Suddenly, in the middle of the night, I woke up . The landscape around the train was full of double decker wagons, filled with new cars. I realized that we were at Linares-Baeza, home to SEAT’’s biggest production line. All those new cars where ready to get transported accross Europe and the mediteranean. We left the industrial landscape and I resumed my sleep.
I continued my uncomfortable sleep through the night, only to wake up as the Andalucian sun was begining to hit the train. I pulled back the curtains and realized that we were passing through endless olive groves. Man this was Andalucia.
My Odysey began as soon as I had left the train. I started negotiating the bus system. I took the wrong bus, stopped somewhere where I from where I could do nothing but retrace my steps up until the last turn of the bus, and got lost. Adding to my problems, was the fact that I could not really understand what tha locals where telling me (Andalucian is quite the odd dialect).
Eventually crawling through a web of missconceptions and mistakes, I eventually managed to negotiate my way to the next bus. As the minibus started to crawl the hill oposite the Alhambra, I finaly got to relax. My trip was finaly ending. I got off at the right stop, managed to follow all the instructions to the end. And there I was up for the next susrprise. I was DEFINATELY in front of the right building. But it seemed to be in a mess. Everything was out of the building and noone was answering the phone. After about half an hour of waiting, an Australian appeared at the door. He informed me that the hostel had been closed due to bugs that some guy contracted in Morroco and brought with him in the building in May.
Damn! There went my 15 euro deposit and I had to look all over again! I started my long descent into the city under the hot Andalucian sun. When I was close to the bottom of the hill, I decided it was time for a small rest. I sat down facing the Alhambra. The enormous fort was just sitting there, it’s windows gaping towards my direction. It was as if it was laughing at me. Stupid Westerner being angry and stressed over all these stupid things. I should have learned to go through this kind of problems.
That was when my father called to see how things where going. I asked him if he could find me someplace to stay via internet, because the hostel was shut. He told me to give him a few minutes but, to see if I could find something myself too, before closing the phone. I continued moving towards downtown Granada. I had not seen any hotel or hostel of any sort, when my dad called. He said he found a hostal someplace under the Cathedral, and that he could book something for me. I asked him to do it and send me the details. After a few moments an adress, a name and a phone number came up on my screen. I called as I was passing through the courtyard of the Cathedral. It took me a few calls to understand what the Andalucian at the other end of the line was telling me,
So after another wave of missunderstandings and craziness, I was dislodging my belongings at yet another room which had the bare necessities. I sat on the bed under the fan, and in a few seocnds I was sound asleep.. I woke up a few hours later. It was night and all the Alhambra would not be open until the next morning. I had some ways to kill time though. Granada is a town that depends a lot on its university (one of the best and the oldest in the Hiberian Peninsula), and that could mean a lot of things about the town’s bars and restaurants. I went downtown and drove myself crazy with the tapas and the beer. The night ended with me sitting outside one bar and watching some nice looking English girls chat. Any attempt to approach them though, seemed to be repealed by a wave of denial. Truth is that they were a bit too posh for my teeth, so the only thing I could do was just watch.
I woke up the next morning and decided to get into the Alhambra. I climbed aboard a small minibus and climbed again the hills surrounding the town. This time I did it from the opposite direction. As I was starting to ascend on my way to the magnificent palace, probably the best example of arabic presence in Europe, a canvas was unfolding to my left. For the first time Icould see the old residential neighborhoods of the town as a whole, and not from the viewpoint of a tired traveller navigating their streets. When I reached the palace, I realised what the Islamophobic knitpickers have been missing the whole time. The Alhambra was creates at a time when the christian west was either chasing witches, or being tormented by never-ending wars. At a time when the Arabs where rescuing artifacts, science and philosophy, the christians where operating like cross carrying jihadis . No wonder why the Arabic scholars of the time viewed Europeans as savages. The Alhambra was an architectural masterpiece in a time when Europe was being destroyed by religious fanaticism. Even if one counts out the tactical ingenuity of its fortification and the way it contacted its network of outposts (actually the Alhambra worked more as a coordination station between some outposts and barracks than as a defencive structure itself), one can sit and just watch the decorations and the craftsmanship of the interior of the buildings, a virtue that was then possessed by a lucky few craftsmen working of tiles drawings and building in the Arabic world.
After taking a close look into the castle, I decided to take a walk along the path passing right under the Alhambra. This path (or walkway if translated correctly), was closely linked with one of the most celebrated poets of Europe, friend to Salvador Dali and Luis Bunuel, and local hero. Frederico Garcia Lorca. Under any circumstances this quiet walkway, could be a lover’s spot. But at the moment when I was walking along the path, there where only a few tourists and pensioners enjoying the quiet street. I walked and walked until I got completely lost in the forest. Then I sat down and listened to the calls of nature. It was just magnificent and I was in the middle of it. Later as I was walking bck toward town, I saw a memorial plate, similar to the ones I had spotted in Bologna. This was dedicated to Frederico Garcia Lorca. Apparently the poet liked walking along this way. One of his poems was on this plate, not his photo nor his bust.
As I was descending back to town, I felt the warm Andalucian afternoon arrive. It was warmish but not hot. I went for a change of clothes and a bath. The night was coming and suddenly I was thinking of Frederico and the other three, executed some eight kilometres away from here, by the Fascists. As the big semifinal was coming, I was feeling a great shadow being cast over the town. I felt the ghost of Lorca lurking around, waiting to see the faces of those who murdered him, taking part in all this.
As the sun was setting I was more and more in need of one last drink. So I went back to the tapas bars and sipped one beer after another, eating one tapa after another, while I was watching the Furias Rojas waltz their way into the finals of the European Championship. I left a town painted red, to get to sleep. A twentyfour-hour trip awaited me next morning, and I needed all the rest I could take. So I surrendered to the warm Andalucian night, in anticipation of my 11:00 AM Cercania to Seville.
Εμφάνιση αναρτήσεων με ετικέτα The Interrail Diaries. Εμφάνιση όλων των αναρτήσεων
Εμφάνιση αναρτήσεων με ετικέτα The Interrail Diaries. Εμφάνιση όλων των αναρτήσεων
Τρίτη 25 Οκτωβρίου 2011
Δευτέρα 16 Μαΐου 2011
Valencia
Run! That was the declaration of the guy at the ticket counter, as soon as he had given me my ticket to Valencia. As soon as I had it in my hands , I dashed through all checkpoints and within two minutes I was seated inside the Altaria. I was there just at the nick of time. Now that WAS a relief. It was an early morning departure. And a spectacular one , for what it’s worth.
As I was relaxing the train was speeding through a very familiar landscape. The southeastern coast of Spain. I had been there two years before, and the scene remained virtually unchanged. I saw the empty hotel complexes, I saw whatever remained of those that where being demolished in the past, but, more importantly, I saw the redevelopment of the areas between Barcelona and Tarragona, that where slowly turning into some sort of an industrial zone. Spain was changing, again. And, despite that, everything looked, almost the same. I guess tourist zones never really change.
As I reached the central train terminal in Valencia, things where changing. We had drifted from the coast to the mainland, and, now stadiums and high tech exposition venues where all the rage.. Valencia can come close to being an industrial town which has a tourist side. In fact I was staying at it’s “picturesque” zone, a hostel that was situated almost next to the historical centre..
After shacking up, I commenced a small raid on the local supermarket, and bought some food. And since getting a little bit of sleep was of the essence, I went into the dorm and took a nap until mid afternoon.
I woke up at around six. It was about time to take a walk around and see the suroundings of the hostel. I snooped around a bit before I found the local mosque. One of the few left in Spain, it is probably the best preserved Arabic religious monument in the area. But, to my great misfortune, it was being renovated and I could not enter. I was stuck with being able to see only the façade. So I decided to take one more spin. As I walked through the city I watched a married couple riding an old Citroen. Two of the onlookers commented that it was one of Franco’s favourite models. Valencia, was, at some point, the capital of Spain’s democratic government. I do not really know Franco’s ideas had any impact on the population, but it is more likely that Valencia fell because of strategic mistakes. This is what happens when Stalinists are in charge of any movement, be it a resistance movement or a revolutionary one. Franco tormented the townsfolk. The local dialect was outlawed, along with everything else that was deemed inappropriate by the regime.
I spent the night eating pizza with the roommates (two swedes and some australians before going out on the roof to enjoy a few ales under the Valencian sky.
The next day was spent walking in the sidestreets of the city. Meanwhile, the city, like the rest of Spain, was in “Furias Rojas” fever, since Spain was on its bid to the European Championship. And things were going their side. Red and yellow flags were flying everywhere and the city was in a festive mood.
Meanwhile the sidestreets where full of old men searching for sex-for-sale. Lines of street hookers where on display and old men where lining up for them. Gross, gross,gross…… I kept walking away from all this looking for something to catch my eye. Suddenly I saw a painting of Tintin appear in front of me. There was a very wide collection of Tintin related articles, from a poster for a forthcoming golf tournament to the famous demonstration strip from the famous rogue anarchist comic book Adventures of Tintin: Breaking Free.
By then night had come and a small night out was planned. We decided to go to an English-style pub, called the Picadilly. Brit-pop music, faces that where reminiscent of the “baggy” era of Madchester and a table football set, equipped with a local Ian Brown lookalike that would not leave unless someone beat him in a game. Of course, trying that was hopeless, since the guy was the local table football champ. So humiliated as we where, we retreated to a table to finish our booze.
On the final day the Valencian heat was terrible. I stayed in until almost midnight, when it was time to leave and catch the night train to Granada
As I was relaxing the train was speeding through a very familiar landscape. The southeastern coast of Spain. I had been there two years before, and the scene remained virtually unchanged. I saw the empty hotel complexes, I saw whatever remained of those that where being demolished in the past, but, more importantly, I saw the redevelopment of the areas between Barcelona and Tarragona, that where slowly turning into some sort of an industrial zone. Spain was changing, again. And, despite that, everything looked, almost the same. I guess tourist zones never really change.
As I reached the central train terminal in Valencia, things where changing. We had drifted from the coast to the mainland, and, now stadiums and high tech exposition venues where all the rage.. Valencia can come close to being an industrial town which has a tourist side. In fact I was staying at it’s “picturesque” zone, a hostel that was situated almost next to the historical centre..
After shacking up, I commenced a small raid on the local supermarket, and bought some food. And since getting a little bit of sleep was of the essence, I went into the dorm and took a nap until mid afternoon.
I woke up at around six. It was about time to take a walk around and see the suroundings of the hostel. I snooped around a bit before I found the local mosque. One of the few left in Spain, it is probably the best preserved Arabic religious monument in the area. But, to my great misfortune, it was being renovated and I could not enter. I was stuck with being able to see only the façade. So I decided to take one more spin. As I walked through the city I watched a married couple riding an old Citroen. Two of the onlookers commented that it was one of Franco’s favourite models. Valencia, was, at some point, the capital of Spain’s democratic government. I do not really know Franco’s ideas had any impact on the population, but it is more likely that Valencia fell because of strategic mistakes. This is what happens when Stalinists are in charge of any movement, be it a resistance movement or a revolutionary one. Franco tormented the townsfolk. The local dialect was outlawed, along with everything else that was deemed inappropriate by the regime.
I spent the night eating pizza with the roommates (two swedes and some australians before going out on the roof to enjoy a few ales under the Valencian sky.
The next day was spent walking in the sidestreets of the city. Meanwhile, the city, like the rest of Spain, was in “Furias Rojas” fever, since Spain was on its bid to the European Championship. And things were going their side. Red and yellow flags were flying everywhere and the city was in a festive mood.
Meanwhile the sidestreets where full of old men searching for sex-for-sale. Lines of street hookers where on display and old men where lining up for them. Gross, gross,gross…… I kept walking away from all this looking for something to catch my eye. Suddenly I saw a painting of Tintin appear in front of me. There was a very wide collection of Tintin related articles, from a poster for a forthcoming golf tournament to the famous demonstration strip from the famous rogue anarchist comic book Adventures of Tintin: Breaking Free.
By then night had come and a small night out was planned. We decided to go to an English-style pub, called the Picadilly. Brit-pop music, faces that where reminiscent of the “baggy” era of Madchester and a table football set, equipped with a local Ian Brown lookalike that would not leave unless someone beat him in a game. Of course, trying that was hopeless, since the guy was the local table football champ. So humiliated as we where, we retreated to a table to finish our booze.
On the final day the Valencian heat was terrible. I stayed in until almost midnight, when it was time to leave and catch the night train to Granada
Δευτέρα 28 Φεβρουαρίου 2011
Barcelona again (chasing ghosts of voyages past)
By sundown I had reached the Estacion Franca, and was in the process of searching for the hostel. Once again I was lost. The hours past and I was becoming more and more disoriented. Yet Barcelona still mistyfied me. I was still looking for a way to join in the decadant and vibrant atmosphere of the town. Barcelona still sinks to a mindboggling beat. After seemingly hours of searching, I found some metro station and started following directions to the hostel. Upon my arrival another problem appeared. I had booked a bed, but from the next day and on. Finaly I managed to get a bed for the night, and left my belongings in there. I was just into my clean clothes and looking for something to eat, when one of the German students staying in the hostel barged in through the reception and said something about a nude guy appearing in the deli nextdoor. I went in and watched the commotion. In reality nobody was reacting. This is Barcelona, anyway. Someone can get into an establishment of any sort, butt-naked, without anyone even blinking an eye. Locals tend to be very open about a lot of things.
I wrote about Barcelona’s unique architectural style in previous posts. But in fact, I had not seen even half of the city’s monuments. I had to do the rounds once more. After all this was my reason for being in town, Barcelona was not a pit stop this time. It was something more. And while I was still chasing away memories of my previous stay there, I had my mind set on visiting whatever I had missed out previously.
So the first place to visit that was in the stay’s orders, was Park Guel. One of Antoni Gaudi’s masterpieces. Comissioned by wealthy count Eusebi Guell, the park is divided in two sections. The botanic section, wich is the biggest one and offers a splendid view of the city and a quiet walk for people who want to wind up, and the monument section, which is the focus point for all tourist groups. Inspired by the Garden City movement, Lewis Carol’s “Alice in Wonderland”, and the sea, full of cave-like arks and recycled elements from an older housing estates. And all these seem strange if one takes into consideration the fact that Gaudi himself was very religious. His house, is a simple structure, the only decoration of wich, is a portrait of the pope opposite to Gaudi’s bed.
The exploration of the Park, continued for the best part of my day. At some part of the walk around I saw a very familiar scene. An anarchist squat. The anarchist movement has a great tradition in the Peninsula and especially around Catalunya, since the beginning of the 20th century. I will not comment on the history of the anarchist movement, but I saw a banner that got me thinking. “Tourists Go Home” , it wrote. I think this is very contradictory. How can one wjo envisages a world with no borders and free mobility of people, tell some foreigner (even a tourist) to go? Is this for real? On the other hand this seems to reflect on the attitude of some of the locals. La Rambla is full of tourists, thieves,dirt,drugs. Only the sea of neon lights could be missing. But then again, this is Barcelona, and all this can still be overlooked. In the mean time, the night of Sant Joan is approaching, and I hear homemade fireworks everywhere.
The night is a big party that concludes with the burning of the huge statue of Sant Joan somewhere near Barceloneta. Before that, the statue is being moved through the city streets, accompanied by runners, cyclists and marching bands. The night is long and uneventful.
The next day was dedicated to sports. Sort of. I had decided to pay a visit to the hills. Montjouik the hill of Jews in ancient Catalan. The area houses the biggest park in the metropolitan area of Barcelona, a 17th century castle overseeing the port, a big part of the 1992 Olympic Complex, the Miro Museum and the Palau Nacional. Probably it is the perfect example of Barcelona’s mix and match architectural style. The architecture of the castle (wich was a prison for political prisoners including the infamous Salvador Puig Antich, during Franco’s rule), is combined with the Belle Epoque Styled Palau Nacional, and Santiago Calatrava’s Olympic ring are all situated within a 3 mile radius. The castle can be reached via monorail (the Funicular) or, if you are into walking-cycling, through the local streets (which used to be the Montjuic Street Circuit, until the mid seventies). It took me 15 minutes to reach the castle with the funicular, and some 20 minutes downhill to reach the Miro Museum wich was close to the start of the Funicular. I gave about twenty euros to what seemed to me the most lifeless and boring museum ever, wich gave me no feeling of the era when Miro operated, even though the collection was a really good assortment of his work, wich expanded from architecture to painting and modern sculpture. Miro was one of Barcelona’s profilic architects, though overshadowed by the mighty Gaudi, and certainly one of its grandest painters. Mind you though, the museum doesn’t serve him right.
The following night I followed a lone Quaker to a local pub. He was good company and turned out to be a good conversationalist for a 19 year old American. Looks like Quakers can be very liberal. By the end of the night I was kinda wasted, and falling a victim of the mugger patrol. Thank god I found out fast enough and chased the thief’s away screaming things about chopping their heads of in Spanish and various nice things I would do to their families if they did not leave my wallet. In the end I was just some thirty five euros short, and they had left my wallet and cashcards there. The end of the night had come. And the end of my last day in town. I had spent some nights in Barcelona, and emerged unharmed and able to continue my quest. Gosts chased away, and nightmares run over, I was ready to move to Valencia.
I wrote about Barcelona’s unique architectural style in previous posts. But in fact, I had not seen even half of the city’s monuments. I had to do the rounds once more. After all this was my reason for being in town, Barcelona was not a pit stop this time. It was something more. And while I was still chasing away memories of my previous stay there, I had my mind set on visiting whatever I had missed out previously.
So the first place to visit that was in the stay’s orders, was Park Guel. One of Antoni Gaudi’s masterpieces. Comissioned by wealthy count Eusebi Guell, the park is divided in two sections. The botanic section, wich is the biggest one and offers a splendid view of the city and a quiet walk for people who want to wind up, and the monument section, which is the focus point for all tourist groups. Inspired by the Garden City movement, Lewis Carol’s “Alice in Wonderland”, and the sea, full of cave-like arks and recycled elements from an older housing estates. And all these seem strange if one takes into consideration the fact that Gaudi himself was very religious. His house, is a simple structure, the only decoration of wich, is a portrait of the pope opposite to Gaudi’s bed.
The exploration of the Park, continued for the best part of my day. At some part of the walk around I saw a very familiar scene. An anarchist squat. The anarchist movement has a great tradition in the Peninsula and especially around Catalunya, since the beginning of the 20th century. I will not comment on the history of the anarchist movement, but I saw a banner that got me thinking. “Tourists Go Home” , it wrote. I think this is very contradictory. How can one wjo envisages a world with no borders and free mobility of people, tell some foreigner (even a tourist) to go? Is this for real? On the other hand this seems to reflect on the attitude of some of the locals. La Rambla is full of tourists, thieves,dirt,drugs. Only the sea of neon lights could be missing. But then again, this is Barcelona, and all this can still be overlooked. In the mean time, the night of Sant Joan is approaching, and I hear homemade fireworks everywhere.
The night is a big party that concludes with the burning of the huge statue of Sant Joan somewhere near Barceloneta. Before that, the statue is being moved through the city streets, accompanied by runners, cyclists and marching bands. The night is long and uneventful.
The next day was dedicated to sports. Sort of. I had decided to pay a visit to the hills. Montjouik the hill of Jews in ancient Catalan. The area houses the biggest park in the metropolitan area of Barcelona, a 17th century castle overseeing the port, a big part of the 1992 Olympic Complex, the Miro Museum and the Palau Nacional. Probably it is the perfect example of Barcelona’s mix and match architectural style. The architecture of the castle (wich was a prison for political prisoners including the infamous Salvador Puig Antich, during Franco’s rule), is combined with the Belle Epoque Styled Palau Nacional, and Santiago Calatrava’s Olympic ring are all situated within a 3 mile radius. The castle can be reached via monorail (the Funicular) or, if you are into walking-cycling, through the local streets (which used to be the Montjuic Street Circuit, until the mid seventies). It took me 15 minutes to reach the castle with the funicular, and some 20 minutes downhill to reach the Miro Museum wich was close to the start of the Funicular. I gave about twenty euros to what seemed to me the most lifeless and boring museum ever, wich gave me no feeling of the era when Miro operated, even though the collection was a really good assortment of his work, wich expanded from architecture to painting and modern sculpture. Miro was one of Barcelona’s profilic architects, though overshadowed by the mighty Gaudi, and certainly one of its grandest painters. Mind you though, the museum doesn’t serve him right.
The following night I followed a lone Quaker to a local pub. He was good company and turned out to be a good conversationalist for a 19 year old American. Looks like Quakers can be very liberal. By the end of the night I was kinda wasted, and falling a victim of the mugger patrol. Thank god I found out fast enough and chased the thief’s away screaming things about chopping their heads of in Spanish and various nice things I would do to their families if they did not leave my wallet. In the end I was just some thirty five euros short, and they had left my wallet and cashcards there. The end of the night had come. And the end of my last day in town. I had spent some nights in Barcelona, and emerged unharmed and able to continue my quest. Gosts chased away, and nightmares run over, I was ready to move to Valencia.
Δευτέρα 5 Ιουλίου 2010
Exit France-Enter Spain
Finally my boarding time had arrived. I was due on the old TGV for Montpellier, where I would board the Talgo to Barcelona Estacion Franca. The quick trip to Montpellier was a beautiful experience. Though the trip lasts only a little more than an hour, the terrain is varied. The train goes past agricultural farms, villages and bridges. It is one of the most beautiful scenic train routes in Europe, only compared to the routes between Athens and Thessaloniki, Miranda del Evro and Bilbao, Leon and A Coruna, Rome and Bologna, most of the Scottish Rail Highlands routes, and the ride between Narbonne and Barcelona. Montpellier itself is a beautiful small town, very traditional in its looks, but also modern. I only wish I could stay longer, but unfortunately I had to make a 15 minute dash to the ticket counters and back toward the lines, to buy the ticket and catch the connecting train to Barcelona. In the end I arrived at my seat with a sigh of relief. It was not as movie-like as my connection in Milan, but hell it was frantic.. Once I had boarded the train, it started to move. I was at the nick of time! I was rolling again towards Barcelona. Again I was looking around with awe. The scenery of the south-western coast of France can be breathtaking. As the sun was striking noon, we were passing through sandy beahes, lakes , marinas and coastal towns. The water looked crystal clear. Near the afternoon we had finally reached Narbonne, and I was reliving the my past trip. Now the train was drifting into the mainland, getting ready to start crossing the Pyrinees. Soon we where into Perpignan, in the French part of Catalunya. I was listening to Fermin Muguruza, the illegalised Basque singer yelling Maputxe , when we had finally arrived at the border crossing of Portbou. As the train was slowly progressing toward the Spanish part of the station and a border patrol was checking us, I watched a group of Morrocan, Senegalese and Mauritanian immigrants where sitting at the blazing sun, handcuffed, desperate and scared. Fortress Europe on the rise, that is. Instead of what is written on the Statue of Liberty, what European governments are saying is, “I do not care what happens to them, as long as they do not step on my soil”. And, Southern Europe being the frontier, this is what one can see on it’s borderline. Houndreds of hopefulls, in a desperate dream of finding a way out for their future. People who are almost doomed in their homelands, trying to make it for a breakthrough. And in the process, some of them being caught by authorities and thus facing an uncertain future. Meanwhile the train has been handed over to RENFE, and we are now crossing through the Catalan landscape towards Barcelona. I see familiar names and places passing by. Girona, Figueras.... Amparanoia are playing Buen Rollito through my earphones, and I am reaching Barcelona, to chase away the ghosts of my last stay there…..
A very French overview, thank you!
As I was leaving France, Nicola Sharkozy was reaching yet another all-time low in opinion polls. Since then, Sharkozy has not reemerged, and he seems to be sinking further deep. While his popularity is still sinking, attacks left and right and unpopular decisions make him even more vulnerable to the public’s eyes. Then and now are virtually unchanged. The criticism remains virtually the same, with Sharkozy coming under attacks for racist politics, corruption, cohorting with African Despots and, of course, leading a provocative lifestyle while the public has to battle set-after-set of measures by means of spending and wages cuts and privatisations. Thank god that French Unions still maintain their fighting traditions. On the other hand the political figures of the Left, though maintaining a militant form of speech, they are usually turning into reformist proposals, and mild criticism of capitalism when ti come to publicly expressing their ideas or drafting a political program.
Yet, despite the fact that the popular right is at a loss, the far right doe not stand to gain. And that is because Sharkozy stole part of its audience by putting racist and nationalist ideas in the centre of his politics. Despite it all the ones that make gains are on the left. And while the left itself has significant gains to show, the most of them turn towards the centre left . And that does not have to do with the question of ideas. That has to do with proof of being the lesser evil, i.e. the Socialist Party. And this does not really go without consequences. Recent mistakes and the emergence of the NPA (New Anticapitalist Party) and Olivier Bezancenaut, made the Socialist lose some face in the polls. Yet, for the NPA to become the government, or a widely heard voice in France, there are bold decisions that have to be made. A carefull plan on alliances, a clear and steady political programme, and putting forward strong socialist ideas. This, however, remains to be made. It seems as if the politics of the major players in NPA, have to do more with communicational tricks than political substance. But activism without providing a political program does not constitute a political answer, some groups within the NPA argue. Yet the party elite seems oblivious to these voices and the party does not take steps to produce anything but appearances of its leader on strikes and demos. As if politics is only a matter of PR, and not of communicating your ideas to the public.
And with the economic crisis looming over France, noone knows what will happen next and how……
Yet, despite the fact that the popular right is at a loss, the far right doe not stand to gain. And that is because Sharkozy stole part of its audience by putting racist and nationalist ideas in the centre of his politics. Despite it all the ones that make gains are on the left. And while the left itself has significant gains to show, the most of them turn towards the centre left . And that does not have to do with the question of ideas. That has to do with proof of being the lesser evil, i.e. the Socialist Party. And this does not really go without consequences. Recent mistakes and the emergence of the NPA (New Anticapitalist Party) and Olivier Bezancenaut, made the Socialist lose some face in the polls. Yet, for the NPA to become the government, or a widely heard voice in France, there are bold decisions that have to be made. A carefull plan on alliances, a clear and steady political programme, and putting forward strong socialist ideas. This, however, remains to be made. It seems as if the politics of the major players in NPA, have to do more with communicational tricks than political substance. But activism without providing a political program does not constitute a political answer, some groups within the NPA argue. Yet the party elite seems oblivious to these voices and the party does not take steps to produce anything but appearances of its leader on strikes and demos. As if politics is only a matter of PR, and not of communicating your ideas to the public.
And with the economic crisis looming over France, noone knows what will happen next and how……
Δευτέρα 2 Νοεμβρίου 2009
Marseille by day and by Night
No sooner than my nightly arrival at the hotel, somewhere in the proximity of Lycee Perrier, I started my walk around the port city of Marseille. Marseille may not be so famous to common travellers; at least it does not reach the glitter of Paris. But to people who love French culture, Marseille is something like a gospel. Probably because Marseille is more real than Paris, in the sense that it has not adopted a glamorous image, but they way the city presents itself to the tourist is closer to its reality, rather than try to hide its problems under the carpet. Other than that, Marseille is by nature multicultural, and some of France’s most prominent faces in sport and culture (like Zinedine Zidane and Rashid Taha) were born there, or made their name there. Other than that, the city has to show a great old quarter, the Mediterranean coast, the cosy old port, and one of the most famous fests of modern art in Southern Europe.
As the night was beginning to settle down, I went for a ride in the Old Port. The place is full of people taking a walk across the bars and restaurants of the area. In Marseille you can find just about everything edible. After sampling prices, I decided that the local fish soup plates were too expensive and that I would rather sample the more exotic tastes offered to me in town. This meant Tunisian, Moroccan, Vietnamese or Corsican food, maybe even some of the fine products of Provence, like its salami and cheese, and, of course, the wine. In the end these were an economic and tasty solution, especially Briq and the lamb kushkush. I decided that I really loved Tunisian cuisine. Madre de Dios que linda! The night went on with no further incident, just me walking along a taking a peek of the local nightlife. In the end I danced to some lounge dj set near the museum of modern art, drinking beer I had just purchased from the kiosk there, and listening to some French deli owner boast that “French girls are the most beautiful because they have this sweet and very little pussy”. The stereotype of French people not speaking foreign languages has become some sort of a joke. Some do not speak any other language than French, that is true, but here this one was talking to me in almost perfect English. In other areas I heard French people speak Spanish or Italian, and some of them even speak German (let alone Arabic). I will leave behind the sexism behind this comment, because I have heard sexist remarks all around the world, so why should a port city like Marseille be left behind?
The next morning was somewhat late in its arrival. I slept practically until midday, before opening the rooms TV set to get a small glimpse of French TV. And what was the first thing I saw there? It was her. She was talking on a talk show dedicated to France and the French the way foreigners living there saw them. She was sitting next to Charlotte Rampling and Carl Lagerfeld, but she was probably the shining light throughout the show, despite the fact that she was no actress or singer, or either a fashion icon. In fact she is a comic artist that turned her life and times in Iran and Austria after the fall of the Shah and during the Iran-Iraq war. Marjane Satrapi. With just a smile she was sending out waves of good vibes, even though I could not understand a thing she was saying. It was just her bright smile and nothing more. I decided to close the TV and visit a delicatessen, to buy some food. Delis in France look very much like a de-louxe edition of the general stores that one can meet in small villages or neighbourhoods. There you can buy food, but for anything else one has to visit the store next-door. I bought some salami, baguettes, cheese Provenciale and wine, and returned to the hotel to make some sandwiches for my next trip. Then I went back at the museum, to see if there was anything happening there. Actually there were some pieces of performance art going on there. In one, some Japanese artist was moving hanging inside what looked like a huge nylon bag that was practically wrapped around him, while breathing from a tube. After two hours of this performance, a Basque took over, with a show of moving table-like objects across a small pitch with a wooden floor. As the objects were spinning around the Formica-wood pitch some suspicious moves made me look around. A group of guys that seemed out of place in the area. They were wearing wide jackets, and they seemed to wear the colours of some gang. As I observed them move around the small crowd, they seemed to fit into my idea of them being gang members. I kept watching them with one eye while they were getting closer and closer. They stopped at the when they reached a girls standing near me. One of them yelled at her something that I could translate into “Bitch”, ant then he reached out and grabbed her earrings, before disappearing almost into thin air. Crime is raging in the streets of Marseille. Not any kind of crime. Petty crime. This is not really a sign of moral decay or anything that your run-of-the-mill conservative would say. This is a sign of people living in poverty and not seeing any other chance in getting out of it, than getting involved in crime of any sort. Most of these people are the children of migrants living in France. These young men and women probably have no rights under French law, and thus have no chance of getting away from their poverty or becoming full French citizens. And, even if they manage to gain citizenship, whenever they get to deal with anything that has to do with any aspects of the French State, they will be treated as second-class citizens, since this is the way the state sees anyone coming from the banlieu, the French ghettos. This fuels these kids with anger, and despair, a pair of very evil and treacherous advisors. And crime does not really come alone. There are drugs running around in the city, and to the extent of my knowledge, it is not the recreational drugs that make high sales around town, but drugs that cause a serious addiction, like heroin and crack. Drugs that go with poverty too. And people that are under the influence will usually stop at nothing in order to get their dose. Again moral decay has nothing to do with this situation. The aforementioned advisors do. But for people with virtually no way out, and have to cope with the idea of having no job, or money, or decency, drugs and crime seem to provide a solution, or a way out of their problems. Nevertheless, I returned to the hotel, listening to the soundtrack of sirens blazing and while patrol cars were muscling their way through the evening traffic to respond to some urgent call.
The next morning I decided to go to the beach, and maybe visit the “more prestigious” part of Marseille. So I took my towel and my swimming trunks, and went for a walk alongside the coastal avenue, looking for a suitable beach, meaning a public one and not one of those “exclusive club” things. To my surprise, exclusive beaches were a rare sight along the boulevard. On the other hand I saw a lot of public ones, swarming with people of all colours, nationalities, sexes and religions. The second thing that surprised me was the lack of rented umbrellas and armchairs. Back home all these are something of a prerequisite for any “decent” beach, especially when they cover the whole of it. I found the ideal spot and went down. The first thing I did notice was the amount of good-looking guys and girls that where there. The girls from Marseille seem to be the most beautiful girls in the whole of France. Sweet faces and incredible bodies, that turned them into a feast for the eyes. Some Magrebine beauties especially captivated me. The African girls looked gorgeous too.
I got lost in the waters of the Mediterranean, only to resurface after about an hour. And then, I swept into the sweet hug of Morpheus, with the help of the red-hot beams of the Mediterranean sun. I woke up hours later, checked out my wallet and cell phone. Though crime is raging in the city, and even though I was not in an exclusive beach, nobody had even dared to touch them, probably because there were a lot of people around. I left early in the afternoon for the hotel. There I packed my bags for the next day’s trip to Barcelona, slept a bit more, and then left for a night in town.
On my way to the beach, I had stopped at a building that I thought was something like a cultural centre. In it, there was an invitation-only jazz concert, but when I was passing by, the band was outside the building playing for the people that where coming in, and of course the passing onlookers. And at the entrance, one of the promoters told me that it was “part” of the European Music day. And that meant that I had the opportunity to take a peak of the city’s music scene. There was nothing happening at the museum, but all the action seemed to come from the old town. I followed a steady stream of people that was heading up towards the old town. After one point, the whole ride through the narrow streets of the old town, looked like a huge moving street party. Every small bar and deli of the area had a grill, or a big PA system, or both, out in the street, and was adding to the enjoyment of all the punters around. The local communities where taking part in the celebrations to, with benches around the area serving specialities from each community. I sampled some Arab food again, and moved toward the central stage where a group of local drummers was performing. The beat was complex but altogether very solid, and the crowd was responding well to that. If someone was looking from above, I am quite sure that he would see a crowd of people moving spontaneously and harmonically to the beat. Then a Latin band took to the stage. The party became wilder and the dancing became more spontaneous. Marseille has a very vibrant music scene. There are jazz bands playing around town, but you can listen to ethnic music from a lot of regions of the world. But the big deal here is hip-hop, dub, and electro music. Most of the PA systems outside the small venues where manned by selectors and disk jockeys (that’s what MC’s are called in dub music). And there are a lot of dub bands coming from Marseille and Provence in general. But the most amazing thing about these bands is that they have a crossover appeal. Outside any of these places I saw white, black, Arabic and Asian youths dancing to the music. This was one hell of a groovy atmosphere that is hard to find outside the Mediterranean coast.
The next morning I woke up, I was feeling a little sad, because I was leaving the town. But my destination was familiar and way too tempting. I was visiting Barcelona again, trying to chase away the ghosts of my previous trip there, and to see what I had missed on my two last prolonged stays in town. The stay in Marseille had to end at the central station. And it ended with mixed feelings. At first, a feeling of disgust and resentment towards really ugly situations that one could see there. As I was waiting for my train, I witnessed an extremely vulgar sexual attack on a girl sitting close to me. He was definitely touching her in places where she did not want him to, and she at one point, while he was trying to complete his actions with a rape in public, was about to burst in tears. Then there was a feeling of being amazed. While I was making a move to try and make him move away, she managed to get her hands in her bag. When they re-emerged, she was holding a canister of pepper spray. She aimed it directly at her attackers eyes, and sprayed him without any hesitation. I do not have the slightest idea how she found the courage to pull this off, while this guy was trying to humiliate her in public.
But the final feeling was that Marseille still is a party town, with its bright and dark spots. And maybe Marseille has to face all the problems creating those dark spots, in order to keep the good vibes. It was a match-day, and not any match-day, but the day of the final of the French rugby league. And the teams of Clermont Ferand (in blue), and Perpignan (in red). And, although rugby is a violent sport, its’ fans are not violent. In fact most of the people going to rugby matches are just fans who go there to support their teams and have some good clean fun. So any confrontation between groups of rival fans lead only to….taunts and nothing more, while some of the fans of both teams found the chance to renew old friendships, or to share the fun with their “rivals”. As both groups slowly left the station, I could only see some actions of friendship and kinship, like the scene when two groups of fans of both teams joined and shared their wine and sandwiches with each other, exchanging jokes and hugging each other. This was only a part of the contrasting images and feelings I got from the city. Marseille is definitely a long way from being the city of sin and crime, but in contrast to every stark image it gives you, there is scene, or a moment, that turns things around and puts a bright colour in the picture. However a visitor must handle the place with caution, but without any prejudice, if one wants to “survive” there.
As the night was beginning to settle down, I went for a ride in the Old Port. The place is full of people taking a walk across the bars and restaurants of the area. In Marseille you can find just about everything edible. After sampling prices, I decided that the local fish soup plates were too expensive and that I would rather sample the more exotic tastes offered to me in town. This meant Tunisian, Moroccan, Vietnamese or Corsican food, maybe even some of the fine products of Provence, like its salami and cheese, and, of course, the wine. In the end these were an economic and tasty solution, especially Briq and the lamb kushkush. I decided that I really loved Tunisian cuisine. Madre de Dios que linda! The night went on with no further incident, just me walking along a taking a peek of the local nightlife. In the end I danced to some lounge dj set near the museum of modern art, drinking beer I had just purchased from the kiosk there, and listening to some French deli owner boast that “French girls are the most beautiful because they have this sweet and very little pussy”. The stereotype of French people not speaking foreign languages has become some sort of a joke. Some do not speak any other language than French, that is true, but here this one was talking to me in almost perfect English. In other areas I heard French people speak Spanish or Italian, and some of them even speak German (let alone Arabic). I will leave behind the sexism behind this comment, because I have heard sexist remarks all around the world, so why should a port city like Marseille be left behind?
The next morning was somewhat late in its arrival. I slept practically until midday, before opening the rooms TV set to get a small glimpse of French TV. And what was the first thing I saw there? It was her. She was talking on a talk show dedicated to France and the French the way foreigners living there saw them. She was sitting next to Charlotte Rampling and Carl Lagerfeld, but she was probably the shining light throughout the show, despite the fact that she was no actress or singer, or either a fashion icon. In fact she is a comic artist that turned her life and times in Iran and Austria after the fall of the Shah and during the Iran-Iraq war. Marjane Satrapi. With just a smile she was sending out waves of good vibes, even though I could not understand a thing she was saying. It was just her bright smile and nothing more. I decided to close the TV and visit a delicatessen, to buy some food. Delis in France look very much like a de-louxe edition of the general stores that one can meet in small villages or neighbourhoods. There you can buy food, but for anything else one has to visit the store next-door. I bought some salami, baguettes, cheese Provenciale and wine, and returned to the hotel to make some sandwiches for my next trip. Then I went back at the museum, to see if there was anything happening there. Actually there were some pieces of performance art going on there. In one, some Japanese artist was moving hanging inside what looked like a huge nylon bag that was practically wrapped around him, while breathing from a tube. After two hours of this performance, a Basque took over, with a show of moving table-like objects across a small pitch with a wooden floor. As the objects were spinning around the Formica-wood pitch some suspicious moves made me look around. A group of guys that seemed out of place in the area. They were wearing wide jackets, and they seemed to wear the colours of some gang. As I observed them move around the small crowd, they seemed to fit into my idea of them being gang members. I kept watching them with one eye while they were getting closer and closer. They stopped at the when they reached a girls standing near me. One of them yelled at her something that I could translate into “Bitch”, ant then he reached out and grabbed her earrings, before disappearing almost into thin air. Crime is raging in the streets of Marseille. Not any kind of crime. Petty crime. This is not really a sign of moral decay or anything that your run-of-the-mill conservative would say. This is a sign of people living in poverty and not seeing any other chance in getting out of it, than getting involved in crime of any sort. Most of these people are the children of migrants living in France. These young men and women probably have no rights under French law, and thus have no chance of getting away from their poverty or becoming full French citizens. And, even if they manage to gain citizenship, whenever they get to deal with anything that has to do with any aspects of the French State, they will be treated as second-class citizens, since this is the way the state sees anyone coming from the banlieu, the French ghettos. This fuels these kids with anger, and despair, a pair of very evil and treacherous advisors. And crime does not really come alone. There are drugs running around in the city, and to the extent of my knowledge, it is not the recreational drugs that make high sales around town, but drugs that cause a serious addiction, like heroin and crack. Drugs that go with poverty too. And people that are under the influence will usually stop at nothing in order to get their dose. Again moral decay has nothing to do with this situation. The aforementioned advisors do. But for people with virtually no way out, and have to cope with the idea of having no job, or money, or decency, drugs and crime seem to provide a solution, or a way out of their problems. Nevertheless, I returned to the hotel, listening to the soundtrack of sirens blazing and while patrol cars were muscling their way through the evening traffic to respond to some urgent call.
The next morning I decided to go to the beach, and maybe visit the “more prestigious” part of Marseille. So I took my towel and my swimming trunks, and went for a walk alongside the coastal avenue, looking for a suitable beach, meaning a public one and not one of those “exclusive club” things. To my surprise, exclusive beaches were a rare sight along the boulevard. On the other hand I saw a lot of public ones, swarming with people of all colours, nationalities, sexes and religions. The second thing that surprised me was the lack of rented umbrellas and armchairs. Back home all these are something of a prerequisite for any “decent” beach, especially when they cover the whole of it. I found the ideal spot and went down. The first thing I did notice was the amount of good-looking guys and girls that where there. The girls from Marseille seem to be the most beautiful girls in the whole of France. Sweet faces and incredible bodies, that turned them into a feast for the eyes. Some Magrebine beauties especially captivated me. The African girls looked gorgeous too.
I got lost in the waters of the Mediterranean, only to resurface after about an hour. And then, I swept into the sweet hug of Morpheus, with the help of the red-hot beams of the Mediterranean sun. I woke up hours later, checked out my wallet and cell phone. Though crime is raging in the city, and even though I was not in an exclusive beach, nobody had even dared to touch them, probably because there were a lot of people around. I left early in the afternoon for the hotel. There I packed my bags for the next day’s trip to Barcelona, slept a bit more, and then left for a night in town.
On my way to the beach, I had stopped at a building that I thought was something like a cultural centre. In it, there was an invitation-only jazz concert, but when I was passing by, the band was outside the building playing for the people that where coming in, and of course the passing onlookers. And at the entrance, one of the promoters told me that it was “part” of the European Music day. And that meant that I had the opportunity to take a peak of the city’s music scene. There was nothing happening at the museum, but all the action seemed to come from the old town. I followed a steady stream of people that was heading up towards the old town. After one point, the whole ride through the narrow streets of the old town, looked like a huge moving street party. Every small bar and deli of the area had a grill, or a big PA system, or both, out in the street, and was adding to the enjoyment of all the punters around. The local communities where taking part in the celebrations to, with benches around the area serving specialities from each community. I sampled some Arab food again, and moved toward the central stage where a group of local drummers was performing. The beat was complex but altogether very solid, and the crowd was responding well to that. If someone was looking from above, I am quite sure that he would see a crowd of people moving spontaneously and harmonically to the beat. Then a Latin band took to the stage. The party became wilder and the dancing became more spontaneous. Marseille has a very vibrant music scene. There are jazz bands playing around town, but you can listen to ethnic music from a lot of regions of the world. But the big deal here is hip-hop, dub, and electro music. Most of the PA systems outside the small venues where manned by selectors and disk jockeys (that’s what MC’s are called in dub music). And there are a lot of dub bands coming from Marseille and Provence in general. But the most amazing thing about these bands is that they have a crossover appeal. Outside any of these places I saw white, black, Arabic and Asian youths dancing to the music. This was one hell of a groovy atmosphere that is hard to find outside the Mediterranean coast.
The next morning I woke up, I was feeling a little sad, because I was leaving the town. But my destination was familiar and way too tempting. I was visiting Barcelona again, trying to chase away the ghosts of my previous trip there, and to see what I had missed on my two last prolonged stays in town. The stay in Marseille had to end at the central station. And it ended with mixed feelings. At first, a feeling of disgust and resentment towards really ugly situations that one could see there. As I was waiting for my train, I witnessed an extremely vulgar sexual attack on a girl sitting close to me. He was definitely touching her in places where she did not want him to, and she at one point, while he was trying to complete his actions with a rape in public, was about to burst in tears. Then there was a feeling of being amazed. While I was making a move to try and make him move away, she managed to get her hands in her bag. When they re-emerged, she was holding a canister of pepper spray. She aimed it directly at her attackers eyes, and sprayed him without any hesitation. I do not have the slightest idea how she found the courage to pull this off, while this guy was trying to humiliate her in public.
But the final feeling was that Marseille still is a party town, with its bright and dark spots. And maybe Marseille has to face all the problems creating those dark spots, in order to keep the good vibes. It was a match-day, and not any match-day, but the day of the final of the French rugby league. And the teams of Clermont Ferand (in blue), and Perpignan (in red). And, although rugby is a violent sport, its’ fans are not violent. In fact most of the people going to rugby matches are just fans who go there to support their teams and have some good clean fun. So any confrontation between groups of rival fans lead only to….taunts and nothing more, while some of the fans of both teams found the chance to renew old friendships, or to share the fun with their “rivals”. As both groups slowly left the station, I could only see some actions of friendship and kinship, like the scene when two groups of fans of both teams joined and shared their wine and sandwiches with each other, exchanging jokes and hugging each other. This was only a part of the contrasting images and feelings I got from the city. Marseille is definitely a long way from being the city of sin and crime, but in contrast to every stark image it gives you, there is scene, or a moment, that turns things around and puts a bright colour in the picture. However a visitor must handle the place with caution, but without any prejudice, if one wants to “survive” there.
Τρίτη 6 Οκτωβρίου 2009
Exit Italy-Enter France
The mist of morning was evaporating from the surface of the earth, as I began to cross Northern Italy on my way to the port city of Marseille. I was crossing the all known plains and vineyards of Veneto, home to the infamous prossecco wine, with two bottles of it in my disposal, along with a small bottle of my beloved Limoncello liquor and some sun-dried tomatoes and slices of mortadella accompanying me on the way. Two hours later, having zipped by a lot of towns, cities and villages the pictures changed. I was seeing, again, an industrial area. I arrived at the central train station of Milan having a lot of time at my disposal, twenty minutes before my connection to Nice. Or so I thought. How wrong was I? The train was departing ten minutes early, and I found myself running across the station trying to make it there. In the end, I managed to climb aboard a non-decript train car, while the train was starting to move toward the exit of the station. It definitely felt a scene from some Hollywood action film, momentarily.
A few minutes later, I was securely seated in my compartment, next to a Chinese refugee. She was travelling to Paris, through Nice too. The background changed again, as our train was charging through the plains of Lombardy, racing towards the Italian side of the Alps. A few hours later the train was climbing the mountains, then, reaching Genoa. I managed to take a peek through the city, which looked like a nice coastal town where the old meets the modern, and tourism co-exists with industrial structures. To whatever extent this co-existence is harmonic, I am not really aware, though.
By the time I was through with those thoughts, we were passing through the borders at Ventimiglia.
At the next station, the French police entered the train for a passport inspection. While checking the Chinese refugee’s papers, they found that they where not issued by the Italian Police or the Ministry of the Interior, but by the Municipality of Milan. This meant, according to them, that they where not in order. So without further explanations they pulled her out of the train, so that they could ship her back to Italy with the next train. Huh! Some welcoming committee. They just did it without any hesitation. I can’t help but imagine what they could do if she was a youngster from any derelict metropolitan area. No wonder why the ghettos erupted the year before! As the next few minutes passed by I got to see parts of Monaco and the Cote’d’Azur, before I arrived at the station of Nice. For the next hour or so all I could do is wait for the next SNCF regional train to continue on to Marseille. To my surprise I entered an old TGV. This meant that although I was travelling on a local train (and thus, with my interrail pass, for free), I was zipping by the French countryside really fast. In this part of the journey I got a glimpse of the famed beaches of St Tropez. Then I saw a bit of Cannes, and then moved a bit further inland in Provence, only to emerge about an hour later in Marseille. The port city of France, which many lovers of French culture cherish, stood before me, ready to be explored
A few minutes later, I was securely seated in my compartment, next to a Chinese refugee. She was travelling to Paris, through Nice too. The background changed again, as our train was charging through the plains of Lombardy, racing towards the Italian side of the Alps. A few hours later the train was climbing the mountains, then, reaching Genoa. I managed to take a peek through the city, which looked like a nice coastal town where the old meets the modern, and tourism co-exists with industrial structures. To whatever extent this co-existence is harmonic, I am not really aware, though.
By the time I was through with those thoughts, we were passing through the borders at Ventimiglia.
At the next station, the French police entered the train for a passport inspection. While checking the Chinese refugee’s papers, they found that they where not issued by the Italian Police or the Ministry of the Interior, but by the Municipality of Milan. This meant, according to them, that they where not in order. So without further explanations they pulled her out of the train, so that they could ship her back to Italy with the next train. Huh! Some welcoming committee. They just did it without any hesitation. I can’t help but imagine what they could do if she was a youngster from any derelict metropolitan area. No wonder why the ghettos erupted the year before! As the next few minutes passed by I got to see parts of Monaco and the Cote’d’Azur, before I arrived at the station of Nice. For the next hour or so all I could do is wait for the next SNCF regional train to continue on to Marseille. To my surprise I entered an old TGV. This meant that although I was travelling on a local train (and thus, with my interrail pass, for free), I was zipping by the French countryside really fast. In this part of the journey I got a glimpse of the famed beaches of St Tropez. Then I saw a bit of Cannes, and then moved a bit further inland in Provence, only to emerge about an hour later in Marseille. The port city of France, which many lovers of French culture cherish, stood before me, ready to be explored
Τετάρτη 16 Σεπτεμβρίου 2009
An Italian synopsis
She said, 'There is no reason
and the truth is plain to see.'
Procol Harum, Whiter Shade of Pale
As I zip by the countryside of northern Italy, I get once again the all-familiar feeling that occurred to me during the trip. That Italy, and especially the Italians need a saviour. Under the carpet there is a feeling that everything is in the process of changing. And the said change is not one that will make things better for everyone. In fact I think that il Cavagliere and his cohorts will continue to loot the country in the expense of everybody else that inhabits it. And in the wake of the impending economic crisis, those that will pay the price are going to be the working class, and especially the immigrants. Already the Italian government is implementing stricter and more inhuman immigration policies by every passing month, even by collaborating with dictator like Mounmar Kadafi (who once said that there are no refugees or immigrants, there is only people who travel abroad), on the issue of returning expelled immigrants back to their countries. At some point unemployment will be a problem too, and tensions will reach boiling point. And if you count in the factor of the rise of the far right across Europe, then things will become really interesting.
At these times what is needed is a strong left opposition. But at the moment the Left in Italy is still unable to pick up the pieces of the Prodi debacle. And that makes the Left unable to oppose anything on the coming cyclone of change. But there is a glimmer of hope. The Riffundazione seems to have understood, at least partly, what went wrong in the past years, and at the moment looks as if it has taken a small but significant shift to the left. If this goes on to something bigger, then the left will pose a significant force to resist, at least on the level of a struggle of the streets. Another important point to be taken is that there is also a significant swing in the minds of a lot of young workers, who seem to have taken a liking to organising independent struggles, without waiting for the unions to start anything, from picket lines to strike actions. Depending on the success of these struggles, the conscience of the people might rise or sink. This remains to be seen.
and the truth is plain to see.'
Procol Harum, Whiter Shade of Pale
As I zip by the countryside of northern Italy, I get once again the all-familiar feeling that occurred to me during the trip. That Italy, and especially the Italians need a saviour. Under the carpet there is a feeling that everything is in the process of changing. And the said change is not one that will make things better for everyone. In fact I think that il Cavagliere and his cohorts will continue to loot the country in the expense of everybody else that inhabits it. And in the wake of the impending economic crisis, those that will pay the price are going to be the working class, and especially the immigrants. Already the Italian government is implementing stricter and more inhuman immigration policies by every passing month, even by collaborating with dictator like Mounmar Kadafi (who once said that there are no refugees or immigrants, there is only people who travel abroad), on the issue of returning expelled immigrants back to their countries. At some point unemployment will be a problem too, and tensions will reach boiling point. And if you count in the factor of the rise of the far right across Europe, then things will become really interesting.
At these times what is needed is a strong left opposition. But at the moment the Left in Italy is still unable to pick up the pieces of the Prodi debacle. And that makes the Left unable to oppose anything on the coming cyclone of change. But there is a glimmer of hope. The Riffundazione seems to have understood, at least partly, what went wrong in the past years, and at the moment looks as if it has taken a small but significant shift to the left. If this goes on to something bigger, then the left will pose a significant force to resist, at least on the level of a struggle of the streets. Another important point to be taken is that there is also a significant swing in the minds of a lot of young workers, who seem to have taken a liking to organising independent struggles, without waiting for the unions to start anything, from picket lines to strike actions. Depending on the success of these struggles, the conscience of the people might rise or sink. This remains to be seen.
Πέμπτη 10 Σεπτεμβρίου 2009
Venezia in Cervelo
When arriving in Venice by rail, one cannot help but notice the huge amounts of water lying by the rails, and the vastness of the port area, including the oil refineries. But this can be forgotten really quickly when one reaches the St Lucia train station. Despite appearances there is only one source of revenue.
Tourism. Venice is a tourist destination. But not exactly in the way of an average tourist resort. In fact it has a cross-age appeal. In its streets one can see middle aged couples, pensioners, students and families walking around town. Venice has a bit of everything. Romantic rides for lovers, expensive and cozy cafes for fashion and lifestyle victims, and of course a lot of sights. But there is a sign of the city’s dependency on tourism. The prices on everything from hotel rooms to food and drink, can be high. Good thing I am staying in a student hall. The area around Piazza Santa Fosca, looks like an average neighbourhood housing university students and, of course, student bars.
“Not all who wander are lost”, explains a sticker on the ceiling of one of those bars. “Fair enough”, I think, but that does not have anything to do with Venice. If you don’t have a map, you can spend hours wandering around the streets of Venice, trying to find your way to the area you want to visit. The ambiguous street signs contribute to this too, since they just inform you that there are more than one ways to reach your destination, offering no further explanation, since the distance between them can be huge, leaving lots of uncovered crossroads in the meantime.
Exhausted from the hours of searching for the piazza, I finaly find my way there, and try to enter the famous basilica. First, I find out that there is a huge qeue in the entrance. Discouraging sight number one. Then I see that backpacks or bags are not allowed inside, and I have to go to a baggage guarding service, to leave my bag. That, of course might mean that I will be charged like hell, and this is not really good for the budget of a backpacker like myself. This is the second discouraging point. Wic h makes me decide to ditch the effort and try to explore a bit more. Maybe go to the islands surrounding the town, or make a go for the gardens I had spotted on my arrival, yes the ones next to the Santa Lucia station. I go for the second option, and pass a quiet afternoon there, before I return to the hall.
My roomies are a small picture of the kind of people travelling to Venice. An elderly American professor, a teenager from someplace like Vermont, and a family from England, all of them on vacation travelling around Northern Italy.
Venice does try to resemble the rest of the region. And though the rest of Veneto is being industrialized (especially the areas of Treviso, Marghera and Mestre, Venice does not really fit in the picture. And that because the whole of the area’s heavy industry has a really small economic impact compared to its prime export, tourism. And probably this is the reason why the Camora is trying to dig in the honey-vase called Venice. The mob has probably understood that there is a huge potential on the areas of tourism and constructions in the area, securing a profit for its more legit branches. Mind you crime is very low in Venice, but that does not prevent the financial sector of organised crime to invest there. Some of the most recent construction works have been undertaken by the mob, including the renovation of buildings. And the extent of the busyness probably extends to the handling of municipal waste too.
Another problem the city may face, is the rise of sea level. The city may not be under the threat of constant flooding yet, and it is everything apart a from being a deathtrap, but if the sea levels continue to rise and the water defences of the city are not upgraded, a Katrina-styled catastrophe can be highly inevitable within the next few decades.
There are also some other problems that locals currently face, the main one being the expensiveness of public transport. A one way ticket for the distance between Piazza San Marco and the Station of St Lucia, a very popular route that covers the distance of about 3 kilometres, costs about 3 euros. I can imagine the cost of the same route. using a taxi or a gondola. Much more expensive for sure.
My short stay in Venice is terminated at the dawn of Wednesday, when my long trip to the south of France begins.
Nevertheless, my impression of Venice is that it is a nice little town to visit and stay in, for a weekend. Not for a longer time, I gather. A picturesque town, a tourist magnet, an absurd town of the renaissance.
Tourism. Venice is a tourist destination. But not exactly in the way of an average tourist resort. In fact it has a cross-age appeal. In its streets one can see middle aged couples, pensioners, students and families walking around town. Venice has a bit of everything. Romantic rides for lovers, expensive and cozy cafes for fashion and lifestyle victims, and of course a lot of sights. But there is a sign of the city’s dependency on tourism. The prices on everything from hotel rooms to food and drink, can be high. Good thing I am staying in a student hall. The area around Piazza Santa Fosca, looks like an average neighbourhood housing university students and, of course, student bars.
“Not all who wander are lost”, explains a sticker on the ceiling of one of those bars. “Fair enough”, I think, but that does not have anything to do with Venice. If you don’t have a map, you can spend hours wandering around the streets of Venice, trying to find your way to the area you want to visit. The ambiguous street signs contribute to this too, since they just inform you that there are more than one ways to reach your destination, offering no further explanation, since the distance between them can be huge, leaving lots of uncovered crossroads in the meantime.
Exhausted from the hours of searching for the piazza, I finaly find my way there, and try to enter the famous basilica. First, I find out that there is a huge qeue in the entrance. Discouraging sight number one. Then I see that backpacks or bags are not allowed inside, and I have to go to a baggage guarding service, to leave my bag. That, of course might mean that I will be charged like hell, and this is not really good for the budget of a backpacker like myself. This is the second discouraging point. Wic h makes me decide to ditch the effort and try to explore a bit more. Maybe go to the islands surrounding the town, or make a go for the gardens I had spotted on my arrival, yes the ones next to the Santa Lucia station. I go for the second option, and pass a quiet afternoon there, before I return to the hall.
My roomies are a small picture of the kind of people travelling to Venice. An elderly American professor, a teenager from someplace like Vermont, and a family from England, all of them on vacation travelling around Northern Italy.
Venice does try to resemble the rest of the region. And though the rest of Veneto is being industrialized (especially the areas of Treviso, Marghera and Mestre, Venice does not really fit in the picture. And that because the whole of the area’s heavy industry has a really small economic impact compared to its prime export, tourism. And probably this is the reason why the Camora is trying to dig in the honey-vase called Venice. The mob has probably understood that there is a huge potential on the areas of tourism and constructions in the area, securing a profit for its more legit branches. Mind you crime is very low in Venice, but that does not prevent the financial sector of organised crime to invest there. Some of the most recent construction works have been undertaken by the mob, including the renovation of buildings. And the extent of the busyness probably extends to the handling of municipal waste too.
Another problem the city may face, is the rise of sea level. The city may not be under the threat of constant flooding yet, and it is everything apart a from being a deathtrap, but if the sea levels continue to rise and the water defences of the city are not upgraded, a Katrina-styled catastrophe can be highly inevitable within the next few decades.
There are also some other problems that locals currently face, the main one being the expensiveness of public transport. A one way ticket for the distance between Piazza San Marco and the Station of St Lucia, a very popular route that covers the distance of about 3 kilometres, costs about 3 euros. I can imagine the cost of the same route. using a taxi or a gondola. Much more expensive for sure.
My short stay in Venice is terminated at the dawn of Wednesday, when my long trip to the south of France begins.
Nevertheless, my impression of Venice is that it is a nice little town to visit and stay in, for a weekend. Not for a longer time, I gather. A picturesque town, a tourist magnet, an absurd town of the renaissance.
Σάββατο 29 Αυγούστου 2009
Americans in Rome
After waving Dane Goodbye, me and Babak returned to the room. Our new roomie, a religious American sporting a backpack with a Canadian flag (one of those Americans pretending to be a Canadian). He is on his way to the filming location of “The Passion of Christ”. Seems to be of the Bush fans, but I cannot be that sure about that. The rest of his gang, when we get a glimpse of them at the bar, seems to be like a bunch of conservative and maybe naïve choirboys and choirgirls moving out in the world. At least this will go on until they set foot on the first bar, or the guys take a walk into the red light district. Until then they will be the sons and daughters of respectable god-fearing American families. We have a whole evening in front of us to get wasted and keep up the party with the girls. Yup we are officially on our way to a pub crawl and a nightly visit to some of the city’s most famous areas. These include the Piazza de Spagna, a token of French diplomacy in the 18th and 19th century, where the French government would build a square in front of the embassies of countries with whom they wanted to make peace, or some sort of amends, Piazza Barberini, built for the Barberini Family under the supervision of Bernini (the Vatican protigee), and the Fontana di Trevi. All the walk is being acompanied by our tour guide, who gave us a more –fun-and-simplified tour. The humourus way of dishing out all this information, turned our guide into a very popular figure in our group.
Though there are a lot of people from around the world in the group the vast majority of the participants, at least in this crawl IS of American origin. And this is a group that is really worth watching.
There is a huge division between Americans, and this is clearly evident in our case. This group is actually split three-ways. There are all those that want the war to end and the troops to get out of Iraq, those that probably are for the war, but are too ashamed to say it, and your usual run-of-the-mill Republicans. Actually the only representatives of the third group are a bunch of American Air Force Pilots, headed by a bomber pilot who (according to himself) gets his kicks by bombarding Baghdad. This, of course, does not go down with anybody else in the group, and this gang actually becomes instantly isolated from the rest. This takes Babak on a trip down memory lane. He remembers the times when he was participating in a demonstration in front of his Univercity, and the demo was being pelted with vegetables coming thrown by their classmates who supported the war. But now none needs a weatherman in order to understand that the wind has changed directions again. A thing that the airmen do not seem to understand.
“Let’s stay away from the babykillers” Babak actually whispers to me when they come within earshot. The girls have a similar reaction when those guys come too close to them, but their prime concern is the one of partying. By the time we have reached the Fontana di Trevi, they are well out of reach and hearing distance, so we can go about our business. Upon arrival at the fountain, I turn around and throw a coin in it, while explaining to the Americans that, there is a custom, according to wich, anyone who has a wish of the “amourous” type, throws a coin in the fountain. A custom that does not seem to be older than the times when Ingrid Bergman was splish-splashing there while shooting “La Dolce Vita”.
So we end up at some Roman tourist pub,that offers us free drinks for the next hour or two. Beers are pouring out from here and there, and there are loads of alcohol being given out and about. I feel that I am stuck in some kind of a Reptile-Zoo scenario. I’m definitely going to need some golf shoes at some point in this crawl, since it’s going to be impossible to be able to walk in the ensuing muck….No footing at all. However it seems that the booze in this part of the crawl is not enough. We have to move to the next bar, where the booze is not free, BUT we get one free drink and all the others at a very good price. By now a great part of our group have turned into some sort of wild beasts that a running full-speed toward the new outlet in search of more alcohol and probably some debauchery. Thank god we are able to maintain the pace even though it seems frenzied. We definitely NEED the BOOZE to keep us GOING until the sun rises again, and I have reasonable doubts if I will be able to withstand the trip to Bologna the following morning.
Leaving the next bar, and against my calculations we have not turned into wild animals yet, probably because there are still some good vibes among the group, a thing wich can be translated into the pilot’s gang being isolated from the rest of the group. They have been going out ofn control and probably a thing wich derives from an alcohol-driven frenzy. But their impact on the ambient atmosphere is minimal. Frenzied or not frenzied, though, we seem to be running full bore toward the final club that awaits us. Upon reaching the club, about half of us get halted at the door by the bouncer, who keeps saying that the club is full (though that does not seem to be the case, from what I get to see through the glass door.) I do not get to see what goes on inside the club aerea, but in the end the California girls emerge, and the redhead seems to be absolutely wasted, and at one point does pass out. I share turns with a Mexican guy in carrying her to their dorm at the Yellow. Then me and Babak move towards our dorm, in order to prepare for the trip to Bologna
Though there are a lot of people from around the world in the group the vast majority of the participants, at least in this crawl IS of American origin. And this is a group that is really worth watching.
There is a huge division between Americans, and this is clearly evident in our case. This group is actually split three-ways. There are all those that want the war to end and the troops to get out of Iraq, those that probably are for the war, but are too ashamed to say it, and your usual run-of-the-mill Republicans. Actually the only representatives of the third group are a bunch of American Air Force Pilots, headed by a bomber pilot who (according to himself) gets his kicks by bombarding Baghdad. This, of course, does not go down with anybody else in the group, and this gang actually becomes instantly isolated from the rest. This takes Babak on a trip down memory lane. He remembers the times when he was participating in a demonstration in front of his Univercity, and the demo was being pelted with vegetables coming thrown by their classmates who supported the war. But now none needs a weatherman in order to understand that the wind has changed directions again. A thing that the airmen do not seem to understand.
“Let’s stay away from the babykillers” Babak actually whispers to me when they come within earshot. The girls have a similar reaction when those guys come too close to them, but their prime concern is the one of partying. By the time we have reached the Fontana di Trevi, they are well out of reach and hearing distance, so we can go about our business. Upon arrival at the fountain, I turn around and throw a coin in it, while explaining to the Americans that, there is a custom, according to wich, anyone who has a wish of the “amourous” type, throws a coin in the fountain. A custom that does not seem to be older than the times when Ingrid Bergman was splish-splashing there while shooting “La Dolce Vita”.
So we end up at some Roman tourist pub,that offers us free drinks for the next hour or two. Beers are pouring out from here and there, and there are loads of alcohol being given out and about. I feel that I am stuck in some kind of a Reptile-Zoo scenario. I’m definitely going to need some golf shoes at some point in this crawl, since it’s going to be impossible to be able to walk in the ensuing muck….No footing at all. However it seems that the booze in this part of the crawl is not enough. We have to move to the next bar, where the booze is not free, BUT we get one free drink and all the others at a very good price. By now a great part of our group have turned into some sort of wild beasts that a running full-speed toward the new outlet in search of more alcohol and probably some debauchery. Thank god we are able to maintain the pace even though it seems frenzied. We definitely NEED the BOOZE to keep us GOING until the sun rises again, and I have reasonable doubts if I will be able to withstand the trip to Bologna the following morning.
Leaving the next bar, and against my calculations we have not turned into wild animals yet, probably because there are still some good vibes among the group, a thing wich can be translated into the pilot’s gang being isolated from the rest of the group. They have been going out ofn control and probably a thing wich derives from an alcohol-driven frenzy. But their impact on the ambient atmosphere is minimal. Frenzied or not frenzied, though, we seem to be running full bore toward the final club that awaits us. Upon reaching the club, about half of us get halted at the door by the bouncer, who keeps saying that the club is full (though that does not seem to be the case, from what I get to see through the glass door.) I do not get to see what goes on inside the club aerea, but in the end the California girls emerge, and the redhead seems to be absolutely wasted, and at one point does pass out. I share turns with a Mexican guy in carrying her to their dorm at the Yellow. Then me and Babak move towards our dorm, in order to prepare for the trip to Bologna
Πέμπτη 27 Αυγούστου 2009
Roma Citta Aperta
When moving into Rome by train, there is only one way to go in and that is through the Termini station. From then on you can move along the public transport lines to wherever you want to.. Termini is a typical Italian central train station, full of markets and shops, and it can turn into the backpacker’s delight, since you can buy there whatever you will need for the trip, without having to spend the day searching within city limits for a place to buy whatever you may need. But Rome actually IS a lot more than buying. Rome is one of the most beautiful cities, not only in Southern Europe, but also in the whole world. Rome is actually full of ruins and architectural artefacts that are dated from every era in European history, from the times of the Roman empire to the twentieth century.
But in an effort to understand Rome, and write about it, one has to reminice of the times he had in there, his recollections of the city’s atmosphere, his thoughts while being there and the idea he gets about the others accompanying him in this trip, if there is anybody doing that. Certainly the first thing I remember about arriving in Rome this time around, is the Americans. There are zillions of Americans loitering around the Italy at any given time, and a great deal of them visits Rome, either in order to have a religious experience in the Vatican, or to explore their Italian roots, or to appreciate the art and cuisine, or even to get a glimpse of the Mediteranean lifestyle , as it was portrayed in a series of Hollywood classics. The firs Americans I came across where two quite daft girls from California, at one table in the hostel’s bar. And during my attempt to strike up a conversation with them one of my roomies turns up and rescues the day. His name is Dane and he is actually an actor travelling around Europe. The other one appears a bit later, an Iranian-American with a ponytail going by the name of Babak. Babak is very moderate about religion, despite the fact that he is of Iranian origin. In fact, as he confesses to me, his family’s relation to religion is just spiritual, and it does not have anything to do with politics or society whatsoever. Both the girls are just out of high school, so they are trying to enjoy a coming-of-age vacation in Europe, before returning to go to college. This is the traveller’s tribe. Huge and complex, consisting of people who travel the world for different reasons each other. One beer brings another and suddenly politics comes to the table. The girls are avid Obama fans and they are quite confident that Obama will win in a landslide and that he will bring a real change in America. We, that is Dane, Babak and I, are not that enthusiastic about the prospects of Obama changing anything. Especially in foreign policy, a change of faces in government does not automatically mean a change of policies. The domestic front is a totally different case. There Obama might be able to bring a real change, but that is also highly improbable, at least by European standards. That happens because however left leaning Obama might be by American standards, in reality he is a part of the liberal right by European standards. That means minimum social measures, but no real political revolution, and a great dissapointment for most of his voters in the long run. But things generally tend to be enthusiastic about Obama at this point, and all the Americans I meet have a certain amount of hope for the Obama government.
The next morning turns out to be quite busy. I am visiting the Colosseum, the roman racetrack, the Palazzo Venezzia, Piazza Navona and the Pantheon. Quite a long walk, but also one that shows the traveller a great deal of the town, and some of its most picturesque aerias. First stop is the Colosseum, a large stadium built for the sole purpose of offering “bread and fun” to it’s audience, something that consisted, mainly, of slaves fighting wild animals and or aech other to the death. Big brother in its most brutal way, and a perfect way to manipulate the masses and turn them away from their day to day grievances. Probably the acts in there helped in keeping the dictatorial powers of the Ceasar intact for ages. What makes the Colosseum a amazing structure, is its capacity. Its capacity was of more than 20,000 spectetors. That means that at any given time a small town was able to watch the “show”. That was something extraordinary for a time when the population of the city was at about 200,000 people. Not far away from the Colosseum and the two gates surrounding it lie the ruins of the race track. The races that were taking place in there were a really brutal spectacle. Actually they were very dangerous horse races, in which four teams where competing around an oval circuit. Safety precautions were non-existant, and accidents where all the rage. Dying on the track was very often, making the races just another form of bloodsport, meant to exist just for the amusement of the public. Nearby are the baths of Octavian, built by the Emperor whose name they bear. On the outside they are not really interesting. But the fact that Romans of a certain social posture used them often made them an interesting place to take a peek in. Actually in these places deals were made, people were discussing politics and forming plans and alliances. This might sound like the Russian mob, but it was actually some form of get together of political friends and lobbying, in the times of the Senate. Actually Roman senators were very avid lobbyists themselves. There was a very specific example of one particular senator who was so hell- bent for the destruction of Carthagena, who actually ended his speeches on every subject discussed by the senate with the frase: and thus, my friends Carthagena must be destroyed.
Right below this aeria, lies the capitolium, where the senate used to convene during the times of the roman democracy. There decisions where made, and alla of the political play came to the forfront. But a further more interresting building, is the Palazzo Venezia, wich lies on the top of Piazza Venezia.This massive white building, that was made of marble, was one of the most Notorious struvtures in Italian history. Benito Mussolini had given some of his most noted speeches there. And it was in front of the palazzo where Rome’s first ever far right mayor since WWII was sworn in. Italy has taken a swing to the far right with Il Cavaliere in office, especially since the opposition is quite powerless in parliament, and he can pass whatever bills he likes. All this makes Berlusconi’s dream of becoming a new version of Mousolini, and reviving his “glorious” times. This means more vulgar displays of power from neo-fascist gangs, and of course Italy slowly turning into a police state. And of course, everybody is expecting all this “politics of tension” situation makes everybody expect a violent eruption coming from the left or the right any time. This is more than obvious on the said day, since Dubya is paying Rome a visit, and the police is really on its feet. So I am not surprised when I see a column of vans in Carabinieri liveries parked in front of the palazzo, with carabinieri waiting inside.
“No we do not expect anything to happen”, their leader tells me when I ask him if there is a demo scheduled over there. Then their cb crackles something, he jumps in one of the vans, and suddenly they all scramble towards the Piazza del Popolo, trying to muscle their way into the narrow Via del Corso, and leaving me almost thunderstruck. Damn they are fidgeting. But somewhere near the Italian high court, between Via del Corso and the Piazza Navona, there stands a figure that is not fidgeting. In fact, every day, he stands in front of the building patiently, in an effort to find justice. He is a Romanian prize fighter who did some fights in Italy but got nothing out of them, because the Italian boxing federation stripped him off his license. He says it happened because foreign fighters are not allowed to compete in matches in the Italian championships if they don’t meet some strict standards, while this does not apply for Italians. At least that is what I understood after talking to him. Racism? Definately.
The Piazza Navona is one of the most beautiful places in Rome. Full of fountains that were created in the renaissance by the famous Vatican protigee sculptor Bernini, it is a very famous hangout for romans and tourists alike. Unfortunately this time around it is being remodelled and some of the fountains are covered. This means I can’t see a big part of the piazza. But nevertheless, my aim for the day is the Pantheon. It is one of the most amazing churches in Rome, the only one that sports an opal on its roof, or a boca del diavolo as it was called then. In fact up until some ages ago it was used as an observatory. Words can not describe the beauty of the building, it is the kind of building that makes you feel small. Moreover, another thing that strikes you while in there, is probably the micture of architectural styles in it’s interior. Combining delicate greek and roman styled columns with massive and rigid structures of the kind that the modernists planned during the early decades of the twentieth century, this building looks more like the work of a visionary architect than a temple.
When the night comes the whole motley crew gets together once more at the bar. Drinks come out and we have a jolly good time talking with the girls, when a group of typical American college jocks actually joins us. My oh my. They actually aren’t that good conversationalists, but, they get the girls to follow them with one sole argument. “We have vodka”. That is the main thing about them that strikes me. The other is that two out of them (a Mexican American and a Moldavian Jew) that are immigrant’s kids have been almost totally Americanized. Especially for the Mexican guy this comes out as some form of reverse racism. The guy looks as if he is ashamed of his origins. The Moldovan guy on the other hand is more relaxed about his nationality. He left the place during the war, as a kid, and probably that makes him a little more relaxed about his nationality, though there is a lot of bitterness when he talks about the political situation in Moldova nowadays. But, contrasting Babak he does not seem to be really interested in changing things.
Anyway, angry at the way the vodka argument worked for the girls, and obviously drunk from the beer and tequila, we decided to retreat to our room, and see what the hell our new roomie was. But this happened in a totally twisted and perverted way. While going into the room we were hurling at each other threatening movie quotes like “I’m gonna go medieval on you boy”. Despite the fact that our new roomie seemed to be of female form, and covered from head to toe in her sheets, we continued to the same tune inside the room. My last memory of the night consists of Babak turning towards his lower bunk (where the girl was sleeping) and screaming toward her in a Tony Montana mode something that sounded like “SAY HELLO TO MY LITTLE FRIEND!”!. When we woke up in the next morning she had packed her things and left us. Damn, we terrorized her… Mind you the night before the whole Tony Montana incident Babak had earned his nickname, Mr Chop-Chop, after mumbling something about chopping to peaces the maitre of a pizza restaurant near the Yellow, who was actually being intolerably late, even by Greek standards, in serving us our food. We spend the morning contemplating on our next plans. Dane is going to be travelling to Atlanta within the month in order to work on some project with a director friend of his, while Babak is on his way to New York in two days time. Dane is flying to Athens this evening and me and Babak are thinking of going to a pub crawl, with the daft California girls. So, with just a few hours at our disposal, we decide, to go drink some coffee and fool around at the Piazza del Popolo, and maybe later go get some food and tourist artefacts at the Campo dei Fiori (also called Campo Americano).
We spend zillions of hours hanging around the café and lazing around. In fact we spend most of the morning commenting on people walking past us in the street (it’s Thursday morning). Most of our comments, are, centered around Italian women. The common idea about them, is that they might not be exactly pretty, bu they really do know how to take care of their looks. They are all neatly dressed, and they seem to have a talent when it comes to makeup. They actually don’t apply to much of it, but none of them moves without it. Generally there is some moderate use of it, nothing really much.
Th Campo dei Fiori is another story. It is a posh area, mind you, full of American tourists and fancy cars. Everything exept sandwiches and ice-cream served by delis and carts is really expensive, and everybody moving in the surrounding area seems to be able to spend small fortunes at an y given time. Actually the aerea is swarming with American tourists trying to follow the steps of Robert Langdon, or trying to get their own little wiff of a 00’s Roman Holiday, being totally oblivious to things going underneath the surface.
In reality the city is full of Forza Nuova and Casa Pound stickers, while newly elected mayor Gianni Alemano was being greeted with fascist salutes by his fine during his inaugurational speech, and Berlusconi and his Liga Nord cohorts keep on their racist speeches in the Parliament and the Senata, and even worse, have started passing racist and anti-imigration laws without the smallest hint of a reaction from the parliamentary side of the opposition, and with the only left force capable of reacting, the PRI in souch a political shambles that it cannot even find its way to either its political resurrection, or at least some leftist programme that can counter the Romano Prodi debacle.
These things can be felt when in Rome, and can lead to discussions. Of course there is a lot of discussion between the three of us, wich leads to the conclusion that things need a radical change in Italy, with no clear idea on what change might be.
Putting aside politics and all, we return to the Yellow in time for a small drink and Dane to catch his flight to Greece.
But in an effort to understand Rome, and write about it, one has to reminice of the times he had in there, his recollections of the city’s atmosphere, his thoughts while being there and the idea he gets about the others accompanying him in this trip, if there is anybody doing that. Certainly the first thing I remember about arriving in Rome this time around, is the Americans. There are zillions of Americans loitering around the Italy at any given time, and a great deal of them visits Rome, either in order to have a religious experience in the Vatican, or to explore their Italian roots, or to appreciate the art and cuisine, or even to get a glimpse of the Mediteranean lifestyle , as it was portrayed in a series of Hollywood classics. The firs Americans I came across where two quite daft girls from California, at one table in the hostel’s bar. And during my attempt to strike up a conversation with them one of my roomies turns up and rescues the day. His name is Dane and he is actually an actor travelling around Europe. The other one appears a bit later, an Iranian-American with a ponytail going by the name of Babak. Babak is very moderate about religion, despite the fact that he is of Iranian origin. In fact, as he confesses to me, his family’s relation to religion is just spiritual, and it does not have anything to do with politics or society whatsoever. Both the girls are just out of high school, so they are trying to enjoy a coming-of-age vacation in Europe, before returning to go to college. This is the traveller’s tribe. Huge and complex, consisting of people who travel the world for different reasons each other. One beer brings another and suddenly politics comes to the table. The girls are avid Obama fans and they are quite confident that Obama will win in a landslide and that he will bring a real change in America. We, that is Dane, Babak and I, are not that enthusiastic about the prospects of Obama changing anything. Especially in foreign policy, a change of faces in government does not automatically mean a change of policies. The domestic front is a totally different case. There Obama might be able to bring a real change, but that is also highly improbable, at least by European standards. That happens because however left leaning Obama might be by American standards, in reality he is a part of the liberal right by European standards. That means minimum social measures, but no real political revolution, and a great dissapointment for most of his voters in the long run. But things generally tend to be enthusiastic about Obama at this point, and all the Americans I meet have a certain amount of hope for the Obama government.
The next morning turns out to be quite busy. I am visiting the Colosseum, the roman racetrack, the Palazzo Venezzia, Piazza Navona and the Pantheon. Quite a long walk, but also one that shows the traveller a great deal of the town, and some of its most picturesque aerias. First stop is the Colosseum, a large stadium built for the sole purpose of offering “bread and fun” to it’s audience, something that consisted, mainly, of slaves fighting wild animals and or aech other to the death. Big brother in its most brutal way, and a perfect way to manipulate the masses and turn them away from their day to day grievances. Probably the acts in there helped in keeping the dictatorial powers of the Ceasar intact for ages. What makes the Colosseum a amazing structure, is its capacity. Its capacity was of more than 20,000 spectetors. That means that at any given time a small town was able to watch the “show”. That was something extraordinary for a time when the population of the city was at about 200,000 people. Not far away from the Colosseum and the two gates surrounding it lie the ruins of the race track. The races that were taking place in there were a really brutal spectacle. Actually they were very dangerous horse races, in which four teams where competing around an oval circuit. Safety precautions were non-existant, and accidents where all the rage. Dying on the track was very often, making the races just another form of bloodsport, meant to exist just for the amusement of the public. Nearby are the baths of Octavian, built by the Emperor whose name they bear. On the outside they are not really interesting. But the fact that Romans of a certain social posture used them often made them an interesting place to take a peek in. Actually in these places deals were made, people were discussing politics and forming plans and alliances. This might sound like the Russian mob, but it was actually some form of get together of political friends and lobbying, in the times of the Senate. Actually Roman senators were very avid lobbyists themselves. There was a very specific example of one particular senator who was so hell- bent for the destruction of Carthagena, who actually ended his speeches on every subject discussed by the senate with the frase: and thus, my friends Carthagena must be destroyed.
Right below this aeria, lies the capitolium, where the senate used to convene during the times of the roman democracy. There decisions where made, and alla of the political play came to the forfront. But a further more interresting building, is the Palazzo Venezia, wich lies on the top of Piazza Venezia.This massive white building, that was made of marble, was one of the most Notorious struvtures in Italian history. Benito Mussolini had given some of his most noted speeches there. And it was in front of the palazzo where Rome’s first ever far right mayor since WWII was sworn in. Italy has taken a swing to the far right with Il Cavaliere in office, especially since the opposition is quite powerless in parliament, and he can pass whatever bills he likes. All this makes Berlusconi’s dream of becoming a new version of Mousolini, and reviving his “glorious” times. This means more vulgar displays of power from neo-fascist gangs, and of course Italy slowly turning into a police state. And of course, everybody is expecting all this “politics of tension” situation makes everybody expect a violent eruption coming from the left or the right any time. This is more than obvious on the said day, since Dubya is paying Rome a visit, and the police is really on its feet. So I am not surprised when I see a column of vans in Carabinieri liveries parked in front of the palazzo, with carabinieri waiting inside.
“No we do not expect anything to happen”, their leader tells me when I ask him if there is a demo scheduled over there. Then their cb crackles something, he jumps in one of the vans, and suddenly they all scramble towards the Piazza del Popolo, trying to muscle their way into the narrow Via del Corso, and leaving me almost thunderstruck. Damn they are fidgeting. But somewhere near the Italian high court, between Via del Corso and the Piazza Navona, there stands a figure that is not fidgeting. In fact, every day, he stands in front of the building patiently, in an effort to find justice. He is a Romanian prize fighter who did some fights in Italy but got nothing out of them, because the Italian boxing federation stripped him off his license. He says it happened because foreign fighters are not allowed to compete in matches in the Italian championships if they don’t meet some strict standards, while this does not apply for Italians. At least that is what I understood after talking to him. Racism? Definately.
The Piazza Navona is one of the most beautiful places in Rome. Full of fountains that were created in the renaissance by the famous Vatican protigee sculptor Bernini, it is a very famous hangout for romans and tourists alike. Unfortunately this time around it is being remodelled and some of the fountains are covered. This means I can’t see a big part of the piazza. But nevertheless, my aim for the day is the Pantheon. It is one of the most amazing churches in Rome, the only one that sports an opal on its roof, or a boca del diavolo as it was called then. In fact up until some ages ago it was used as an observatory. Words can not describe the beauty of the building, it is the kind of building that makes you feel small. Moreover, another thing that strikes you while in there, is probably the micture of architectural styles in it’s interior. Combining delicate greek and roman styled columns with massive and rigid structures of the kind that the modernists planned during the early decades of the twentieth century, this building looks more like the work of a visionary architect than a temple.
When the night comes the whole motley crew gets together once more at the bar. Drinks come out and we have a jolly good time talking with the girls, when a group of typical American college jocks actually joins us. My oh my. They actually aren’t that good conversationalists, but, they get the girls to follow them with one sole argument. “We have vodka”. That is the main thing about them that strikes me. The other is that two out of them (a Mexican American and a Moldavian Jew) that are immigrant’s kids have been almost totally Americanized. Especially for the Mexican guy this comes out as some form of reverse racism. The guy looks as if he is ashamed of his origins. The Moldovan guy on the other hand is more relaxed about his nationality. He left the place during the war, as a kid, and probably that makes him a little more relaxed about his nationality, though there is a lot of bitterness when he talks about the political situation in Moldova nowadays. But, contrasting Babak he does not seem to be really interested in changing things.
Anyway, angry at the way the vodka argument worked for the girls, and obviously drunk from the beer and tequila, we decided to retreat to our room, and see what the hell our new roomie was. But this happened in a totally twisted and perverted way. While going into the room we were hurling at each other threatening movie quotes like “I’m gonna go medieval on you boy”. Despite the fact that our new roomie seemed to be of female form, and covered from head to toe in her sheets, we continued to the same tune inside the room. My last memory of the night consists of Babak turning towards his lower bunk (where the girl was sleeping) and screaming toward her in a Tony Montana mode something that sounded like “SAY HELLO TO MY LITTLE FRIEND!”!. When we woke up in the next morning she had packed her things and left us. Damn, we terrorized her… Mind you the night before the whole Tony Montana incident Babak had earned his nickname, Mr Chop-Chop, after mumbling something about chopping to peaces the maitre of a pizza restaurant near the Yellow, who was actually being intolerably late, even by Greek standards, in serving us our food. We spend the morning contemplating on our next plans. Dane is going to be travelling to Atlanta within the month in order to work on some project with a director friend of his, while Babak is on his way to New York in two days time. Dane is flying to Athens this evening and me and Babak are thinking of going to a pub crawl, with the daft California girls. So, with just a few hours at our disposal, we decide, to go drink some coffee and fool around at the Piazza del Popolo, and maybe later go get some food and tourist artefacts at the Campo dei Fiori (also called Campo Americano).
We spend zillions of hours hanging around the café and lazing around. In fact we spend most of the morning commenting on people walking past us in the street (it’s Thursday morning). Most of our comments, are, centered around Italian women. The common idea about them, is that they might not be exactly pretty, bu they really do know how to take care of their looks. They are all neatly dressed, and they seem to have a talent when it comes to makeup. They actually don’t apply to much of it, but none of them moves without it. Generally there is some moderate use of it, nothing really much.
Th Campo dei Fiori is another story. It is a posh area, mind you, full of American tourists and fancy cars. Everything exept sandwiches and ice-cream served by delis and carts is really expensive, and everybody moving in the surrounding area seems to be able to spend small fortunes at an y given time. Actually the aerea is swarming with American tourists trying to follow the steps of Robert Langdon, or trying to get their own little wiff of a 00’s Roman Holiday, being totally oblivious to things going underneath the surface.
In reality the city is full of Forza Nuova and Casa Pound stickers, while newly elected mayor Gianni Alemano was being greeted with fascist salutes by his fine during his inaugurational speech, and Berlusconi and his Liga Nord cohorts keep on their racist speeches in the Parliament and the Senata, and even worse, have started passing racist and anti-imigration laws without the smallest hint of a reaction from the parliamentary side of the opposition, and with the only left force capable of reacting, the PRI in souch a political shambles that it cannot even find its way to either its political resurrection, or at least some leftist programme that can counter the Romano Prodi debacle.
These things can be felt when in Rome, and can lead to discussions. Of course there is a lot of discussion between the three of us, wich leads to the conclusion that things need a radical change in Italy, with no clear idea on what change might be.
Putting aside politics and all, we return to the Yellow in time for a small drink and Dane to catch his flight to Greece.
Τετάρτη 19 Αυγούστου 2009
Bologna, η κόκκινη πόλη.
“Μπολόνια; Τι εκεί εφηύραν το Bouloni;”
“Ναι μάλιστα στον κεντρικό σταθμό της πόλης σε περιμένουν κορίτσια που σου περνούν στο σβέρκο lei φτιαγμένα από το εν λόγω αλαντικό”. Η σουρεαλιστική συζήτηση με τις ολίγον τι χαζές αμερικάνες στο Yellow μόλις τους ανακοίνωσα ότι αναχωρούσα με το πρώτο τραίνο για Μπολόνια. Όμως παρά τις προσδοκίες τους, αυτό που με υποδέχτηκε στον σταθμό, μετά από 6 ώρες ταξιδιού με το τραίνο, ήταν μια επιτύμβια στήλη για τα θύματα της βομβιστικής επίθεσης που είχε γίνει στον σταθμό το 1980. Ναι, η καστροπολιτεία της Emiglia Romana έχει δώσει ένα μεγάλο αγώνα ενάντια στον φασισμό, και τον έχει πληρώσει με αίμα.Στην Piazza Maggiore, απέναντι από τη Βασιλική του San Petronio, άλλη μια επιτύμβια πλάκα. Για τους νεκρούς της αντίστασης ενάντια στον φασισμό αυτή τη φορά, τους νεκρούς της δεκαετίας του 30 και του 40. Μια πόλη οποία είναι συνιφασμένη με τις λέξεις ελευθερία, αντίσταση και αριστερά. Οι gay κυκλοφορούν ελεύθερα και ανοιχτά μέσα στην πόλη, πράγμα σπάνιο για την Ιταλία. Υπάρχει μια αρκετά μέγάλη ομάδα ατόμων που οργανώνουν ποδηλατοπορίες, κυρίως αναρχικοί. Επίσης σταθερά έχει κομμουνιστή δήμαρχο, και οι δυνάμεις της αριστεράς εκεί είναι μεγάλες. Και εκεί βρίσκεται ένα από τα αρχαιότερα πανεπιστήμια της Ευρώπης. Μην πούμε ότι εκεί μένουν κάποιες από τις πιο σημαντικές προσωπικότητες του Ιταλικού πολιτισμού , όπως επί παραδείγματι ο Lucio Dala. Εξ αιτίας όλων των προαναφερθέντων, οι Ιταλοί αποκαλούν την Bologna Καλιφόρνια της Ιταλίας.
Ένα άλλο πράγμα που προσέχει κανείς όσο περπατάει στη Bologna είναι ο μεγάλος αριθμός από καμάρες και πύλες που υπάρχουν στα πέριξ του κέντρου. Και αυτό όμως έχει την εξήγηση του. Πριν τον ερχομό της βιομηχανικής επανάστασης η Bologna ήταν μια καστροπολιτεία, αλλά με την έλευση της βιομηχανικής εποχής και την επέκταση της πόλης, τα τείχη κατεδαφίστηκαν και παρέμειναν οι αψίδες και οι καμάρες να θυμίζουν το παρελθόν της μεγάλης πόλης του Ιταλικού βορά. Στις τρεις ημέρες που διήρκεσε η στάση μου στην πόλη, κατάφερα βέβαια να αποκτίσω μια πιο εκτενή άποψη όσον αφορά την ζωή στην Πόλη, κυρίως χάρη στην ξεναγό μου, την Christel. Στην Μπολόνια υπάρχουν άπειρα και ιδίως μέσα στην παλιά πόλη υπάρχουν πολλά μικρά εστιατόρια και μπαρ στα οποία συχνάζουν φοιτητές, είτε για ένα γρήγορο γεύμα, είτε για να κατεβάσουν κάνα κρασάκι σε λογική τιμή. Στην παλιά πόλη επίσης κυκλοφορούν μυριάδες φοιτητές που ακολουθούν το πρόγραμμα Erasmus, γι’αυτό και δεν είναι σπάνιο φαινόμενο το να ακούσει κανείς Ισπανικά, Γαλλικά ή και Ολλανδικά, ιδίως εάν περιφέρεται κάτω από τα μεσαιωνικά κτίρια κτίρια του πανεπιστημίου. Επίσης υπάρχουν και τα σινεμά, σε ένα εκ των οποίων είδα σε πρώτη προβολή το “Gommora” του Matteo Garone, ενώ συχνά πυκνά γίνονται αφιερώματα σε διάφορα είδη κινηματογράφου.
Επίσης οι πορείες, φοιτητικές και μη είναι συχνό φαινόμενο στην πόλη, όπως και σ’ολη την Ιταλία. Αυτό δεν πρέπει να αποτελεί έκπληξη για τους γνωρίζοντες τα της Ιταλίας, μιας και το τόσο το φοιτητικό κίνημα όσο και ο συνδικαλισμός έχουν γερές παραδόσεις στην Ιταλία, που χρονολογούνται από την δεκαετία του ’60 και από την μετά-Γκαριμπάλντι εποχή. Και η Bologna βρισκόταν στο επίκεντρο και των δύο εποχών.
Είναι παράξενο το πως θα επιζήσουν οι Bolognesi της περιρέουσας ατμόσφαιρας που επικρατεί αυτό τον καιρό στην Ιταλία. Πέρυσι το καλοκαίρι που είχα επισκευτεί την πόλη ο Cavaliere είχε μόλις αρχίσει να μετατρέπει την Ιταλία σε ένα ιδιότυπο αστυνομικό κράτος, με νόμους που έδιναν αστυνομικά καθήκοντα και στον στρατό, και την εισαγωγή των πρώτων ρατσιστικών νόμων κατά της μετανάστευσης. Δεν είναι καθόλου σίγουρο το πως θα αντιδράσουν οι Bolognesi σε όλη αυτή την κατάσταση. Ιδίως όταν υποτίθεται ότι όλα αυτά είναι μέτρα κατά της εγκληματικ΄ότητας. Την στιγμή που στην Ιταλία η μάστιγα είναι τα οικονομικά εγκλήματα, τα οποία διαπράττει και ο Berlusconi. Και μάλιστα την στιγμή που δένει τα χέρια της Αρχής Καταπολέμισης Οικονομικού Εγκλήματος δυσκολεύοντας την εύρεση στοιχείων για τέτοιους εγκληματιές.
Εκτός όμως από τις πλούσιες πολιτικές παραδόσεις , η Bologna έχει διατηρήσει μια γραφική αίγλη, που οφείλεται κυρίως στο γεγονός ότι είναι φοιτητούπολη. Οι ντόπιοι κυκλοφορούν κατά δεκάδες στα στενά του κέντρου, όπου κάνουν τα ψώνια της εβδομάδας, συνήθως προτιμούν τα ποδήλατα και τα (αποτελεσματικά θα έλεγα) αστικά λεωφορεία για τις εντος των πυλών μετακινήσεις τους. Και βεβαίως κάθε πρωί καταναλώνουν τόνους espresso και τα μεσημέρια ή τα απογεύματα περνούν για ένα γρήγορο καφέ από τα τοπικά μπαρ. Η σχέση του Ιταλού με τον καφέ μοιάζει πάρα πολύ με αυτή που έχουν οι Κύπριοι. Ένα είδος καφέ κυκλοφορεί σε 150 διαφορετικές παραλλαγες. Με γάλα, χωρίς, Μισός μισός, μέτριοσ δυνατόν με λίγο γάλα και πάει λέγοντας.
Δεν έχεις ζήσει από Bologna εάν δεν έχεις φάει Spaghetti al Ragu,δεν έχεις πιεί μια Nastro Azzuro από τοπικό μπαρ, δεν έχεις χαθεί στα στενά γύρω από το πανεπιστήμιο, δεν έχεις κάτσει στα σκαλάκια της Piazza Magiore, αντίκρυ στον San Petronio (τη μεγαλύτερη βασιλική στον κόσμο, παρεπιμπτώντως) να ακούσεις τους περιπλανόμενους μουσικούς, δεν έχεις μάθει τίποτα για την κινηματική ιστορία της πόλης.
Είναι μια πόλη την οποία μπορείς να χαζεύεις για ώρες , και να μην την χορταίνεις, η Bologna. Μια όμορφη πόλη με όμορφους ανθρώπους, κόκκινους από άποψη και όχι κάποιο γενετικο ελλάτωμα.
Σάββατο 18 Ιουλίου 2009
Interrail,ένας μίνι οδηγός
Ας πούμε ότι μέσα σε μία μέρα πρέπει να πας Πειραιά, Νίκαια, Μοσχάτο, Κηφησιά, Γκάζι και Πέραμα. Επειδή όμως δεν θέλεις να πάρεις του κόσμου τα εισητήρια και να πληρώσεις παραπάνω λεφτά, πας στον ΟΑΣΑ και βγάζεις μια κάρτα πολλαπλών διαδρομών. Φανταστείτε τώρα ένα ανάλογο σενάριο να συμβαίνει στην Ευρώπη, σε διάστημα ένός μήνα. Πας μέχρι τα γραφεία του ΟΣΕ (Σταθμός Λαρίσης, ή στην Ομήρου στο κέντρο), και αγοράζεις ένα εισητήριο interrail.
Ένα global pass για το interrail διάρκειας 30 ημερών κοστίζει 399 εάν είσαι κάτων των 26 ετών και 599 ευρώ εάν είσαι άνω των 26 ετών. Από κει και πέρα υπάρχουν φθηνότερα εισητήρια για πακέτα μικρότερης διάρκειας που είναι για όλα τα γούστα.
Με αυτό το εισητήριο μπορείς να κάνεις σχεδόν τα πάντα. Να πας στο φεστιβάλ του Glastonbury, να κάνεις μπανάκια στις Πορτογάλλικες ακτές του Ατλαντικού, να δεις τον κολητό ή την κολητή που κάνει Erasmus στη Γρανάδα, να πιείς αμπσέντι στην Πράγα, να δεις τον Ήλιο του Μεσονυκτίου στην Λαπωνία, και να γευτείς τις “παράνομες” χαρές του Άμστερνταμ.
Μόνο μια πληροφορία. Τα δωρεάν εισητήρια δεν ισχύουν για τη χώρα διαμονής, αλλά μπορεί καν είς να πάρει μειωμένα εισητήρια μέχρι τα σύνορα. Και δεύτερον όταν πρέπει να πάρει κανείς πλοίο για να πάει από τη μία πόλη στην άλλη, μπορεί με ορισμένες εταιρίες να πάρει πάλι μειωμένο εισητήριο.. Κατα τα άλλα μπορείς να πας όπου θέλεις στην Ευρώπη, και να μείνεις όσο θέλεις για ένα διάστημα μέχρι 30 ημερών. Διαμονή σε hostel, η οποία μπορεί να σας κοστίσει από 10-12 ευρώ το άτομο το βράδυ, μέχρι και 30-35, ανάλογα με το πότε θα γίνει η κράτηση. Στα επιπλέον ν θετικά είναι ότι θα γνωρίσεις και άλλους ταξιδιώτες που κάνουν ένα αντίστοιχο ταξίδι, και θα δημιουργήσεις φιλίες μαζί τους. Και αυτό ακόμη και εάν ταξιδεύεις μόνος.
Τι να πάρεις στο ταξίδι. Διαβατήριο. Κάρτα αναλήψεων. Τσαντάκι που να φοριέται κατάσαρκα, για να βάλεις διαβατήριο εισητήριο και κάρτες, για να αποφύγεις δυσάρεστες καταστάσεις που μπορεί να προκύψουν από κάποια κλοπή. Ένα σακίδιο τύπου tetra-pack, μιας και είναι βολικά γιαα τέτοιου τύπου ταξίδια. Ρούχα, κάλτσες, ένα τσαντάκι με φάρμακα και ήδη πρώτης ανάγκης. Φρυγανιές. Παγούρι. Απορυπαντικά για να μην χρειάζεται να πάρετε πολλές αλλαξιές ρούχα. Ένα sleeping bag, σε περίπτωση που χρειαστεί να κάνετε ολονύχτιο ταξίδι. Ipod. Και πολλή καλή διάθεση.
Εάν θέλεις να ζήσεις μια περιπέτεια, ένα interrail είναι ο καλύτερος τρόπος!
Ένα global pass για το interrail διάρκειας 30 ημερών κοστίζει 399 εάν είσαι κάτων των 26 ετών και 599 ευρώ εάν είσαι άνω των 26 ετών. Από κει και πέρα υπάρχουν φθηνότερα εισητήρια για πακέτα μικρότερης διάρκειας που είναι για όλα τα γούστα.
Με αυτό το εισητήριο μπορείς να κάνεις σχεδόν τα πάντα. Να πας στο φεστιβάλ του Glastonbury, να κάνεις μπανάκια στις Πορτογάλλικες ακτές του Ατλαντικού, να δεις τον κολητό ή την κολητή που κάνει Erasmus στη Γρανάδα, να πιείς αμπσέντι στην Πράγα, να δεις τον Ήλιο του Μεσονυκτίου στην Λαπωνία, και να γευτείς τις “παράνομες” χαρές του Άμστερνταμ.
Μόνο μια πληροφορία. Τα δωρεάν εισητήρια δεν ισχύουν για τη χώρα διαμονής, αλλά μπορεί καν είς να πάρει μειωμένα εισητήρια μέχρι τα σύνορα. Και δεύτερον όταν πρέπει να πάρει κανείς πλοίο για να πάει από τη μία πόλη στην άλλη, μπορεί με ορισμένες εταιρίες να πάρει πάλι μειωμένο εισητήριο.. Κατα τα άλλα μπορείς να πας όπου θέλεις στην Ευρώπη, και να μείνεις όσο θέλεις για ένα διάστημα μέχρι 30 ημερών. Διαμονή σε hostel, η οποία μπορεί να σας κοστίσει από 10-12 ευρώ το άτομο το βράδυ, μέχρι και 30-35, ανάλογα με το πότε θα γίνει η κράτηση. Στα επιπλέον ν θετικά είναι ότι θα γνωρίσεις και άλλους ταξιδιώτες που κάνουν ένα αντίστοιχο ταξίδι, και θα δημιουργήσεις φιλίες μαζί τους. Και αυτό ακόμη και εάν ταξιδεύεις μόνος.
Τι να πάρεις στο ταξίδι. Διαβατήριο. Κάρτα αναλήψεων. Τσαντάκι που να φοριέται κατάσαρκα, για να βάλεις διαβατήριο εισητήριο και κάρτες, για να αποφύγεις δυσάρεστες καταστάσεις που μπορεί να προκύψουν από κάποια κλοπή. Ένα σακίδιο τύπου tetra-pack, μιας και είναι βολικά γιαα τέτοιου τύπου ταξίδια. Ρούχα, κάλτσες, ένα τσαντάκι με φάρμακα και ήδη πρώτης ανάγκης. Φρυγανιές. Παγούρι. Απορυπαντικά για να μην χρειάζεται να πάρετε πολλές αλλαξιές ρούχα. Ένα sleeping bag, σε περίπτωση που χρειαστεί να κάνετε ολονύχτιο ταξίδι. Ipod. Και πολλή καλή διάθεση.
Εάν θέλεις να ζήσεις μια περιπέτεια, ένα interrail είναι ο καλύτερος τρόπος!
Δευτέρα 30 Ιουνίου 2008
The Canadian Invasions pt2
The first thing that strikes someone who first arrives at the port of Bari, probably is the seaside. Well actually it is the coastal boulevard, wich is full of massive hotels, of the kind that actually distorts the local ambience to a very irritating point. Apparently the lessons of Southern Spain have not been learnt in the coasts of the Adriatic. Other than that Bari looks like the typical nondescript Mediteranean coastal town, with its beaches and its bars, and its wide streets.
The bus ride from the port to the central station is- even by italian standards, frantic. Imagine a bus full of backpackers, packed in it like sardines in a can. Now imagine this bus trying to swerve around obstacles and curves, with the passengers trying frantically to find something to hold on to, before getting mashed into each other, while the bus driver never lifts the foot from the gas pedal, even when trying to negotiate a turn in a street that can just hold two cars. In the end the bus screeches to a devastating stop and the drivers just finishes us off, by screaming "Arrivederci" at the top of his voice.
Now there is a funny thing when you see a bunch of backpackers squeezed into a bus, trying to break free, just in order to file into a qeue in front of the ticket offices. But, the long qeue notwithstanding, all of us poor travellers that had to suffer through the Italian bus ordeal make it to the one 'o' clock train to Rome in one piece. Yes everybody's going to Rome. Apparently mpost of the backpackers in the train are Canadian, though I don't fail to notice the token Spanish girl, plus an Argentinian, some Finns and a few Americans. The train ride to Rome takes about six hours, but it is really worth the try. After the train leaves the plains around Foggia, the really interesting part begins. The train starts to climb on the apenines, and before it reaches the area of Campagna, you get to pass through green valleys, traditional villages and ancient Roman aquaducts. Then you swiftly pass through the campagnan countryside, and reach the tremendously beautyful coast of Amalfi. Then, before you even know it, you pass next to a giant graffiti sign writing "Bienvienuto a RomaYork" (Welcome to Rome-York). The eternal city is laying before my feet, just waiting to be conquered. (to be continued on Friday, with Roma:Cittá Aperta)
The bus ride from the port to the central station is- even by italian standards, frantic. Imagine a bus full of backpackers, packed in it like sardines in a can. Now imagine this bus trying to swerve around obstacles and curves, with the passengers trying frantically to find something to hold on to, before getting mashed into each other, while the bus driver never lifts the foot from the gas pedal, even when trying to negotiate a turn in a street that can just hold two cars. In the end the bus screeches to a devastating stop and the drivers just finishes us off, by screaming "Arrivederci" at the top of his voice.
Now there is a funny thing when you see a bunch of backpackers squeezed into a bus, trying to break free, just in order to file into a qeue in front of the ticket offices. But, the long qeue notwithstanding, all of us poor travellers that had to suffer through the Italian bus ordeal make it to the one 'o' clock train to Rome in one piece. Yes everybody's going to Rome. Apparently mpost of the backpackers in the train are Canadian, though I don't fail to notice the token Spanish girl, plus an Argentinian, some Finns and a few Americans. The train ride to Rome takes about six hours, but it is really worth the try. After the train leaves the plains around Foggia, the really interesting part begins. The train starts to climb on the apenines, and before it reaches the area of Campagna, you get to pass through green valleys, traditional villages and ancient Roman aquaducts. Then you swiftly pass through the campagnan countryside, and reach the tremendously beautyful coast of Amalfi. Then, before you even know it, you pass next to a giant graffiti sign writing "Bienvienuto a RomaYork" (Welcome to Rome-York). The eternal city is laying before my feet, just waiting to be conquered. (to be continued on Friday, with Roma:Cittá Aperta)
Παρασκευή 27 Ιουνίου 2008
The Interrail Diaries: The Canadian Invasions pt1
The bus ride from Athens to Patras is not really long, especially if you take into account the events of the previous morning and their devastating aftermath. In fact the only thing along the route to indicate any souch thing has happened, is the intense movement of military and relief agencies up and down the highway. In fact there are convoys of police busses making their way in and out of the capital, in order to move reinforcements into the earthquake zone. The city of Patras does, in fact, seem to have survived the ordeal, but for the villages just a few kilometres south of the city the aftermath is devastating. Adding up to these, are the fears of my parents, who actually fear of aftershocks and tsunami waves hiting the area. But my stay there is not going to be prolonged, and my slow boat to Bari appears to be one of these vessels that have the ability to move with undeterred, under almost any weather conditions. Plus, I am sailing across the Adriatic, wich is not particularly notorius for its tsunamies.
I witness a great deal of suffering though,coming out of the tv screen of one of the port´s café´s wich shows, at full blast, news reports from the wrecked villages. Fortunately enough, the casualties are not really heavy, but building structures were totally wrecked, leaving a lot of people homeless. As if they didn´t suffer enough last year from the forest fires! Plus soon enough, the governmentwill show almost no help towards these people. Though eventually every damaged household will get some money for rebuilding the home and new furniture, later in the week, reports that local New Democracy party officials (rememeber they are in the government) actually lead relief funds to people whose businesses or houses remained intact (but hey were ND members or voters). This will probably add up to the popular discontent towards both ND and PASOK, the two parties that are sinking day by day in opinion polls.
My boarding time finally arives, and I enter the big boat. To my dismay the boat is half full, but there are no beds available, so I will have to spend the whole evening on a chair, or a couch. And since lying on the couches is actually prohibited by the staff, I just sit at the air-seats, waiting. The composition of the passengers is quite interresting. A large group of greek tourists taking a guided tour of Italy, truckers (the majority of whom are Italians), and holidaymakers of various types (backpackers, campers, elderly people on an adventure etc) making their way into Italy. Most of the backpackers have a canadian flag on their backpacks, and claim to be canadians, but there are also some token english people, two fins and a spanish girl travellingon a eurail scheme. Later on I will learn that a lot of these "canadians" are actually american tourist, too afraid or too ashamed to say that they are americans in Europe, mainly because the American Exteral Policy is not really welcome in Europe, but also of the fear of being mistreated due to being americans (mind you this is a stupid fear, europeans love america and its people, they just don´t really like american presidents and the NRA crowd).
I (like everyone on the boat try to spend my time sleeping (after seing Italy being thrashed by the Dutch in the Euro), bot that is not an easy thing. So I basically wait until the stewards dissapear into their quarters, so that I can sneak into the comfy sofas and couches and take a nap, a thign that does not happen until like 3 AM. So I get to catch some five hours of sleep until breakfast time when I get rudely awakened by the steward.
I get some cheap Bclass English type breakfast at the food lounge, wich will keep me strong enough for the remainder of the day. And straight after that, I am ready to disembark at Bari, and start my iterrail adventure..... (Continued on Monday, with Canadian Invasions pt2)
I witness a great deal of suffering though,coming out of the tv screen of one of the port´s café´s wich shows, at full blast, news reports from the wrecked villages. Fortunately enough, the casualties are not really heavy, but building structures were totally wrecked, leaving a lot of people homeless. As if they didn´t suffer enough last year from the forest fires! Plus soon enough, the governmentwill show almost no help towards these people. Though eventually every damaged household will get some money for rebuilding the home and new furniture, later in the week, reports that local New Democracy party officials (rememeber they are in the government) actually lead relief funds to people whose businesses or houses remained intact (but hey were ND members or voters). This will probably add up to the popular discontent towards both ND and PASOK, the two parties that are sinking day by day in opinion polls.
My boarding time finally arives, and I enter the big boat. To my dismay the boat is half full, but there are no beds available, so I will have to spend the whole evening on a chair, or a couch. And since lying on the couches is actually prohibited by the staff, I just sit at the air-seats, waiting. The composition of the passengers is quite interresting. A large group of greek tourists taking a guided tour of Italy, truckers (the majority of whom are Italians), and holidaymakers of various types (backpackers, campers, elderly people on an adventure etc) making their way into Italy. Most of the backpackers have a canadian flag on their backpacks, and claim to be canadians, but there are also some token english people, two fins and a spanish girl travellingon a eurail scheme. Later on I will learn that a lot of these "canadians" are actually american tourist, too afraid or too ashamed to say that they are americans in Europe, mainly because the American Exteral Policy is not really welcome in Europe, but also of the fear of being mistreated due to being americans (mind you this is a stupid fear, europeans love america and its people, they just don´t really like american presidents and the NRA crowd).
I (like everyone on the boat try to spend my time sleeping (after seing Italy being thrashed by the Dutch in the Euro), bot that is not an easy thing. So I basically wait until the stewards dissapear into their quarters, so that I can sneak into the comfy sofas and couches and take a nap, a thign that does not happen until like 3 AM. So I get to catch some five hours of sleep until breakfast time when I get rudely awakened by the steward.
I get some cheap Bclass English type breakfast at the food lounge, wich will keep me strong enough for the remainder of the day. And straight after that, I am ready to disembark at Bari, and start my iterrail adventure..... (Continued on Monday, with Canadian Invasions pt2)
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