Geography, with a capital G.

Something always goes wrong at border posts - especially when that border post takes you through a country that isn't within the European Union (EU). Crossing EU borders is a a synch because they've all been deserted and you drive right on through.

Switzerland, I learned the night before heading there; is not part of the EU.

After Rome, we trekked up to Milan, which turned out to be a long journey full of tunnels. Italians really like their tunnels; they even have some where you'd think they didn't need them. And it isn't a proper tunnel unless it's got curves in it; the mark of a true tunnel, however, is when it has a bit of an S-bend going on (as if to say: this tunnel could have gone straight through hill this hill, but that would be boring.)

Never saw much of Milan though because there was laundry to do. It was early to bed in anticipation of an early start to Switzerland. And early it was, just after 7am and it was only just getting light outside.

Paulo was on the last quarter of his tank so I decided I would stop at the first service station on the highway after leaving Milan.

There is definitely someone up there looking after me; because there was only one service station en route to Switzerland and, with thanks to all that is good in the world, I needed to stop.

Italy, unlike the rest of Western Europe, is similar to Eastern Europe in that they have petrol pump assistants. The one who served me was gracious and filled the tank while I went to the shop and bought my usual breakfast of a bottle of Coke and a can of Red Bull.

Returning to the car, I offered the attendant my bank card and he mumbled something about vinegar. I hadn't a clue what he was on about and it took sometime before he explained that I needed to pay road tax in Switzerland. (I've looked this up on the internet subsequently; they call it 'Vignette' and it's a tax of French invention; well blow me down if that doesn't make an awful lot of sense. Damn frogs, can't trust 'em).

"Yes, yes... gratzie," I said gratefully and gave him a 5 Euro trip. He was thrilled with this and went so far as to attach the road tax sticker to Paulo's window.

Less than a mile down the road and we ran into the border post. I swallowed hard and rolled up to the guard. He examined the sticker, was pleased by it, and waved me on. He didn't even look at my passport. I smiled empathetically at the poor bugger who was pulled off, because he was sticker-less, and was being pointed in the vague direction of a official-looking building nearby.

All-in-all, huge relief and a great thank you to the petrol-pump attendant. A silent prayer was offered - along with a message to Mother Teresa pleading for her to deliver it personally.

There was something odd about Lilith when we set of from Milan; after giving her instructions to the hotel, she suggested that we might not be able to drive the entire route and that some of it may have to be taken by foot.

This concerned me greatly, but thoughts of it passed quickly as my fear of border posts took control.

Once through the border post it was onto a beautiful highway that ran through valleys of deep green between giant mountains of granite, all topped majestically with white snow. When the valleys weren't filled with green fields and little villages, they were filled with lakes.

Each new valley brought more splendours with even taller mountains.

This was geography on a grand scale and I wished the road would take us up into the mountains, up to the snow line even.

This was not to be; there were tunnels to avoid having to do that.

But what tunnels they were. Italians no nothing of tunnels; Swiss tunnels stretch for miles and they positively meander - there was one in particular where Lilith lost touch with her celestial guides and at the time her face said there was 19-odd miles to Lucerne, when we re-emerged, Lilith got her wits about her and said it was now only 13-and-a-bit miles to our destination. That's a full five miles of tunnel. It was so long that about a third of the way through I wondered if Lilith hadn't accidentally driven us into the Large Hadron Collider because this tunnel had an almost constant curve to the left and went on-and-on-and-on (I can see why they decided to build that huge monument to scientific research in Switzerland; the folk here know a thing or two about tunnelling).

Along the way (before we hit the Hadron Collider that wasn't), Lilith had pause to inform me that there were traffic delays ahead and I wondered if this might have something to do with the earlier comment she had about having to do some of the journey on foot.

Turns out it wasn't; and signs lit up along the highway to say a tunnel was closed because there was a vehicle on fire in one of them confirmed this.

This resulted in an earlier wish being granted. All trucks on the road - as well the baneful caravans - were halted at a point, and only cars were allowed to pass through onto a detour road. Lilith screamed in objection and she was quickly shut up through the judicious use of her off button (in some ways our relationship is nothing like a marriage), and Paulo was thrilled to roar upwards, towards the snow caps.

The twists and turns and steep inclines were dizzying wonderful. Paulo was overcome by all of this and began to feel the affects of altitude sickness. His initially zest at the push of the accelerator slowed a bit. Having said that, his temperature remained constant and he pulled us through, though I regretted feeding him the cheap unleaded petrol that I had, and made a very conscious decision to treat him to the highest octane available just as soon as I could.

Soon we were on top of the mountains. We stopped at every single lay-by along the way and stood in awe of scene before us. Sun shining, vivid blue skies, snow laying all around - it was heaven.

Tough luck to the sod whose vehicle was on fire in a tunnel, his misfortune was a grand turn of events for us. Some way into the mountains I even turned Lilith back on, just so as she could experience some of it too. She didn't say if she was happy or upset about this, merely said she would recalculate our trip. I was fine with that.

Thus, our trip to Lucerne was a delight and it was with bold spirits that we left the mountains to drive into soon the heart of the city.

We got to about 500 yards from our destination when the truth of Lilith's advice hit us. We turned into a side street, as she directed, and hit a wall of pedestrians. A huge section of Lucerne is being closed off to traffic and is being turned into a shopping paradise for people on foot.
Red-faced, I weaved around a block to find my way back to the main road.

We soon found a parkade and left Paulo there, while Lilith and I made our way to the hotel. Lilith has a pedestrian mode, which I duly put her into; and headed off in the general direction of hotel. Every five metres, Lilith hollered out directions - mostly this happened in the middle of a crowd. How I wished she came with a volume control, but she's a woman and doesn't have one. I was resigned to listen to her nagging all the way to the hotel - never again let it be said that a man will not ask for directions from a woman.

We got there soon enough - well, not really soon enough for me, but we got there and checked in. From there I walked the streets alone.

Lucerne is lovely. What you might call quaint. It was Saturday and there was a market along the river. That was quaint too. The city wall is impressive and the turrets along it are great too, quaint even.

All of this walking and travelling made me hungry, and wouldn't you know it but there's an Irish pub in Lucerne. Funny how the Irish get around, there was one in Prague - right next to the British pub (the George and Dragon, to be precise) where I had had lunch, and there is one in Rome too where I also had lunch.

The Coleen at the pub wasn't... she was a South African (from Durbs, nogal) and we had a great discussion about the perils of South African politics. We commiserated a lot about having to leave the country.

She said there were many South Africans in Lucerne and even more in Zurich where she used to work.

I suggested there are lot of South Africans of a certain breed that were living all over the world; anywhere but South Africa. Yes agreed.

Being in an Irish pub, I decided to enjoy the local speciality which was a pork Schnitzel. It was a grand meal and I wasn't able to finish it because the Guinness took up too much space.

Well supped, I walked about some more; enjoying all the quaintness. And cleanliness.

I returned to the hotel shortly before nightfall, which is quite late in this part of the world - and slept well, all ready for whatever adventures the next day in France might bring.

When in Rome...

There should be an international standard way of doing things. Really there should. Such things as everyone driving on the correct side of the road - the left hand side - would be a good start (deciding on miles and kilometres is less an issue, because Paulo is so brilliant that he gives me readings in both).

But toll roads, bus fares, train tickets and how to get around, generally should be standardised. It isn't though; and it can becoming confusing for the intrepid international travel who is used to ordinary things being done in another way.

Eastern Europe was fond of doing things quite differently; but they've a few clever tricks that the West might want to cotton onto. One such thing is the traffic lights; they've (well that being Sofia and Belgrade anyway) an additional light at the top of every traffic light. When you're stopped at a red traffic light, it counts down - in red - the seconds until the traffic light is going to turn green. Once it turns green, it starts counting down the seconds - in green - until the traffic light will turn read again. It's brilliant! This would be an excellent idea in South Africa where everyone seems to watch the adjacent traffic light instead of their own, to see when it turns orange so that they can skip across even before the light goes green. Marvellous idea, I think.

But back to all things being the same everywhere.

You'd think that getting on a bus was a simple matter of, well, getting on. And then telling the conductor where you would be getting off, him telling you how much that would be, you paying him and then off you go. Least that's the international standard that I've come to think of from travelling in South Africa and England.

This is what I was expecting when I headed off to the bus stop in the morning; thinking it would be great for Paulo to get a rest.

The bus stop was exactly where my host said it would be and I waited for the bus with the 'U' mark on it. It didn't come, but several others did and I noticed that each bus has three doors down its side into which everyone clambered. None of these people, as far as I could see, had any discussion with the driver at all. More peculiar was that I didn't see anyone resembling a conductor that the passengers could have a good old haggle with.

The whole point of me using the bus service was based on the notion: "When in Rome do as the Romans do". The thing is though, I suspected there was something more going on than people simply getting on and off busses willy-nilly, not paying anything.

I watched two more busses pass; none of them were 'U' busses and the routine of people getting on and not buying a ticket on the bus remained the same. I decided to go back to the hotel and fetch Paulo, it shouldn't be a long drive to the centre of Rome and I would, no doubt, find a suitable multi-storey parking because Lilith knows, and can direct me to, such 'places of interest'.

Back at the hotel, Paulo was parked in. I returned to my room and consulted that magnificent tome of knowledge: "The Rough Guide To Europe On A Budget".

It spoke thus, in the bus section of public transport in Italy: 'Buy tickets at tabacchi or at a terminal, rather than on board..."

Tabacchi!, a flicker of memory illuminated; there were signs for them almost everywhere - I had always suspected it was a place to buy cigarettes. I still don't know, to be honest, what a tabacchi is. There was one two doors down from the hotel and it was a bar. I went in there and the proprietor was none-to-pleased to see me so early in the morning. My question about buying bus tickets received a "No-No-No" although it sounded like "knaw-knaw-knaw" - He might as well have been singing that song about going into rehab.

Further down the street I came across another tabbachi sign, 'cept this place was more of a coffee shop and cafe thingy. Here the woman behind the counter was unfamiliar with English but got the idea that I was after bus tickets and tried to help me. I pointed at the map, saying "I want to go from here to here; how much?"
She tried to explain something to me, but after getting nowhere, resorted to showing me the ticket. Realisation dawned; the tickets are sold in minutes that you are on a bus! It was one Euro and fifty Cents for an hour on the bus. I bought two, but hoped desperately that I wouldn't spend that much time on the bus.

Back at the bus stop I began to wonder how they knew how long I was on the bus for. From what I had seen, everyone seemed just to get on and off.

I had plenty of time to fret about this, but resigned myself to the knowledge that I had two tickets for two hours on the bus and, should anyone question me, I would answer: "how-am-I-to-know-what-to-do-with-the-stupid-things-anyway-since-I-don't-live-here-and-this-might-as-well-be-Greece-because-it's-all-Greek-to-me-and-why-can't-you-lot-be-just-like-the-rest-of-the-world-anyway?"

Except I knew that I wouldn't. I'd look at the conductor with doleful eyes and hope he forgave me my ignorance.

It didn't turn out that way though. I boarded the bus, just like everyone else and resolved to see what happened. What happened was, I saw a young woman help an older woman manoeuvre her way toward the back of the bus where she helped the old woman shove her ticket into a machine of sorts. Gleefully, I followed suit - "Monkey see, monkey do". When in Rome, and all that...

It struck me then that I hadn't paid attention to my host; when the hell should I get off? If only I had paid more attention to the time he said, not only was he giving me a clue to how much the cost of the ticket was, but also around about when I should be getting off.

I remembered something about 20-odd-minutes, but I hadn't been keeping track of time either.

I resolved to stay on until I saw something that looked remotely like a landmark.

It was along journey I I had time to consider my surroundings. And mostly this was people because you wouldn't think you could fit so many people into a bus - truly, it was worse than the Tube during rush-hour. We were packed in like Sardinians (and who knows, some of them may have been, certainly there were two from Senegal or somewhere like that because they were much darker in colour than everyone else and they spoke with loud voices that only true Africans can achieve) and someone hadn't had a bath that morning - I hoped no-one thought it was me but rather I suspected they were blaming the Africans.

I noticed something else. I'm not the tallest person in the world; in fact, I'm mostly shortish to medium - but all the people in the bus were positively minute. The women were short, but I also towered - towered, I tell you - above most of the men.
I decided that all people who travel on busses are short; either that or Italians are just short in general. Either way; I didn't mind, I was bigger and had mastered the true art of travelling on busses in Italy. A small victory, but a victory none-the-less.

Which brings us back to finding a landmark.

When it arrived, it arrived big. This was a monument that was monumental! It was massive. It had a gazillion steps up to a building; and around that building were military-like statues that stood two, nay, maybe three, storeys tall.

I had no idea what it was, but this the epiphany I was waiting for. I disembarked in front of what I thought was truly magnificent (I also noticed that no one ever checked my ticket so, had I been of a devious nature, I might have taken the trip entirely for free without anyone ever having noticed, and wondered curiously, but briefly, about how many Sardinians and Africans had paid their way).

No sooner was I off the bus, then I was taking photos. Such glory; but it was still early and the shadows made good photography impossible. I skipped across pedestrian crossings (without causing any traffic accidents) which meander around the huge traffic circle that surrounded monument, to get to the front of it.

There I found a plaque explaining the place and I was dumbstruck.

There are all sorts of jokes about Italian military prowess: some say the Italian national flag is white during war time; others say the Italians have invented a new tank which has one forward gear and fifty for reverse. Mostly they aren't complementary about Italian soldiers' bravery. Fact is, most of the world seems to think that Italians would rather die, then... well... die in battle. So it seems odd that they'd have a structure like this one, which, in point of fact, was 'A Tomb For The Unknown Soldier'.

I have always been led to believe that Italians gave up before they died; preferring to being unknowingly cowardly than unknowingly dead.

Yet, here this monument stood larger than life itself; certainly larger than the Epitaph
in London or that statue they have in America of them GI's raising a flag.

I guess it's that Italian style thing. Gotta be more flash than the rest.

So you'd think they'd all drive a Ferrari. I didn't see one in the whole of Rome. Very few Fiats or Alfas either. Mostly what they drive are scooters. Housewives drive them, college students drive them, and businessmen drive them too. If they don't drive a scooter, then it's one of them dinky-toy Smart Cars that they drive. The daring even take to the streets in a Toyota IQ.

Mostly it's small cars they drive; which makes sense, because even the folk who don't take the bus are generally not very tall.

Although I was in Rome, I decided to do something that the average Roman wouldn't do and that was take one of those topless-bus tour things that almost every major city seems to have. It made sense to me, the sights were far apart but for a significant dent in you wallet later, you can get on and off the busses at every major monument - as easy as you like. That was the thinking anyway. I bought my ticket just outside the Colosseum - which is lovely - and headed off towards my first major destination: The Vatican.

The bus arrived outside St Peter's Square and although impressive, it was sad to see that much of it was draped in plastic because of construction work. Also much of the square was off limits as they were placing chairs in anticipation of some major event.
For the rest, people seemed to be milling the corn and chatting away in the square as if they'd nothing better to do. Except that is for the queue which meandered its very long way along the length of the columns that surround the square.

A helpful individual - who looked very much like he might be Bangladeshi, suggested I might join his tour because then I'd miss the queue and see all sorts of wonder that were not available to other tourists. The queue, he said, was two hours long and for just 20 Euro, I could follow him to greater glory.

I've been through border posts and I know a con when I see one; so I ignored him, and several others like him too, to take my place at the back of the queue.

It's amazing how quick that queue is, I was through the body scanners in no time at all and next thing I knew I was being ushered into the Basilica... And my wallet was still as full as when I entered the square. There was no cost to entering this holy site.

What a marvel it is.

Maybe being Catholic makes you soppy; but you almost can't get a bit teary-eyed at the greatness that happens inside there. All those marvellous saints, the tomb of Pope John Paul II, everything.

It was heart-in-throat all the way through.

And then it was over... "I've done the Vatican thank you very much!"

Back at the tour bus stop; the bus driver was having a smoke and the queue to get on was long. I consulted my tour map diligently and realised the next stop wasn't too far away and I was in a good mind to walk there, since along the walk there were various great delights to be seen that the bus did not stop at.

I walked along the river, saw the castle and then veered off to the right towards the Pantheon. That's where it kind of went a little wrong.

This part of Rome is a maze of little streets and the tour map only includes the major streets, not all those little alley ways that I was finding myself in. Here and there I saw a sign that said Pantheon and I would follow it, only to end up in another minute little street that curved around on itself.

Needless to say, I never found the Pantheon; but what I did find was a lovely Irish pub/restaurant where Coleen spoke with an Irish accent. After a lunch of fish and mash and a pint, I was happy to head up the street where, eventually, (but not before fumbling my way into the famous fountain - which was an even further along stop on the bus tour) I found the tour bus stop. From there I stuck to the tour map and didn't deviate (except I didn't get off a whole bunch of sights since I'd happened upon them during my misguided walk through all those alleyways anyway). Besides it was getting late in the afternoon.

Through that walk though, I discovered too where Gucci and Guess and all things fashionable exist. It's in a street that has almost no sidewalk to speak of but has many, many pedestrians. If you don't have your wits about you, you're apt to be thrown into the path of an oncoming taxi or bus. Somehow, I survived.

One of the stops along the top-less bus route (which, during my second boarding, I took decided to take the bold venture to the upper-deck where I headed for the vacant seat right at the front of the bus and promptly bumped my head against the low hang that surrounds the front. Yes; have a laugh, but the German tourist and his daughter, who decided to sit in front as well but to the right of me, did the same thing...).

Next I go off at a church that was built in old Roman bricks and was falling apart.

At the entrance was a gypsy-type beggar; her alms-bowl empty (what else would it be) and I was stupefied. I get beggars, really I do, although I can't scarcely tolerate them much - nevertheless I'll put in a few pennies when I feel the urge. But, for heaven's sake, not at the entrance to a church. I'm fairly sure there's a bit in the Bible where the poor woman dropped her last two coins in church coffers and she got herself into heaven, but surely she didn't get those two coins at the entrance of the church from the rich man who was going to struggle to get through an eye of a needle. I stomped past her, not giving her the time of day - I felt that cliched about the whole affair!

Inside the church was another basilica, and while not as grand as that of the Vatican, it was awfully impressive. I dipped my hand in the holy water, genuflected and felt really good about being Catholic all over again, despite the gypsy I had ignored at the entrance.

I ignored her on the way out too; saying not a prayer for her soul, though she tried to prey on my sympathies. Perhaps she put a gypsy course on me as I strutted past her - and she certainly muttered something - but it can't be worse than getting though a border post between Macedonia and Serbia. Certainly, it isn't worse than spending time an evening Bratislava.

It was late afternoon by the time I had done all of the bus tour stops and I had no real idea of how to get back to the the 'U' bus stop. Even if I did, I wouldn't have had a clue as to where to get off, or even if I got on on the right side of the road so that I would be going in the correct direction - i.e. the one that took me back to the hotel.

I opted to find a taxi. I found a rank nearby and asked one of the drivers if he could take me to my hotel - it was helpful to have that map that my host had given me because it clearly marked where the hotel was even though it was well outside of the city. I feared that the trip might be expensive, but at least I would get back to where I wanted to be.

The trip was hair-raising and I have empathy for those who have to travel in mini-bus taxis in South Africa.

The driver didn't have great eye-sight. I noticed this when I handed the map over and he took out a pair of reading glasses which he held up to his Ray-Bans to read the road names. On the trip, during which he skipped two red traffic lights and cut off several other motorists, he would consult the map twice more - each time while holding up the reading-glasses as if they were a magnifying glass, and each time while still driving.

But somehow he got me to where I wanted to be. I realised we were near when I saw the red sign that read "Farmacie" at the intersection of the road that my hotel was at. I was ecstatic and cried out "farmer-see; farmer-see, that's the road of my hotel".

It's a little side road and the hotel is just round the corner, so the taxi driver asked if it was okay that he drop me at the intersection. At least that is what I understood him to say and hopped out gladly. The fare was 17 Euro, but I gave him 20 and made motions to suggest he could keep the change. You'd swear no one had ever given him a tip before because he kept on saying: "Gratsy, gratsy,". He also said "A River Derchy," so I guessed all was good in the world.

With that, I walked back to the hotel, almost whistling, thinking about what a wonderful day out it had been. But my legs were aching and I was tired.

There is no rest for the wicked, and despite what the gypsy woman might think, I'm not wicked... That night I would sleep extraordinarily well.

The next morning it would be a short stop in Milan, mostly to do laundry (I'm a bit weary of doing it though, because my next stop is in Switzerland - as far as I can tell - isn't part of the EU and thus might have a border post in which case it might be that dirty under-wear could come in handy) where I will stay over in Lucern. After that it is the quickest route possible back to London.

The reason for this is Paulo: as we left Venice he let me know (through a signal of a 'spanner' that came up where the mileage reading should have been, next to this was the word "inspection") that something was amiss.

Terror struck my heart - much like the terror I felt at one of those Eastern European borders where Paulo's engine wouldn't turnover, until, with some relief, I discovered that he wasn't in 'park' and he won't start unless he's in 'park' (it's his German origins, but gave me the willies none-the-less).

My concern to get Paulo back to England for what I have discovered (after reading his manual) is simply that he is due a service, is largely selfish: I'm afraid to admit it, but he's been a tremendous mate on tour; and if he were to fail I would be stuck very, very far from home.

So abandoned is the plan to include Spain, Monte Carlo, the French Riviera and Portugal on this tour. Instead, after Milan, it is up to Lucern in Switzerland tomorrow, across to Dijon the following day, Orleans the day after and then back to Watford by Wednesday where, first thing Thursday morning we'll book Paulo in for a service.

But good news from there - then we go on a UK tour! We see the motherland in all of it's splendour. Maybe we even fit in Wales, even if their writing looks very un-English and I might not understand them.

Of Italian style and highways

Italians have a deep understanding of style. Or at least that's the way it appears.
They've had centuries of learning so the secret they have is very, very old.
And it shows. Everywhere; particularly in their buildings.

For a building to be stylish, it must be old. How does it show it is old? Well it's got bits of plaster missing (the look of bare brick in places is strangely appealing here) and the paint is stained with the ages; there are water marks everywhere.

Even the freshly painted buildings have these water marks. I think the pain comes old, with water-stains worked in. More of a kind of wash than a paint really. Or maybe they through in a bit of black paint amongst the yellow, and then don't stir it too vigorously - everyone here thinks he's a Michelangelo. Maybe they even chisel in a few cracks or chip off the plaster, just for the effect of it.

And when they do happen to fill in and cover over the bricks where the plaster has come off, they don't bother painting over it; just leave it all cement like, for a while.

It all seems to work. It makes Venice and other places all the more beautiful.

They also don't bother too much about graffiti. "It happens; move on," you suspect is their attitutde.

I have difficulty moving on. I hate graffiti. If graffiti happens then it should take the form of Banksy, or whatever his name is; that's art that is.

But somehow the graffiti in Italy is better than that of the likes of Serbia and the rest of Eastern European countries which, while it was good to have experienced these countries, I'm quite pleased to say I'm no longer in them and don't plan on going back any time soon. "They exist, move on," is my view.

From Venice, it was a leisurely drive down to Rome for the first two hours. This was my fault entirely because I missed the turn Lilith wanted to take and we were forced to drive at 40mph for almost a hundred miles through various little towns on a narrow, single lane road that allowed few overtaking opportunities. Even when there were, it was almost impossible to overtake when driving a right-hand-drive vehicle.

Eventually we hit a motorway and it took us through the central part of Italy which is all just glorious mountains and forests. The road is winding with tunnels and twists and turns, ascends and descents. We buzzed through there. Absolutely fabulous.

Inevitably, we hit a toll road. I got my first experience of European tollroads in Serbia and they are difficult, sensible in the way they give you a card, but difficult if you're in a right-hand drive vehicle.

They work such: you arrive at the toll booth and take a card, much as you do when you arrive at a multi-storey parking garage and you pay the fare when you exit the highway and it determines how much of the highway you've used and charges you accordingly. This proves difficult when in a right-hand drive vehicle because it means undoing the seat belt, rolling down the passenger side window, putting the vehicle in park, and then climbing over the handbrake and gear shift to grab the ticket. By then, the drivers behind you are getting impatient and the less considerate ones are likely to honk their horn. Honking horns is something Italians, I have found, are quite fond of doing.

What makes the whole system so clever is that there aren't toll roads every few hundred kilometres down the road, you only hit another one when you exit the freeway; but this is yet another challenge and a decidedly more nerve-wracking because it takes just a little longer than getting onto the freeway and, invariably, involves inserting your credit card into the slot just after you've rammed your ticket into it. If you do this too slow, there's a mechanical female Italian voice that shouts at you, quite loudly, and offers advice. The advice is quite useless if you don't know Italian.

But you know you've got it right when she screeches "A-River-Derchy," at you. I have no idea what it means (I know it's not 'thank you' because that's 'Gratsy') but suspect it means 'everything's okay' because the boom opens and, with relief, you fumble the car back into drive and pull off. You wind up the passenger side wind after you've pulled off, less time it takes to do so forces the honking horns to become all the more voluminous.

There are a lot of speed cameras on the roads in Italy; but those were never a bother since Lilith is so pedantic about us doing the correct speed.

I suspect I may have broken some or other obscure traffic local law, but so far, I seem to have gotten away with it.

We arrived in Rome many, many hours later and while it was still light; I thought it better to get an early night because the following day would involve a lot of walking.

My host at the hotel was wonderful and he provided me with two maps; one of the centre of Rome and the Vatican City, the other with a larger view of Rome and exactly where the hotel is. This is a brilliant idea, I got one from the hotel in Venice too, it saves so much effort and you needn't worry about getting lost, because you map shows you exactly where to go back to.

He pointed out that there were two buses I could take; the one would take me near Rome centre, the other to the Vatican. He also explained exactly how long each trip take. I thought that very kind of him, but paid not much mind to the times, only glad that he marked, on the maps he had provided, exactly where to get on and off the various buses.

Excellent; all prepared for the next day, I retired to the room and hoped to watch England play against Poland. No such luck, there wasn't an English Channel to be had amongst the 322 on offer. I went through them all, every single one in Italian.

I went to bed. Tomorrow, we would see Rome! We would see true Italian style; in all of its ancient glory... All bricks, plaster and water-stained paint.

Oh bugger... bureaucracy and borders

Excessive bureaucracy is the bane of everyone's life... But spare a thought for those who live in society where bureaucracy - and excessive implementation of law - is simply a means to oppress and exercise authority.

Give a small, stupid man a bit of power and all that...

That's pretty much what Eastern Europe is like - there are little lights of beauty amongst all of this (Andreea, the Romanian receptionist at the Prince Residence Hotel in Bucharest has to be one of those), but for the most part it's a shoddy place to eek out an existence and you just have to feel sorry for the folk who live there.

The only reason to visit most of it is to remind yourself just how good you have it at home. Except if your home is similar to Eastern Europe, which, by-and-large, most of Africa, numerous parts of Asia and South and Central America are.

It makes small people with a bit of power very ugly indeed - Just look at the likes of Jacob Zuma and Julius Malema who won't be strutting the catwalks of Milan any time soon; and just so as everyone is clear about this, having an a bevy of wives doesn't fix ugliness either.

In Eastern Europe, most of this is missed by tourists because they fly in, take taxi's or organised trips to the famous sites, and zip out again. When you drive, you see it all.

First off is the lack of communication - those who make money off tourists have a semblance of language or body language skills that allow them to get a message across; and even if they don't understand your message, they'll hum a few bars until there is an understanding of sorts. In the countryside, on the back roads - and mostly at the border posts - this really isn't the case. There's a lack of education that is glaring. There's also a lack of money; so they try and get it from any possible means: which, invariably, is you, if you happen to be driving through.

That's been my experience anyway. It's why I've dreaded approaching a border post and why I've been going at least 5 miles slower that whatever the speed limit is - Lilith would like to to claim credit for my strict obedience to the law because she sends off alarm bells every time Paulo goes remotely too fast; but, the truth is, sheer terror does wonders for conformity to the law. I have wondered if acts such as graffiti are in protest to this, but I'm still clueless about that - stupid people do it in every city; even somewhere as wonderful as Venice, but somehow, it fits here - here it's more like an art than a protest.

Whatever the case; it is great to be out of Eastern Europe and plans were put in place two days ago to get out as soon as possible. That was back in Skopje - the capital of Macedonia - which while being one of the better places in Eastern Europe, still has the cloud of oppression over it - and it is not actually in the European Union.

Plans to go to Greece were abandoned, and the route initially chosen which included a tour along the Mediterranean coast through Albania, Montenegro, Bosnia/Herzegovina, Croatia and Slovenia (six countries), was quickly reduced to chasing through Serbia (not in the original plan at all) because it is the longest of the countries, and then quickly through Croatia and Slovenia (three countries) to get to Italy.

Plan in place, we set off from Skopje early on. It was a nightmare getting out of there because Lilith doesn't know anything about Macedonia I also went off the route from the simple map I'd drawn up myself from the internet within minutes of setting off. On the positive side of this misadventure, I did learn where the British embassy is in Skopje (It's right about half way up the hill that overlooks the city - they've got themselves some prime real estate there).

We made it, eventually, to Alexander the Great Boulevard (what else could it be) which lead us onto Alexander the Great Highway (who'd have thunk it) which, in turn, sent us heading for Serbia.

I should point out that Macedonia is not a member of the European Union (EU), which, they say, is why I had to pay some sort of insurance when entering, but Serbia is.

However; Serbia, which is a former war zone from not that long ago, is still in warzone-mode - it was was a veritable interrogation at the border post, but, thanks to all that is good in the world, the search of the car was half-hearted (that bag of dirty laundry is becoming extremely rank.)

I'm guessing Lilith has all the EU countries programmed into her system because she became quite excited when she entered Serbia and was apt to remind me to keep to the speed limit - which it turns out she doesn't know very well in that part of the world because the signs were encouraging me to go as much as 130kph, but she still insisted we go half that. Her warning bells were incredibly irritating, but strangely comforting all the same.

As soon as I realised she had a map to Serbia, I asked to her to find the address for the apartment in Belgrade. No such luck, she knows the main routes (not the speed limits), but she's clueless when it comes to the cities.

Arriving in Belgrade it took all of an hour to find the apartment - which included being shouted at by a Plod for turning down a street where I oughtn't have, and being asked to drive off by a more friendly security guard when I stopped to examine my less-that-efficient road atlas. Fortunately, while telling me to push off, he told me exactly where to push off to.

'Cept there was no parking; and it being such an awkward road in the middle of the city, I ended up on the highway again. Another hour later, I found a multi-storey parking lot only five blocks away. I packed only the bare essentials into a carry bag and trekked on foot to get to the evening's digs.

By then it was late and I went to bed almost immediately; not bothering to explore the city , (admittedly, had seen most of it anyway from the car already and it wasn't awfully impressive).

Up at 3am; it was a quick shower and on the road again - completely in the dark; as in it was still night outside, and so was Lilith's screen. Somehow, we found the highway and as soon as we were on it, I asked Lilith to take us somewhere nice - Italy seemed good enough and we set off for Venice.

Bugger if we didn't hit the border post within half-an-hour of leaving. I've only done border posts during the day so I didn't hold much hope that the police would be in the best of spirits at half-past-four in the morning. That is was bucketing down with rain was also not working in our favour.

What happened next was not my fault.

Not at all, and I had a mind to tell the policeman that but thought better of it. The thing is, Macedonia is not in the EU, but Serbia is; so the policeman at the Macedonia/Serbia border should have stamped my passport (I would have been glad if he did, because I have complained before that anyone who looks at my European passport would not believe I've been anywhere at all).

I wanted to tell him it was not my fault his colleague didn't stamp the darn thing, but stood mutely by and wondered what he would do next.

It was as close to an interrogation as anyone can get without their fingernails being pulling out. Alexander was nicer to his prisoners, I'm sure, but these were Serbs, not Macedonians.

We survived (how else could you be reading this) the questioning to my captor's satisfaction and he resigned himself to searching the car - dirty underwear came to the rescue again - and in no time at all we were headed towards the Croatian border (Only a handful of borders to go: "Less than you can shake a stick at," I told Lilith as we pulled off).

Croatia is also not an EU country so I resigned my self to the worst.

It was a pleasure; the bloke scanned my passport, stamped it, and waved me through - no search, no interrogation, no nothing at all. And within five minutes of arriving in the country, you'll not believe it, there was a message on the iPhone which read: "Vip and Croatian National Tourist Board welcome you to Croatia. For tourist info simply dial 7799. This service has a charge."

I felt a pang of guilt about worrying about everything Croat - I'm convinced they were the nice folk in the Balkans War, but I may be wrong.

They have no road tax and a speed limit of 130kph on their beautiful highway; but they do charge a nominal toll - least I'll find out if it's nominal once I get a good look at the bank statement.

Croatia is lovely... well, what little that could be seen from the highway... in the dark... during pouring rain. It appeared to be adorable.

It was even more adorable when I hit the border post out where the bloke had a glance at the passport - and it's newly acquired stamp - and waved me through again.

I was upbeat about hitting the Slovenian border (mostly because I misread the sign and thought I'd hit the Slovakian border and I'd already been through one of those before without too much hassle) and, sure enough, the passport was scanned and we were, once again, waved through.

Looking at the countryside I realised this wasn't the Slovak Republic, this was somewhere else. Somewhere with a bit more money. It was absolutely lovely. Loads of geography and a magnificent highway (again with a 130kph limit) that meanders through it. I almost wished I had decided to spend a day there. This was Slovenia. The Slovak Republic's licence plates are SK, the Slovenian licence plates are SLO; and it is appropriate because this place feels laid back. It wasn't anything like the former Balkan war-zone I'd just been through and it looked nothing like the rest of Eastern Europe.

Another thing about Slovenia; there are toll roads, but they're only for commercial vehicles, - private cars simply fly through (I wonder if they don't have some sort of road tax that I didn't pay?).

It looked even better when the rain stopped and the clouds parted to reveal some sun.

By the time we hit the Italian border - a little after 9am - it was apparent that we were back in the west; the border posts on both sides were empty and we screamed through - well, I screamed through; Lilith merely pointed out that there was over 100 miles to the next turn-off and Paulo was happy to up his revs a bit as we hit the open road again.

It took another hour to get to Venice, because the highways are 130kph and the trucks stay in their lane.

On arrival, the local gendarmerie are friendly and helpful; they are approachable, which is to say you don't feel all miserable about approaching them.

It's all smiles and welcomes wherever you go.

Bureaucracy exists, but it is friendly.

The people here act as if they want you here; they still want your money, but they'll give a service and smile to get it from you. It won't be an interrogation and a bribe.

That's the difference, I think, between east and west. In the east it remains about power and the police are there to enforce it - they prey on the innocent; in the west it's about capitalism and the police are there to serve and protect... And be helpful - the more innocent you are, the better you get along.

The remainder of the tour will be in this world. To be sure, it is better class of bureaucracy than the first part of the tour.

Of Alexander the Great, Mother Teresa and border posts... heaven help us all, Lilith is dumbstruck!

There's just something about border posts that puts a person on edge... Somehow, you just know you're going to have to cough up some serious dough in one way or another.

Fortunately, I wasn't the only one.

Checking the various government websites now - I'm learning to do this before entering any new territory, that way you learn what they expect of you.

Mostly it's paperwork they want; bureaucracy can't exist without paperwork. Paperwork can be easily bought. But the price is high and the wait long.

It was a late start. This is because it was overcast and it didn't get light until much later in the morning. After having a shower and getting dressed - which was very difficult because the lights in the hotel room didn't work (the joys of living cheap), it was time to check-out. The bank was off-line.
Down the road, the ATM was not accepting the card either.
After some haggling, I parted with 25 British Sterling.

I had just 45 pounds left; my euros depleted (expect a mass of coins - which are worthless, they will only accept Euro notes) and only 10 of whatever currency exists in Bulgaria.

It was still drizzling, my moral was low and the wallet was looking decidedly thin as I climbed into Paulo and gave Lilith the instructions for the day.

Lilith stared at me blankly. Macedonia, where's that? She doesn't have Macedonia in her memory banks. I consulted the atlas and looked for the Bulgarian town that was closest to Macedonia and told her to find it. She did and gladly started pointing me towards it.

En route the weather began to clear and so did the dark cloud that hung over my spirits - that is until some obscure little town where Plod pulled me over. Heart sinking, that was.

He asked for my passport. I handed it over. I then handed my drivers' licence in his direction. He looked me straight in the eye, then glanced down at my passport photo.
He handed the passport back, said, "No problem" and waved me on.

Me relieved? For bloody sure. Popped the gear shift into drive and pushed down on the accelerator - my way of telling Paulo that we had come through the episode unscathed and, more importantly, without it having an affect on the meagre pickings that remained in the wallet.

I'm convinced I should give a name to my wallet - Waldo sounds good (as in where's Waldo because I always seem to be scratching around for him during tense moments) - because it is something I don't want to lose (I regret not giving a name to my Ray-Bans; look where that got me).

Escape from the local gendarmerie made me confident for the border crossing which was less than 10 miles away. Lilith start throwing tantrums when I passed the point I had directed her too, and she, in no uncertain terms, demanded that I make a U-turn as soon as possible. It's a phrase I have become accustomed to - this is a marriage of sorts and sometimes you just have to put up with those irksome phrases that a partner develops. At least that's what I think.

We hit the border and what a joy, we were through the Bulgarian side in no time at all and I breathed a sigh of relief. Until I rounded the little bend in the road that took us round a hill that displayed the Macedonian border post, resplendent with colour flags and everything - including a row of cars and buses.

While I can't speak for Lilith (who was still insisting we turn around and I had to switch her off) or Paulo (who seemed happy to idle around), I was bordering on paranoia.

I had good reason to. I got out of the car and marched up to the kiosk, looking as confident as I could while wiping the sweat from my brow, and handed over my documents (passport, drivers' licence, Paulo's registration papers and - a very significant and - my road tax sticker!).

But he wanted more.

Where was my vehicle insurance?

I rushed back to the car and scrummaged around (Paulo still looks quite nifty on the outside, but resembles Bratislava on the inside) - I was damn sure I had brought along the insurance forms, but, for all the mercy of God, I couldn't find them. It struck me that I should show him the letter I got from the insurance via email on my iPad.

He was having none of it. "No internet, no fax, no nothing," he said "Just green paper".

I resigned myself to yet another hopeless situation and asked "so where to now".

"Masjien, stay here; you, go there," and he pointed vaguely to an oppressively grey looking building.

A decidedly scruffy looking gentlemen, complete with dreadlocks and frizzly beard, standing nearby laughed and said: "They caught me with that one as well".

I felt a bit better - misery loves company.

I arrived at he building to find a bald-headed man smoking and talking on the phone. A whole era passed as he talked on the phone - no doubt some country invaded another in that space of time. I wanted desperately to shake him about the shoulders and scream at him in frustration. I didn't. Instead I made a tremendous effort to look glum, which in the circumstances wasn't that difficult really.

This seemed to work and he ended his call to let me know that this would cost me 50 Euro.

I started counting my change and reached about 25 Euro when he stopped me. No, he wouldn't take coins, only cash.

I had none, they'd all been stolen from me in previous bribes. I asked if he would take British pounds and flashed a few at him.

Sigh, 24 pounds later and it was back to the kiosk, me waving my new little piece of bureaucracy gleefully at the guard.

He accepted it, scanned my passport and directed me to take Paulo to the next kiosk - the one where the searches happen.

I'd been noticing these searches as I was going through the trauma of getting insurance and they look in the boot and everything. I was none too pleased to see this, thinking of the mountain of beers, liqueurs and chocolate (not to mention complete set of crystal-style wine, whiskey and soda glasses) I was carrying.

I drove up to the guard, jumped out and opened the boot for him. He looked inside and saw all the camping equipment, opened up the large Sports Direct bag that carries my dirty laundry, and promptly told me to have a safe journey.

Thank The Lord for small mercies and dirty undies. All that contraband was still safely tucked into a cooler bag behind the drivers' seat.

Macedonia is beautiful, it's poor, but there are none of those large communistic grey blocks for people to live in. It's all quaint villages with red-roofs, although the cottages could do with a bit of paint; even the orange shades that they like so much in Romania and Bulgaria would do nicely.

I had checked up on road tax the night before and learned that this did not exist in Macedonia, but the highways were tolled. I didn't have Lilith to guide me, but the route I had mapped out didn't include any highways so I thought I'd be safe.

I think there must be a higher power watching over me, because my concerns to get cash quick were diminished when I noticed a sign at a filling station which read ATM. I stopped, drew 1000 of whatever the currency is and bought a Coke. It went down so well considering I had not had breakfast.

Back on the road - not a kilometre later, and there was a toll road in front of me. What joy to hand over my newly acquired cash. I said a quick prayer in thanks for finding the ATM when I did.

I swear the sun came through the dark clouds at the same time.

It was a quick 30 minutes at a cool 130kph (80mph) before Skopje came into view, without Lilith to help, I pulled out the iPhone, matched its maps up to the hotel's address and after going wrong numerous times, we found our digs for the night. It was only a little after 1pm, plenty of time still to get in the sights.

And what sights they are.

Blue skies made sure that we could take photos and it was three hours of blissful touring in a city that is going to become great. One suspects it may have been great before, well it is the city of Alexander the Great, but it is obvious that there has been a less-than-happy past. This is all being built over though; there's construction going on everywhere and you feel that by next summer it'll be more than ready to start attracting the tourists.

There's still a disgruntled group, who, like those in Leipzig, are showing there dissatisfaction by spraying graffiti everywhere, but it's a better class of graffiti - it's got colour in it!

There are glimmers of something good in Eastern Europe and one of those is a city with an obscure name like Skopje.

It was the home of Alexander the Great and it was the birthplace of Mother Teresa (the photos are in focus because of the marvels of Nikon technology, not because of my sharp eyes because they welled up with tears as I stood before her monument - she needn't have travelled to Calcutta to do her wonderful deeds, she might just have gone next door to Bulgaria, or Slovakia for that matter, they're just as dingy and poor and in desperate need of help).

It's just a very nice place to be and I'm glad I came here.

Tomorrow I need to figure out how to get out of here though, there's a long journey ahead to Belgrade, and Lilith doesn't know the way.

Heaven help us all.

Road taxes, paying bribes and getting out of Romania

Planning, as has been stated before, is extremely important when going on a driving trip abroad.

This includes having a good Sat Nav system (and Lilith is just that), but also a good road atlas and, of course, a travel guide book. My holy travel tome is "The Rough Guide To Europe On A Budget," and it is thicker than the Bible.

With this wealth of experience at one's disposal, one can map out and plan a journey safe in the knowledge that it will all go well.

Last night, the route to Sofia in Bulgaria, was well-planned and - according to the road atlas - was about 200km away. This was established using the atlas' scale measurement key. That shouldn't take too long to travel, even if the traffic is bad or the road is under construction, or if the speed limits are extra-ordinarily low.

That would give plenty of time to check out the sights in Bucharest in the morning, and still get in a bit of Sophia in the afternoon. Both planning and the day's blog done, it was off to bed.

Morning arrived and it was raining, ruling out the morning photo session. This might not be such a bad thing because the travel tome describes it as such: "Arriving in Bucharest, most tourists want to leave as quickly as possible...". It might have been a good idea to have read that before including the city in the tour.

The trip out of Bucharest was cleverly planned - first I stopped at a petrol station and spent my remaining Lei (Romania money) to get Paulo's tank up to three-quarter's full - more than adequate for the 200 km journey ahead.

Lilith was programmed to get us to Sofia and she announced happily that the journey was 243 miles long. This is a lot longer than 200km.

Never mind, when in Bulgaria, we could fill up again when we draw some of the local currency.

Off we went, the rain pouring.

We reached the border in quick time and I was not surprised to see that the border post was manned, but something looked decidedly different - the first was the money exchange booths that lined the streets up to the post, and signs which suggested that some kind of levy needed to be paid. I got closer and there was a board in English that said bridge tax.

I had no more currency, local or Bulgarian. I also could not turn round because I had already entered the one-way.

I parked Paulo and trudged, fortunately the rain had reduced to a drizzle, back to one of those exchange kiosks.

The man behind the counter had no English but somehow, I understood that he was giving me 25 Lei for the bridge tax and some Bulgarian currency. Of the 60-odd Euro I had on me, I was left with about 25.

I drove up to the boom gate and offered my passport, drivers' licence and vehicle registration - after-all, I was now wise to everything that is required in such circumstances.

The women in the gate booth then asked for something else. I hadn't the foggiest what she was on about; but after a bit of banter, I got to understand that I was supposed to pay a road tax in Romania. "So how much is that? And can I pay it here?"

She seemed to understand, but said she couldn't sell me road tax, and if I didn't have a road tax ticket then I had to pay a penalty - that would be 150 Euro.

I was dumbstruck and resorted to looking very pitiful about my current circumstances and absolutely at a loss as to what to do.

She pointed past the gate and said I should park there. I asked about my passport and other documents. She said "Park!"

I did, got out and trudged back to the gate.

She met me along the route and started asking about how much money I had. I showed her my Lei (for the bridge tax), the Bulgarian cash and the remaining Euros.

She scooped up the Lei and walked back into the gate house. She met me at the window again and motioned for me to give her the remaining Euros and Bulgarian cash. I did.

She returned my documents and shoved 10 of the Bulgarian stuff in my hand and said for me to go. She also said something that sounded remotely like, "Use the 10 I gave you to get yourself some Bulgarian road tax".

I think I was properly robbed there. In fact, I was probably robbed by the exchange kiosk bloke too. In fact, at those roadwork stop-and-goes the pervious day I was confronted by hawkers on the side of the road and was conned into buying glasses. Lots of glasses; wine glasses, whiskey tumblers and tall glasses too - so as I'd have a complete set. I was probably robbed there too. Eastern Europe is a lot like Africa in this regard - keep your windows closed when stopped in traffic, and don't make eye contact. You simply can't trust anyone who makes a living on the side of a road.

All of this has served to dim my already less-than-wonderful view of Eastern Europe to somewhere just above detestation. They mightn't like foreigners much, but they do like their money.

I crossed the border and understood why there was a bridge tax. It is massive and takes you across a massive river. I have no idea what it's name is, but there were large ships in it.

The city on the other side, Ruse, is ugly. Butt ugly. A lot like the people in Bulgaria. Some are so deeply tanned that you might think they're from Africa, or India, but their facial features are chiseled - there are no soft lines, just harsh angles. Weird, really weird. You can sort of see that you are heading towards Greece, because they look a bit like their southern neighbours and their writing is all Greek to me.

I was able to find a Shell filling station which sold me a month's worth of Bulgarian road tax. Apparently you can't buy less than a month's worth. I suspect I was robbed again - but at least I'm legal, even if the local population aren't.

Back to Ruse which is heavily industrial and the housing consists of huge concrete blocks that are only vaguely colourful because of the washing that hangs out of almost every window. It is everything that comes to mind when you think Communist Bloc.

At least, however, the Bulgarians have a better understanding of town planning than the Romanians and once on the open road there are few villages and towns, and those that exist are away from the main road.

The road has a lot of rest stops - little lay-bys where you can stop and rest your legs. I did this soon after crossing the border because Lilith insisted I do. "You have been driving for two hours; you may want to stop for a break," she said.

I used to just ignore her when she does this and she would come up with the same message every 30 minutes after that. I figured out that if I shut her off for a minute and turn her back on again, she would still remember the route, but would think I had stopped. I suspect she knows that I do this.

This time, however, I did stop and after a few stretches I felt much better about everything.

In retrospect, I'm glad I heeded Lilith's advice when I did, because almost all the other lay-bys were occupied by hitchhikers and, travelling alone, I'm a bit fearful of picking up strangers.

I had seen a few hitchhikers along the road in Romania, but not nearly as many as in Bulgaria. Here, they're at every niche in the road.

The all look very similar; they are always alone, they're always female, they always wear high-heels, they all wear figure-hugging jeans and they all have a lot of hair. The ones with blonde hair look strange because it clashes against their dark tans. Many also wear huge sunglasses with white rims.

What I can't get my head around is why they are hitchhiking. Certainly they seem to have more money than most of the rural people, because their clothes are new and expensive-looking compared to everyone else - surely they can afford, at least, to buy a bus ticket?

I've been taken advantage of by many people in this part of the world, so I thought it better not to give any of them a lift; even if they did look very innocent.

This brings me back to the poverty around here. It is extreme and if you look at a map of Bulgaria, you'll see that just like Romania, it has very few highways. Romania had just the one and it was very short, but Bulgaria has three. I got to travel on one and it is impressive.

After travelling at a maximum of 55 mph for so long, it was wonderful to be allowed to go 80mph. It is three lanes wide and perfectly flat. This despite going through a series of mountains. They've achieved this by tunnelling through the mountains and spanning the valleys with huge bridges that must be hundreds of metres high. It's an engineering marvel and I felt a lot less ripped off for having to pay a month's worth of road tax.

Paulo was thrilled to stretch his legs too.

Incredibly, no sooner did we get on the highway when the clouds began to disappear and the sun shone through. My mood perked to level just above despondency.

The magnificent highway brought us to Sofia in double-quick time and despite the 200-odd mile journey, we arrived at our destination a little after 3pm.

The rain was back though, but it was not such a downpour that it obscured my view of Sofia.

I wish it had.

Sofia is a slum. I think if there is a city worse than Bratislava, then it is this one.

Fortunately the rain is keeping me indoors, it breaks every now and again, but not enough to encourage me to venture outside.

While stuck in the hotel I've had a chance to look up Sofia in that travel tome and again I wish I had done my homework properly. It says .... "With its drab suburbs and distinct lack of charming old buildings Sofia can appear uninspiring to first-time visitors...". It goes on to say that new developments are making the city better, but I think it ain't worth getting wet for whatever new buildings they've put up. I want to see history.

Tomorrow, I figure, will be planned a lot better. I've watched the telly and things are getting worse in Greece - others have also told me it's nothing to write home about unless you go to the islands around it, so I'll give it a complete and utter miss.

I reckon I'll slip across to Skopje in Macedonia; it's not too far and it is the birthplace of Mother Theresa - They have a lovely monument to her in a delightfully old chapel. It's also got a peculiar review in the travel tome, which says "It's one of those places that can be described as appealingly ugly, with brutal Yugoslav-Era designs augmenting the mazy lanes of Carsija, the charming old Ottoman centre."

The guide says there's lots of great places to visit, and all within a small centre. Sounds good enough for me. What's more, there's no road tax, just a few toll roads that can be easily avoided. Planning done - we'll get out of Eastern Europe as fast as possible, but by the most charming route, then we can enjoy the far more impressive Western European culture at a leisurely pace.

That's the plan anyway.

Roads and roads, this is Romaina, rather stay at home

Romania, a place of superstition and intrigue and Dracula and... And everyone lives on the same road. At least that's the case in northern Romania. It's called the E17, it's narrow and it stretches all the way from Hungary in the west to Suceava (which is near the borders of the Ukraine and Moldova) in the east. A time zone changes somewhere, maybe it's at the Hungarian border, but it might as well be that a time warp has sent you back to another era - on that isn't know, and that doesn't know an awful lot about town planning. The entire northern population lives on this road, right next to it, house-after-house. There's countryside out there, but you can't see it from the road because it's in everyone else's back-garden. You wish they would live a bit away from the road, or commune together and create towns or something; but no, it's just one long village that follows the main road. Admittedly, there is some swelling of the population in some places to create what you might call a village - invariably around a church, but mostly it's just a row of houses that goes on and on and on... You'd think this would play havoc for the postal system - I live at No. 50 372 on the E17 - but they get around this by having a minute interruption of the houses, never more than about 100 metres, then you enter a new town - which is just a new row of houses next to the road. This plays havoc for driving because the speed limit in town is 50kph - 30mph. You just try driving 200 miles at 30miles per hour. Then there's the horse carts. And the trucks. It is also poor and driving all that way, it's hard not to feel sorry for these folk. Your mate lives in the same street but 100 miles away and the nag is feeling a bit ill sort of thing. There's also not much by way of work; there are a few factories, but they are now simply hunks of rusting metal. You get the feeling that people around here aren't into employment. It's not as if they're lazy though; there's always someone sweeping! They sweep a lot and it tells, because there's no litter and everything is clean - which is not the same as neat, because what verges there are, are overgrown and the entire road has a look of being unkempt. The destination was Dracula Castle Hotel. Yes that's silly and immature, but, hey, why not? The travelling is why not. If someone says to you: "Hey, you've won a trip to Romania and you'll stay at the Dracula Castle Hotel but you have to drive there," simply say: "No thanks, I think I'll remain here". There is a reason to visit northern Romania though and that would be to confirm that it is better wherever it is that you live. The only work anyone seems to have is to sweep and to move heaps of hay, by horse cart, from one place to another. Quite why they move hay around isn't clear, since there's quite a lot to be found in everyone's back garden. Perhaps they do this to annoy the trucks that grumble along down their road. Whatever the case, Lilith was mostly silent along the trip because there was nothing to say except, every 10 miles the inevitable: "Keep going on the road for another..." how many every miles were left. She'd also send out the odd warning bell if I slipped past 30mph. Paulo was sulking about the speed and was still smarting that I had blamed him for the traffic ticket we got in Hungary. Initially fascinated by the architecture, the horse turds that littered the street, the horse-drawn carts that carried hay, the women sweeping outside their homes - which explained another fascination, the lack of litter, and the fact that people could live like this, it all soon became dreary. That was after about half-an-hour of it. The next eight hours were just tedious. We arrived at the hotel (it was nice, like any hotel) as the sun went down and I awoke when the sun rose. I had hoped to get photos of the Carpathian mountains in the morning - because they are magnificent, but the place was heavy with mist. Perhaps that added to the atmosphere, but mostly it made for crap photography and hazardous driving. So we set off. South to Bucharest. At first the road was much like the one we had left, but then it clears - as in there weren't any houses next to it. But no sooner does this happen when you hit construction work. One has to think that once that road is redone, it'll be beautiful and evveryone will want a house next to it - it'll become prime real estate and the envy of anyone who currently lives on the E17. For now though, it is a hundred miles of stop-and-goes. Then you hit Brasov - I saw the industrial area, thanks to Lilith's sense of humour - and it is an industrial area. Just like any other industrial area. After that, you head into the mountains again and then it gets beautiful. Really beautiful. It's as I imagine Switzerland will be, except the architecture might be different... It's also obviously the bit that tourists visit - can't think that there are too many tour operators who offer discount prices on a drive along the E-freaking-17. But to think that we'd move faster to Bucharest was simply folly; the windy road, while beautiful, went on and on, and the trucks made the going slow. It was going to be another entire day of driving, and there was no chance of visiting the castle where the Dracula movie was shot... That was sad. So we learn to plan a bit better... We arrived in Bucharest in rush hour. It wouldn't have been too difficult, but they're in the throws of redoing the main road - the resurfaced road, all four lanes of it, have no road markings. This makes the traffic circles a nightmare. There were horns tooting everywhere, but I'm proud to say none were directed at Paulo. Lilith, probably feeling sorry for me, led us directly to the hotel and that's where we find ourselves tonight. Tomorrow, we go to Sofia: it's not that far away and hopefully, traffic willing, we shall have a full afternoon to take photos. That's what we hope anyway. One thing concerns me though, odd places like the Slovak Republic have ornaments above most of their letters and that place was strange... Hungary has fewer decorations on their letters and it was better; Romania, not only has the same ones above them as the Slovaks (or are they Slavs?), but they put squiggles under their S's and T's too... In Bulgaria they change the entire alphabet, turning Rs around and stuff like that. We shall see what tomorrow holds.