I left you in a train in north Italy as the heavens opened resulting in the windows being forced shut and the train carriage reaching levels of humidity on a par with a rainforest. It’s not a place you want to be stuck in so I’ll move you on. I never wanted to go to Milan but that crooked finger of fate was pointing me there. It took longer to come down the alps than I expected so instead of making it to Vicenza I settled for the city of the damned.
There are a couple of reasons I didn’t want to go to Milan. The first was that it got a couple of bad word-of-mouth reviews, the second was that I dated a hypochondriac mother-complex woman from Milan for a while before I got to know her well. In one of her flirty moments she told me a story about a friend of hers that had pushed her over. Her Dad then got some guys to beat him up. She joked that if I upset her she would have the same thing done to me. It was somewhat comforting that her father had been run over and killed years earlier but when I remembered she had a picture of me I started to become worried. I imagined that as I walked along a rain swept Milan street a black car would screech to a halt beside me and I would be taking a short drive to my death.
When I got in at the train station Milan struck me as a concrete jungle. I briefly attempted to work out how to get to the youth hostel before settling for a taxi. It’s lucky I did because the hostel was almost in another town. It was housed in semi-industrial, semi-suburban wasteland. The bus stops were full of hookers and the 4th annual pimp conference was being held in the park. The hostel itself reminded me of a high school. It had that linoleum floor and dorm feel, with metal lockers outside that were constantly banging open and shut. It felt like bells were going to start ringing any second.
I’didn’t get a very good ‘ight’s sleep due to the combination of another snorer, the pimp conference outside and the banging lockers. I got out of there pronto and headed to the station with the intention of going to Verona. When I got to the station I felt sweaty and shaky. I was threatening rapid fluid loss from both ends. I had a stomach bug but whether it was from the water, the roadside vendor sausage or the off milk mixed with faeces that they served for breakfast I wasn’t sure. Perhaps the spark of recognition the server gave when I asked for hot chocolate saw him reaching for the instant poison instead. Whatever the source was, I was not in good shape.
I made it onto the train and sank into a half sleep until my stop arrived and I foolishly tried to figure out the map and walk to the youth hostel. I now know that what I thought was the river was in fact a canal leading me to the wrong side of town. As to what happened next, well, it’s really disgusting and embarrassing so I’m going to make it request only. If you want to know what happened between here and my arrival at the hostel then you will have to email me and ask.
The hostel in Verona is unbelievably good. It’s an old villa perched halfway up a hill with a big garden. It’s a very relaxing place and the perfect spot to get over a sore tummy. So I’m staying here for the maximum five days to build my strength up. I’ve had little wanders around here and there. Further up the hill on the ridge is an old Roman wall. It just pops up and blends into the scenery as most of the old Roman relics seem to do. The wall is made up of an inner and outer one and you can walk in between them with a legionnaire strut. To get over it the smelly Barbarian hordes would have had to climb the ridge, get past a 20 foot ditch, climb a 30 foot wall past Roman defenders, avoid being killed in between the inner and outer wall, get over the inner wall and fight the soldiers in the city. You can see why it didn’t happen too often.
Verona is quite a small place which suits me fine. There’s not too much hustle and apart from the crowds gathering for the opera it’s been a relaxing stay. Venice, Florence and Rome await so I think I’ll need my energy.
Ciao,
Dave.
