Train à Grande Vitesse avec Moi

Just came through a mountain range on the TGV in first class.

Little French towns, little French churches, big French farms. .

The last week has been very fun – Tom Waits, the Tuscan hills, the Chianti –( a revelation thank you Chris.) Then there was Paris (a day more than expected but that is another story). Best break this all down.

Rome

Where was I up too with this? The B and B with Giadhia and Jen? That is right – top notch – when in Rome get to the Castle of Colours and tell them I sent you.

Jo’s friend Ale dropped by and very helpfully sorted out a phone card and some train details for me, and took me on a sightseeing tour – the Circus Maximus – the Harold Park of its day, and the Colosseum which was the ANZ of its day – but with heaps more atmosphere. And better food. Ale took me to a lovely garden above Rome with a spectacular view, a grave yard where I sat beside Shelley’s grave and recited Coleridge because I don’t know any Shelley off by heart – (not true – there was that one thing on the back of The Jam album – arise like lions, out of Slumber...) and we had lunch at a cafe where we sat next to some Italian movie director – insert name here – that I am told is very impressive and cool. Jo has made me promise to watch Caro Diary (check this). He is very anti-Berlusconi apparently so he can’t be too bad.

Then more wandering around for me – Ale went off to work – and I went to the Vatican – have I written this down already? No? Well. All those years of Catholic school finally paid off. I was impressed. Very impressed. The afternoon sunlight breaking through the Dome of St Peter’s – over the altar- the gold – it was spectacular. And the scale is really – awe inspiring which I guess is the entire point – God it seems is really, really big. And you are not. I still felt like shushing people who were talking though – once an altar boy always etc, etc....

I did not get to see the Sistine Chapel – that closes earlier – so that is why I am tripping back to Roma. There are long lines apparently so I am planning an early start tomorrow.

They actually have carriages where it is forbidden to talk on your mobile phone – they have a little booth at the end of the carriage where people can go and talk. The most annoying man in earth is talking on his mobile right now and I can understand why they have the booths.

I just saw a man Para-gliding over a field. A blue sail over the corn and the grapes and the mountains in the distance. – Better look out for those power lines!!! There’s a reality check.

It is difficult writing this as I keep looking out the window at the beautiful lake and the impossibly story book villages and towns. People actually live like in these places?

Aix les bains ??? Town name near lake –must look this up. The station is Chambery Challes Les Eaux.

That night – dinner at eh Casa and some Italian wine – it is all more medium bodied than what I am used too – but I could get used to that! Anyway – by then it was Thursday and I was off to Milan for Tom Waits.

Tom Waits

Arrived in Milan – got the Metro to the Pop House. It is surprising how achieving the simplest goals when travelling in a non-English speaking country can be so rewarding – wow I bought a ticket and travelled three stops on the train. (not bad as the only directions I understand are sinestrea and secondi – pity if anything is the third on the right or I’s still be there wandering around).

Anyway a very nice Italian fellow who spoke impeccable English – let me into the courtyard for the PopHouse – a quick phone call to the landlord – “the key is in the black box, leave the money on the table before you leave – thank you! Ciao! – so trusting). I settled in, used the internet and the coffee machine – of which I almost took pictures I was so impressed, showered and made my way to the Teatro Arcimboldi to see my first Tome Waits show since 1982 or there abouts. That was before mobile phones and the internet kids. How on earth did we buy tickets without a credit card or a personal computer? I can’t remember.

Outside the show – Italian chaos. Licensed area/ What licensed area? People generally wandered around with beers and wine. The Italian Rock crowd are all there – a little senior, and a very cultured raggedy look. Some young people put to see the legend – he last played din Milan in 93 or so – (before camera phones, before Melbourne had a Rugby League team....)

So apart from eh gleeful hum of all these people standing on the streets drinking there was actually two very well dressed police people doing traffic control. And completely ignoring the pirate t-shirt market that has set up with tables in a small pirate precinct across from the theatre – Tom Waits pirate tour shirts printed on Pirate Fruit of the Loom t-shirts. And they were actually better than the official merchandise which was a Rorschach like blob with no tour dates on them. There is one for the obscurest. I attempted to buy a beer before show time – 9pm-andso good is my Italian I ended up with two at 5 euro each. While drowning in beer I ran inside to try and get a sandwich – which seem to be plentiful, fresh and good in this country – especially if you like cured meats – and while standing in line spotted most of REM except Stipe, Robyn Hitchcock and the other dude from Young Fresh Fellows. I was so excited that I pointed it out to the guy behind me in line without thinking that perhaps he could understanding English, let alone a sotto voiced Australian trying to discreetly mutter – “there’s REM” or Rem (one word) as they are known here. After saying pardon and working out I wasn’t a drug dealer he too was impressed by the proximity of the rock gods a mere few metre away. (Yes we have the metric system in Australia as I explained to one amazed Italian – he says –what metres and centimetres? And the other Italian says – no – they only have metres they like big things in Australia! )

Les Chambre Valley.- St John du Maurieen or something.

Mike Mills came over to the bar and I said hi but was distracted by the woman giving me a sandwhich – I was HUNGRY ok?- so I didn’t make too much of a fool of myself. I lent the Italian guy behind me my sharpie so he could get his Tom Waits ticket signed

This little station sees so much action that the luggage trolleys are all set up waiting and a very healthy looking vine with purple flowers has grown over half of them. No one it seems is willing to pay a Euro to take a trolley – or maybe they still only accept francs?

I took my seat inside and found out that when you pay extra in Europe you are sitting further back – because the sound is better and you can see the entire stage – so that was a great bit of thinking on my behalf. My Leonard Cohen tickets will probably be somewhere near the rear as well!

Won’t bore you with the set up – I sat next to a Greek sound engineer who actually wept during some segments of the show – before the show e chatted about the gear – Tom sings from a round riser form the middle of the stage and had no visible fold back. I bet he has in ear.

Tom was late but the audience clapped REM for sitting down and gave Roberto Binnini a standing ovation – could you imagine that if Geoffrey Rush came to a show at the State?- while we were waiting. And at 9.45 or such the band and the Man ambled out on stage – Tom in a bowler hat and in fine form.

I made notes in my little note book in the dark – the sound was excellent – not too loud which made me lean forward a little in the guitar solos ( I am too used to Jason Walker and Mat Galvin’s work obviously!) – But every instrument was bright and even and sat in the mix perfectly – it is a modern theatre for classical music after all. The highlight was when Tom sat at the piano and the bass player stood beside him and he did On the Nickel – a little quicker than the recorded version – but still – magic. Will check the song list I wrote down and add more later.

Experienced and a line for a taxi after the show – an Italian Taxi cue is not really a cue so to speak. It is a mob people trying to negotiate while standing in the middle of the street. And the taxi drivers slow down and wait to hear if anyone wants to go where they want to go – nothing to do with the passenger giving the orders. New moments in social anthropology for me.

The next day – on the train and off to Tuscany! Stopping now because battery is going and I may need the computer after – some trains have power points – others do not. This one does not.

Vacanza Romana

The Casacolori - at last my haven from the street! The beautiful Giada welcomed me with big kisses Italian style – I am always afraid that I will go the wrong way when this happens and head butt the person instead of doing the air kiss 3cm beside the ear. I ask for lessons about the correct protocol later on!

A big chat, a shower, some lunch with Jenaro, Giada’s boyfriend an up and coming tattoo artist. They have a wonderfully huge painting of Betty Page in one of the rooms. I had a big comfortable room, a window opening on to the street, my own bathroom and Wi-Fi. And they have cool black vespa with a zebra seat. Giada runs the bed and breakfast and is a whole bunch of fun. All in all a tip top place!

Feeling refreshed I went for a walk and stumbled across the Spanish steps and then on to Fontani Di Trevi. Now at this point I have to mention teh traffic in Rome. It is chaos, or at least looks that way to the untrained eye. The right hand hook turns from teh middle lane, three motor scooters and one BMW in one lane on a road narrow enough to jump across, as on coming traffic hurtles down. And event the man with his dog between his ankles, clutching the collar with is left hand as he guns the scooter with his right through an intersection as narrow as a dunny lane in Balmain full of Land Rovers. Nobody blinks at any of this behaviour – I stand slack jawed, itching to put on a traffic vest and step out to impart some order onto this chaos, fearing only that I will end up mushed into the cobblestone streets and become one with antiquity. . But I have managed through my great skills as an investigative reporter and with academic qualifications in behavioural science (BHS101 1984 – Grade C) to bring you this inside.- THERE ARE TRAFFIC RULES. And they are as follows:

1. If you are at any time impeded from going forward, honk your horn.
2. If you see a pretty woman on the street or on a scooter (and in Rome this is a bit like looking up and seeing the sky), honk your horn.

As long as you follow these two rules the other laws of the road are of no consequence, as neither are the laws of physics. And the Zebra crossing? I have no idea what they are for, and who put them here. They are an archaeological mystery whose meaning has been lost to the ages.

The Map Ran Out of Batteries

A man actually leaves the town at long last....this report live somewhere on a train in Italy

As I live and breathe I can’t believe that my opinion on an airline could change as quickly as mine did between two minutes after taking off from Hong Kong. But I jump ahead.

Monday Morning- Kingsford Smith airport -The Dog has dropped me off and a Cathy Pacific plane heads out to Hong Kong containing me – a happy me, a smiling me – I am off to Europe and parts beyond for nearly two months. I am on, what appears to be to me, a fairly new aircraft. I have two seats to myself. I have a small screen in front of me – actually if you count the other one I have two screens for my amusement. They have videos-they have movies-they have computer games. I watch seven episodes of the Simpsons. I get to see the David Bowie episode of Flight of the Concords. I watch Shine a Light, the Rolling Stones concert movie. (Someone once told me that meeting Keith Richards is like meeting a giant rubber chicken. I see what they mean.) I am as you can imagine fairly pleased with all this. I complete half the Sudoku in the Herald – it wasn’t right but hell, I filled it in! I watched cartoons on one screen while playing video games with the other. People bring me food. Cathy Pacific, I conclude, is the greatest airline in the history of Aviation – I wrote that on the feedback form. I am very pleased. Oh hubris!!! Oh why was I so proud?? Why did I not realise that there was cosmic pay-back to be had? No man deserves this level of comfort in economy class – IF I learnt one thing in Catholic School – I don’t deserve to be this happy!

The fall was swift, and irrevocable as the lost languor of youth – the punishment for my crime – the Hong Kong Leg. I am sure Dante mentions this as being one of the levels of Hell, but I can’t read that much Italian yet. It has to be in there though. Firstly my carefully laid plan of “grabbing a shower” at the lounge at Hong Kong were quickly spoiled – I was checked in to leave from gate one. Fine. The club lounge is at gate 35. I have one hour. I walk. I walk. I follow the signs. I descend long escalators, similar to the ones in Daffy Duck cartoons, when Daffy is on his way to damnation. I only realise this in retrospect. This journey has taken me ten minutes and the last sign – I kid you not- is at a railway station in the airport. TO get to gate 35 and the refreshing ablutions- I have to catch a train. I am not sure if this will take me to Macau. I am not sure how long it will take. I am not getting on that train with 50 minutes to go. I bravely turn back to Gate One with my fresh undies still tucked discreetly in the back pack. It is ok, I think, I’ll just sleep most of this leg and then I’ll be in Rome. Va Tuta bene. Wrong. Porka miseria.

The plane from Hong Kong is crowded. There is the Italian Volley Ball team on it. I am seated next to a woman and her son who is I guess is about eight or nine. The seat is on the aisle but it seems so small. The plane is old. The screens are old. The controls don’t work. A baby cries. The baby continues to cry. In that particular distressing way babies do. The pitch gets higher. And louder. WE are not even off the ground yet. Oh dear.

We take off. The kid next to me starts too discreetly and quietly, much to his credit and dignity, hurl into an airsick bag. For the sake of his brave effort I gamely ignore his distress, so as not to draw attention to the fact he disgusts me. Poor child. I wrap myself in a blanket, put in some ear plugs, and try and sleep.

I fall asleep, or at least into the half dream room usually only experienced by native Shaman or John Safran on peyote tea. I drift for an unspecified time. I wake suddenly with the urge to break wind. Some of the airline food from the last flight is trying to escape prematurely. It wasn’t as god as I thought. It may have been, in fact, quite bad. Really badly. In fact, it might not be wind-it might be-oh Lord- clear the aisle-and make sure there is a cubicle open, I move with a speed that may have impressed the selectors for the Italian Volley ball team as I leapt form my seat to the plane, and taking my bag with lap top with me. Unfortunately the timing isn’t as good as I had hoped. There is, to be discreet, some leakage. Oh dear.

I will spare you the details. Needless to say, I spent so long in there that they sent in a stewardess to see if I had passed out undoubtedly in their minds caused from the balloons of illicit substances they had burst inside my bowels. I explained the situations. Were there some spare tracksuits pants I could borrow? No. Nothing? I beg incredulously – apparently not. Things are so bad in the airline game that they have to take as much weight off the planes as possible- this includes the few grams for a spare shell suit in case someone shits themselves from the rotten food they serve. I have cleaned up by this stage and fortunately have the spare undies. My jeans have copped some overflow however. I wash they affected area in the basin. I ask for a hair dryer to avoid getting nappy rash when I put them back on. There are no hairdryers. The stewardess offers to take the damp pants away and hang them somewhere. I think they roll down the window at the back of the plane and let them fly in the breeze a bit. I am asked to return to my seat. I am wearing boxer shorts and a shirt. The steward – by this stage a man has become involved – offers me a blanket – the plane is dark says he, none will know. SO I wrap myself in an impromptu skirt and sauntered back to my seat, as an international jet setting transvestite. Suddenly Sick Kid next to me has a reason to feel better about himself. He may have a week stomach – but at least he isn’t wearing a dress. I reach into my handy bag of medicines- yes I am a hypochondriac and yes – I carry medications. I have, as always in my bag of tricks, Imodium. They usually work a treat. I sit there under another blanket and pray I don’t stink.

The rest of the flight happens. At a certain stage, my jeans are returned, dry as could be expected. I regain some dignity with my Levis. The kid next to me and I enter a silent pact of the oppressed and embarrassed – the living kindness that the uncool and nerds give to each other – let’s never speak of this again, we decide silently, and it will have never happened to either of us. So I apologise to him for making cheap jokes about it and publishing it on the web.

I get off the plane. I buy myself coffee. Actually – customs- there is something wonderfully Italian about Italian customs. I walk up to Immigration. I try to look happy and smiley. I have my passport ready. I have my through ticket. I have my credit cards and traveller cheque card things. I am all ready. I pray there will be no full body searches. I step forward of the yellow line, I smile, say good morning and the board customs officer takes my passport. She opens it, looks at the picture, looks at me, gives me a “well you got fat” look – actuallys he didn’t that is just my poor body imagine talking- she stamps it, and hands it back.. This takes less than 2 seconds. I have a stamp with an I on is in the middle of a circle of European stars. I have the date of the stamping on it. It says the airport name. There is no leave by date. There is no talk about how much money I have, or where I am going to stay. I then follow the line around to the nothing to declare area. I wait behind a line. The customs officers stand in a circle and talk to each other. Other recently arrived passengers walk past me, unhindered by customs. realise it is an honour system.

None looks at me, looking hesitant, darting my eyes around to see if anyone is going to search me. I walk though. I am in Rome. Well airport anyway. I buy a coffee- it is good. I buy a train ticket – I stamp it in the yellow machine. I get the train. I step out a termini – I get lost.

I have a three minute walk. I have a sat nav devise. I have written instructions. I have a bad that is bigger than the area I had to sit in on the flight from Hong Kong. It is 30 degrees Celsius. I wander in circles for an hour. No one can tell me where the street – the stupid sat nave lags behind and has an annoying habit of swinging around to realign itself every so often – like telling you that you should be going in the opposite direction to which it told you a moment ago was the correct direction to walk in. The fact that I walk around like a sniffy, pissing terrier doesn’t help. What if the diareha stopping drugs start to wear off? Where is this street

I am exacerbated. My only Italian involves please. Thank you, blasphemy and a string of foul invective. Which are pretty much all you need to get drivers,’ license in Rome but more of that later. This street – where is it??? I ask merchants. I target Indians because at least they will be able to speak English without me resorting to my embarrassing Italian phrase of “Non PArlo Italiano” which means – I am an idiot savage from Australia where the education system is so narrow and poor that I can only speak one language. Or so it seems. Take that Howard. I guess.

No-one is sure where the street is- I realise later that I was within two blocks! By this time the st nav system had gone flat. Oh for a paper map! Oh for a basic grasp of Italian. Oh for a taxi to take me what I suspected would turn out to be 50 metres!

After circling and cursing and asking a policeman with a sub-machine gun (Carboniarie or something.) where the street was- he didn’t know-he could probably strip the machine gun blind folded but he couldn’t give directions, I finally found a lady in a chemist who was prepared to give an opinion-and good it was too! I had the street-but Italy being Italy, street names and sometimes numbers are hard to come by- after three local merchants sent me in different directions – I had at last come to The Casacolori!!!

I almost commented on the weather

Well-two more sleeps. I have everything. I need a haircut. I have to pack. Tickets. Money. Passport. I know have a map of Rome on my GPS on my phone. How good is that? What a modern traveller I am. Modern travellers need sleep though.

Idiomatic Australians

I was asked to explain some Australian expressions for an American communications firm. Tell me if I am close to the mark:

That is gold. Usually uttered as "That's gold" it is a general expression of kudos for an action - it is possibly derived from a famous sports call when an Australian won at the Olympics "It's gold, gold, gold for Australia!" Denotes an award winning performance.

How is that. This is always pronounced as one word with two syllables: Howzat??!!! The 's' becomes a voiced fricative 'z' sound. It is a forceful interrogative yelled at a cricket umpire, known as 'an appeal'. When a bowler believes the batsman should be dismissed (when he believes the batsman is 'out') the bowler and his team will yell at the umpire "Howzat??!!!" to appeal for a decision, in the hope the Umpire will raise his finger and dismiss the batsman.

Give it a try, you mug. I have never heard anyone say this, ever. Perhaps it is an expression from Victoria. They are a weird mob down there. See " Have a go, you mug!: below.

Fair crack of the whip. To have had one's fair turn. Witness this dialogue: Son: "Dad, can we go swimming?" Father: "Fair crack of the whip son, you've been in the pool all day." It also could be used to dismiss an unreasonable claim: "Fair crack of the whip, you were clearly off-side" Means the same as "fair suck of the sauce bottle.".

You beauty. This is a very positive expression Heard frequently around race tracks to show approval towards a very fast horse. A particularly good thing.

You little ripper. An expression of approval heard around fast horses with long odds. An exceptionally good thing.

Get that in you. In the vernacular, heard when a friend hands another friend a beer. An understated Australian toast - like "here's mud in your eye". Alternately can be used derisively to mock a rival who is at the receiving end of some bad luck - a bit like "how do you like them apples"

Stick it to them. Actually pronounced as "Stickit to'em". A cry of encouragement for your team to score more points, take more runs, or smack more heads. Also used "stick it up'em".

Have a go, you mug. A word of stern encouragement. To be yelled at your team if they are not "having a go" or trying very hard. Or could be said to an opponent who is trying not very successfully to get back into a game-by pointing out the futility of him even trying.

He has been doing it all day, referee! An ironic call. When a penalty is given early in a game some larrikin will invariably yell "He's been doing it all day, Ref" The earlier this happens in a game the funnier the joke.

Does your mom play too? I have never heard anyone use this expression. Perhaps it is South Australian. Sounds like something a crow eater would say. We would say Mum, not Mom. Possibly an insult by comparing someone to a girl? Could be an Australian misogynistic thing. I am far to liberal to say such a thing.

She has got nothing! A call to point out the opponents lack of depth of talent, strength or fitness.

Four more days

How to start a tour diary.....just checking if I can get this thing to work.