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Not being a frequent traveller, certain things struck me as being different, while travelling, and during my visit to the Eternal City.
Flying
Fucking horrible. The only nice thing about flying was the free chocolate that you get on Swiss Air - and these were too small to compensate for the dread and fear experienced throughout taxiing, take-off, flying and landing. It's just not right to be cruising above the clouds, but imagine my delight on getting on plane that had these:
And there's the bit where they bank round and descend really quickly as they come into land; it really hurts your ears and makes you feel sick. Fuckers. I'm sure they just do it to scare you.
City of Love-train
The Leonardo da Vinci express carries passengers between Fiumicino Airport and Rome Termini railway station. It's a non-stop service that takes half an hour. Tickets cost E9.50 per person. But here's where the fun starts: when you buy a train or bus ticket in Italy, you need to validate it before getting on the train or as you enter a bus. The automated announcer tells you that "your ticket must be validated using the obliterators on the platform and failure to do so will result in a fine" they tell you this after boarding the train. They then have ticket inspectors on the train to validate your validated ticket. Me thinks they're taking the piss.
The train itself is ideal for carrying luggage-laden passengers: simply traverse the foot-wide gap between platform and train then climb the stairs to the carriage where you'll find nowhere to store your luggage during your journey - a journey which is spent sat opposite a miserable-looking Italian. At your destination, you have to fight through crowds of luggage-laden people on a very narrow and very long platform, through a shopping area (all other exits being closed and forcing you in this direction), until you finally get out of the fucking station. Wankers.
You're very hot, very tired. You find a taxi and beg them to take you to your hotel.
I alberghi Italiani (Italian hotels)
I've stayed in a few 3 star Italian hotels and, at worst, they're clean and functional, at best, they're luxurious - quite a range in standards for the same category, but there you go. Our hotel (room) was clean and functional, but I think I shared the smallest room in the entire hotel with my premenstrual, mental sister.
The main thing of wonder about Italian hotel rooms is the bathroom system: they never have shower trays. You have a shower and the entire bathroom gets soaked, so you have to use all the towels to dry the room down as well as yourself. Not too bad in the mornings because they get changed for nice clean ones when the maid does the room, but it means you can't really have a shower in the afternoon or evening because all the towels will still be wet in the morning.
Why? Why do they do it?
Street artists
All over Italy, you'll see these nobs, covered in shimmering fabric and metalic face-paint. They stand on portable podia and they stand... all day. They expect people to give them money just for standing about. Why don't they just get a fucking job? Tits.
Of course at least this lot made an effort, not like the cheeky twat beggars who walked funny or pushed themselves along on skateboards while holding their legs and feet in a funny way. One lass was just a skinny bird who you could tell was begging to fund her highlights that were in bad need of being re-done.
Siete di toilette
Most restaurants and bars have toilets; they're a godsend for when you're ootenaboot and need to stop off for some refreshment and a wee. But it's extremely rare to find a toilet with a toilet seat in these places. I don't understand it. It's just not right.
At least they seem to have come a long way since I was last over in Italy 11 years ago. Back then it was a bonus to find any porcelain at all and you just have to hover over a hole and hope for the best. Of course, I'd rather have pissed myself than than suffer that indignity. Dirty bastards.
MacShite and a MacFight
So we found ourselves going in McDonald's for a wee. There was a queue for the ladies' - as per. As a cubicle became free and I sat down (on a toilet with a seat), I heard a commotion outside - my sister's voice and that of an angry-sounding Italian woman. Not being big on queuing, the Italians will just just go for it if a cubicle comes free and of course my sister objected to this and physically dragged the woman out of the toilet that was rightfully hers. I've never heard such a thing. On a Sunday too.
Crossing the road
They're all fucking mental - you just have to go for it because the green man means sod-all over there.
Diagon Alley
Many of the streets leading to piazze were warrens that a traveller could find confusing and get lost in. They'd look completely different depending on the time of day, as one set of shops closed while another opened. Having found a grocers that sold salamis, breads and - most importantly - chilled cans of pop for 75c, we thought we'd gone mad as we kept trying to find it again, to no avail. Instead, we had to resort to buying cold drinks at E3-4 a go from the robbing bastard street vendors.
Coke habit
You can't get Pepsi over there: it's Coke all the way. I fucking hate Coke, it's disgusting. The only time I saw Pepsi was in a little grocery store, but it was the full fat version that I don't like.
This monopoly must STOP! I feel an e-mail to Pepsi customer services coming on. They simply must break into the Italian market or I feel I may never be able to return there.
Needless to say, Mother was instructed to be waiting with a can of my beloved Pepsi Max when I got off the plane. I love my mum.
Fast food
They have this stupid system in some cafes (particularly at airports) where you have to pay for your stuff before you order it, you then take the receipt to the order point where they dish up your coffee, or whatever. But what if you don't know what you want until you get to see what's on offer? What if you change your mind after paying for it?
It's like going to Tesco, paying for your shopping, then taking your receipt round the shop to pick up your stuff.
Arseholes.
Romans
A race who look good and know it.
Rome
Go.
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