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.