Italia

23 Jul 2011

The Lonely Motorcyclist

My venture into Italy was a trial by fire, or on this particular day, a trial by water, Porsche, gravel, and goat, via the immensely complex Passo di Stelvio. This imposing mountain pass reaches an altitude of 2757 m (second only to the fabulous Col de l'Iseran), and is to be respected, every centimetre of its 48 hairpins. I certainly didn't enjoy the road at all, however the view was simply stunning. On the south side of the pass, I made for Churio. It felt great to be back on the road after almost a week in Winterthur, however the bike felt as though it was skating in the wet, a feeling that I don't really enjoy.

The following day I rode to Monza, to have a look at the GP circuit, but settled on back tracking to Lago di Como to set up camp, my rear tyre traction issues continuing. I may or may not have cracked 220 km/hr in the tunnel systems surrounding Lago di Como. Why? Who knows, I guess I just wanted to do 200+ indoors. Lago di Como was absolutely stunning, the weather clear and hot, and at an Austrian lass' recommendation, I decided to make for the Splugenpass in the morning. That night I chatted with the locals and boozed. My introduction to Italy was so far going very well, and I was enjoying it immensely.

After a late start, I headed north to tackle the Splugenpass, and again, whilst the view from this pass was sensational, the road itself was far too tight for my riding style, however the San Bernadino pass proved much more tasty. After hitting the autostrada, I noticed that my upper left fairing had cracked, from what, I had no idea. I taped it up, and continued to ride towards Milan. I was overtaken by another bike, and gave up trying to hold onto the back of him after I hit 220 km/hr. Milano was supremely hot, and I was close to passing out in the heat, dressed in full leathers. Thankfully I found my hotel quickly, but it took me a good 3 to 4 hours to cool down properly from the experience.

I skipped out of Milano early, and headed for the town of Borgo Val di Tora. I was still having traction issues, and found the bike sliding much more than I liked. Mind you, I don't like the bike sliding at all, so a little sliding is too much! I eased the pace and just concentrated on lines, trying to seek out the premium sections of tarmac, searching for grip.

I arrived in Pisa and was pitched by 1300. I went to the have a look at the tower, and was simply stunned by just how many people there were at the tower, all being 'original', all doing the same thing: posing for a photo where it seems as though they are actually holding the tower up. Yawn. After my initial fascination with the truckloads of idiot tourists waned, I had a look at the buildings, the architecture is amazing. Pisa was not the first city in Italia to draw my attention to the boatloads of Yanks swarming all over the place, however it highlighted to me that North Americans seem to flock to Italia, I wondered why. Was it the landmarks? The Jesus thing? Something else?

Roma was next on my list, and after about 340 km I pitched at a campsite outside the city. By this stage Italy was starting to give me the shits. The seeming lack of organisation or punctuality, the 'near enough is good enough' attitude just didn't wash with me at all. In addition, the '24 hour' service stations were either hopelessly overstaffed, or totally unmanned, the latter proving extremely frustrating, as they inconsistently accepted my cards or money, making fuel stops interesting, turning each into more a gesture of faith rather than a business transaction.

I ventured into Roma to take in some sight-seeing, to be a complete tourist, and I was shocked by just how awful tourists can be. Apparently we really do live in the age of mass tourism, more Yanks swarmed all over various landmarks, whingeing about perceived lack of services (this was a common theme amongst this set) and other such inconveniences, such as how nothing was in English, and why couldn't they get a proper coffee. I did my best to avoid the masses as much as possible, but this was an almost impossible task. I wondered if everywhere I went, there would be thousands of people all doing the same thing: having their photos taken in front of various famous landmarks. Were these just ticks on a list for these people?

My trip to the Vatican was awful. The Yank factor was increased by a huge percentage. Inside, most of them simply wandered about talking to each other, videoing the interior so they could watch it later. I pressed on, hoping for an inspiring, humbling, immersive visit to the Sistine Chapel (or 'Cistern Chapel' as one person described it), however I was in for a shock. Despite the enormous signs, translated simply in many languages, stating that there is to be no talking, and no photography, everyone inside the Chapel talked, videoed, and photographed! This caused the Italian security to yell at everyone, and simply destroyed the atmosphere completely. Well done, you arrogant, selfish fucks, I hope you die in a house fire.

On my way back to the campsite, my mind turned to thoughts of leaving Italia, and how fantastic it would be to get out of this country. I simply could not deal with the throngs of stupid tourists, nor the Italian way of getting things done, so making a beeline for Österreich was becoming more and more attractive. That aside, I prepared for the next day's riding, hoping that the further south I headed, the further away from everyone I'd get.

I was quite hung over the next morning, but loaded the bike and headed for Pompei. Upon arrival, I discovered that I had left my passport behind at Roma. I phoned, and made arrangements for it to be sent to Pompei. This meant that I would have more than a couple of days in Pompei, and as I planned to look at a few things about the place, this was agreeable. Riding pass Napoli into Pompei was a real eye-opener; I was greeted with mounds of rubbish, roads full of holes, and men pissing on the side of the road. I was glad that I'd decided to stay in Pompei and not Napoli after all. I decided to try pitching my tent a different way, only to cut my foot on one of the tent spikes. This was another annoying turn of events, and after a day of riding in the heat, leaving my passport behind, struggling with grip, lack of confidence in my bike, this only served to dampen my spirits further. Later that evening, I tried a local restaurant, only to have the meal define for me just how hit and miss Italia was: the gnocchi was easily the best I'd ever had, however the coffee was awful (and cold), so far, for me, a typical effort from this part of the world.

I visited Vesuvius and Pompeii the next day, both were somewhat disappointing, but for different reasons. The bike still felt odd, rear wheel slipping, which did not inspire confidence at all, and so I toured up to Vesuvius for a look. It cost me €2 to park the bike, then a further €8 to actually walk on the mountain, which annoyed me somewhat, however I guess the locals must turn a dollar somehow. The view from Vesuvius was well worth it, and I would recommend it to anyone, however for a little bit more, you can take a tour to the mountain, with a guide (some with wine tasting too), so that works out to be better value in my opinion.

Pompeii was again very hit and miss. I did my best to push past the boatloads of American tourists, some of which were complaining that the entrance to Pompeii was too steep, and an escalator (or at least some steps) should be built. I keep bumping into this type of crowd, and frankly, their attitude sickens me to the core. I did my best to get as far away from the groups as I possibly could in an attempt to immerse myself in my surrounding, and try to imagine what it must have been like, however there were simply too many people, so I cut my losses and decided that perhaps I would try another day. All that aside, Pompeii was still very interesting, and I would recommend it, even though it seems as though all the really interesting and good exhibits are have all been relocated to museums elsewhere.

That evening I tried a different restaurant, and watched the traffic along the main drag of Pompei. Watching all the scooters, bikes and cars go by, and watching their occupants, I couldn't help but feel as though there was something about Italia that I was yet to grasp, something deeper, and that I would have to cast aside a lot of the sensibilities and habits that had become engrained within me over time. I was staring to realise that Italy just worked differently, and that fact didn't make Italy good or bad, it simply made Italy different, and that it was up to me to bend with the environment, let some of my guard down, and open myself a little more to this country. Or maybe it was simply the combination of beer and heat.

I couldn't help but make the connection between some of the wonderful cities I've been to, and Italia in general, through transport. Everyone in Pompei was either on a scooter, or a small car, such a breath of fresh air after living in a country where the suburban arms race is out of control: everyone drives a stupid 4WD (or 'soft-roader') in order to keep their brats safe on the school run. They are stupid vehicles, and are simply not needed. In Australia, hardly anyone travels in small cars or on two wheels, as both are deemed 'unsafe'. What a bunch of cock! The only unsafe things on our roads back in Australia are the egos and rage of the fools driving the majority of cars and soft-roaders. All the great cities that I have been to so far are awash with small cars and scooters, which to me just points to another area in which we are becoming like the United States of Australia. It's a real shame. That aside, I had decided that pedestrian crossings in Italia serve two purposes only: to remind the foolhardy or brave that there is indeed another side to the road, and to inform the rest of us in which areas we may be run over. Look out!

The following morning my foot looked quite sore, however I had other things on my mind, such as exploring the local area. Instead, I stayed local, doing domestic style chores. I noticed that Pompei was split into two distinct parts: the western part (for tourists) which closed early (around 1700), and the eastern part (for locals) which didn't really get fired up until about 2200. Again, my mind was filled with thoughts about my approach to Italia, and how best to start discarding a way of life that I had known for many years. Italians seem very social people, perhaps that's what was throwing me, as I have always stuck to myself, not needing or wanting other people around, and being able to survive quite happily with no human interaction for weeks, even months at a time.

A quick ride down the Amalfi coast brightened me up the following morning, my first outing on the bike for some time, and it rained. This just proves that if there is some kind of divine being controlling everything, that they have a great sense of humour and irony. I started riding the R6 like a scooter, and all of a sudden the mess that is Italian traffic started to make a strange sort of sense, becoming more like an intricate dance, similar to capoeira. It may seem chaotic, but it works, and in my time in Italia, I had not seen one accident, or one road rage incident at all. That evening I chatted to my tent neighbours, a couple of fantastic archeology students from Denmark. Although I had existed essentially alone for the last few weeks, it was good to be able to share a beer and a joke.

The next morning I was greeted by a hangover, sore eyes (I'd slept with my contacts in), and a foot that looked like a mess. It was decided that I should visit the local hospital, just to be sure. The ospedale was located in Castellammare di Stabia, which having rode through the town earlier in the week, did not fill me with confidence at all. Some streets are piled high with rubbish, in some instances up to the height of a second storey, and so it was with this in mind that I approached the hospital with some trepidation. I had been told that organised crime controlled the garbage collection in Castellammare, and if they didn't like you, your rubbish was not collected. And if you attempted to move the rubbish, you were whacked. To my relief, the ospedale was in excellent condition, and I was treated like royalty. I was placed in a wheelchair, rushed to the front of the queue, x-rayed, and generally fussed over. I was plied with drugs, given more to take later, as well as bandages (and a tetanus syringe) and sent on my way. When I asked to pay, I was whooshed out of emergency and told to go home and rest. What a chalk and cheese experience! That night, despite doctor's orders, I was back in Pompei, out on the grog with a real diva and the Danes...

The following night in Pompei was fantastic, again with the Danes, this time we hung out with the Bulgarians and played lots of table soccer until the small hours on the morning. I was beginning to get into a real groove in Pompei, the people in this part of the world have all been so welcoming, friendly, polite, helpful, and warm, it would take a heart of stone to not start to enjoy oneself.

At the recommendation of the Danes, I visited Herculaneum, which is a lesser known town destroyed by the eruption of 79 AD the following day. I was joined by another tent neighbour, who insisted on referring to Herculaneum as being "less touristed". This annoyed the English teacher in me greatly, however I bit my lip and did my best to absorb the environment instead. Herculaneum is located at Ercolano, and in ancient times was constructed right on the beach. The excavations have revealed stunning frescos, buildings, and in some cases original wooden structures petrified by the heat of the pyroclastic flows are clearly visible. Almost no tourists visit this site (which pleased me no end), and much of what is available to see is preserved in much better condition. I left Herculaneum stunned, silent, and in complete awe, I had finally been given the immersive ancient experience that I was seeking in Pompeii. The ruins at Herculaneum really resonated with me, there was a real sense that the people who lived there really had great lives, and without the masses of dawdling, slack-jawed tourists, one was able to really get a feel for what life would have been like almost 2000 years ago. An amazing experience all 'round.

The next day was Sunday, and the Danes and I made plans to head for the beach (such as it was). We were informed that Vico Equense was the destination of choice, so that's exactly where we went. After a small swim at the black-sand beach, we moved to the rocks and set up for an evening of talking, drinking, and watching the sun slowly sink into the Tyrrhenian Sea. It was a simply magical evening, and I realised just how much I had fallen in love with this strangely bipolar part of the world.

In the following days, I saw the Danes off, read, sun-baked, slept, and waited for my passport to arrive. Seriously, how long should it take to post a letter from one town to another? The following day my question was answered, the Italian postal service moving with the speed of continental drift, and the agility of a snail amputee, it took 11 days to post a letter from Roma to Pompei, however it had finally arrived, and I quickly prepared to get back on the road the following morning. My target was Campobasso, however I piled the kilometres (during which I was stung repeatedly by a wasp that somehow made it into my leathers) on and easily made Cesano, in time for a swim in the Adriatic (during which I was stung by a medusa). I was starting to think that Italy didn't want me to leave, and was trying to hold onto me by injuring me so much that I would be forced to stay. That evening I was invited to sit with an enormous Italian family, of which by the time I turned in, I was one of.

I pointed the bike north and aimed for Venezia the following morning. It was an easy ride, apart from the incessant caravan hopping. Why do people insist on clogging the roads up with those things? You're not really camping at all, you're simply taking all the comforts from home with you wherever you go. I don't understand it at all. That night I chatted with my neighbour in the campsite, who had ridden his 1970's pushbike from Venice to Venezia. It was simply amazing just how similar we were, and although I could have chatted all night, I turned in, planning to visit Venezia the following day.

Venezia was an experience by itself, and I spent the entire day walking through the streets, doing my best to avoid the tourists, taking photos and enjoying the energy of the city. At time, Venice was amazingly peaceful, but I imagine that the lack of cars throughout the city contributed to that greatly. I soaked up the atmosphere of the Festa del Redentore, and passed some of the evening drinking the best pina colladas and listening to Chick Corea and Return to Forever in a jazz cocktail bar - I was almost in heaven!

On the boat back to my campsite, I thought about what a crazy time I'd had in Italia, from the 'near enough is good enough' attitude, to the welcoming and warm reception from the people in so many different places, including the ospedale, to all the offers of support, part-time work, a couch to sleep on, to the hectic mixed up traffic, to the impossibly cool people everywhere, to how fashion was without social boundary (pretty much every Italian dresses well and looks cool), to the hit-and-miss food and coffee, and finally to the fact that I was to be leaving in a matter of hours.

I now understand why people love Italy, I felt that I'd cracked the code! This country is like a close, erratic, warm, flighty, caring unreliable friend who frustrates and charms all at the same time.

I think I love Italy too.