what a sight.  I'm a cliche, I know it, but, I only really came to Pisa for the leaning tower & I have to admit, even if I had done nothing else all day, that sight alone was worth it.

After gazing admiringly at it for quite some time, under my umbrella, I moved on to the duomo, which is free to enter, but you do have to acquire a ticket from the Museo delle Sinopie next door.  Don't ask me why, but you do.  [rolls eyes]  I'm in no way religious & don't get any kind of 'vibe' in a church, but darn it, some of them are spectacular, especially the gilded ceilings & this one did not disappoint!  Well worth a visit, especially as it's free.

Deciding to dedicate some time to the joys of the square, I popped back into the Museo delle Sinopie & bought a due ingresso ticket, which allows you to pick any two attractions in the square to visit, for €7, otherwise, they are €5 each.  They do other combinations, tre ingresso for €9 & quattro for €10.  However, the Museo delle Sinopie & the Battistero looked kinda boring, so I just opted to see the Camposanto & the Museo dell' Opera del Duomo.

The Camposanto Monumentale is a cemetery, which was somewhat destroyed before World War two & then ravaged again during restoration work, due to the outbreak of war.  Now with the roof restored & many of the original frescos salvaged, it is a great place to visit.  Equally so is the Museo dell' Opera del Duomo, which is quite large & takes more time to fully take in, than I envisaged.

Housing original works of art from over eighteen hundred years ago, which, I would like to add, are not in any way encased & therefore took all my will power not to grope!  Unlike stiff museums & galleries in England, Italy has a very relaxed policy & whilst you may see a CCTV camera about, there isn't anyone standing by to tell you off for poking a finger at a thousand year old statue.  Much to my glee!

Leaving the square entirely, I pottered off down Via Santa Maria & took a right turn down Via del Mille to Piazza dei Cavalieri.  A huge open expanse, surrounded by the Scuola Normale Superiore (an amazing building), Torre della Muda & the Santa Stefano dei Cavalieri church.  Not much to do there, but worth it for any architectural lovers.

Taking a right turn down Via Ulisse Dini until Via Borgo Stretto, I strolled along, popping in & out of a few shops.  Finally reaching the end of the road, with night upon me, I crossed over the Ponte di Mezzo, stopping midway to take a snap of the river.  Unfortunately, due to lack of camera skills, I was not successful in gaining a nice shot, but the scene itself was rather special.

After a quick walk down the road to see the Chiesa di S.Maria Spina, I carried on down the Corso Italia, which is a long shopping strip.  Made the obligatory visit to Zara naturally, although, walked out empty handed & full of longing.  [sigh]  Taking my retail sorrow to the end of the road, I ended up at Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, where, just to my right, I got to see Keith Haring's colourful mural.

Satiated with my day's excursions, I dashed into a local supermarket to grab something for dinner.  Whilst paying for my olives & lentils I got the shakes & nearly had a cardiovascular breakdown, when I found my hostel keys were gone from my jacket pocket.  All I can say is, I have never been so happy to find something in my jean's pocket in all my life.  [phew]

Off to Florence tomorrow!  Ciao!