WORST:
1) The fact that Sundays in Catholic countries are miserable. Unless you are big on Mass and don't mind fasting.2) Hidden costs and people always trying to rip you off.3) Local customs that prohibit the wearing of weather-appropriate clothing.4) 'Transit days' and having to move on as soon as you get settled.5) People who snore.6) Having to pay half a day's budget just to get your clothes cleaned.7) Traffic that is an all too constant reminder of your fragile mortality.8) Understanding how much we rely on people to speak English and trying to deal with it when they don't.9) The Pound to Euro exchange rate.10) Showers that are broken/cold/slow/dirty/non-existent.11) Last minute panics of the 'Oh-God-where-am-I-going-to-sleep-tonight' variety.12) Places that have more Brits than locals.13) Most fellow travellers younger than about 16. Especially in groups.14) Having to keep your hands in your pockets, lest somebody else slips theirs in to steal something.15) Having to remember to charge everything, and creating a rota in your mind so that you don't suddenly find yourself with no working MP3/camera or worse: phone.16) The unprecedented number of injuries you manage to sustain.17) Carrying around a backpack for two months.18) The constant and unwavering fear that you are going to lose your passport.19) The one or two occassions when it actually rains and you feel like you deserve a refund.20) The guilty feeling that creeps up every so often when you know that really, you're just having too much fun.
But if I'm being honest, there's nothing in the Worst section that I can't cope with. I would endure a bad shower, the risk of pick-pocketing or even expensive laundry just to spend a day with interesting people in an interesting country doing something I've never done before.
BEST:
1) The weather: so good it feels like it must be bad for you.2) Sitting in cafes, reading and sipping a cold drink without a care in the world.3) The realisation that all people, no matter what language they speak, are essentially the same.4) Swimming in the sea without getting hypothermia.5) Meeting so many interesting people doing travels of their own.6) Seeing places you have always dreamt about/read about and them exceeding your expectations. 7) Talking to strangers on public transport.8) Sharing stories.9) Understanding your place in history.10) Trying the local cuisine, but being able to rely on the fruits of globalisation should you need to.11) Looking again at everything you take for granted about your life.12) Feeling, in a way, healthier and more relaxed than you ever have before.13) Hearing new music (and hearing old music in a new place).14) Waking up to days you know won't be ordinary; ones you will never forget.15) Living in the present, fondly remembering the past and excitedly anticipating the future.16) Seeing the lives affected by the politics and current affairs you hear about every day.17) Learning so many new things every day and realising that there is so much you can never understand.18) Views that take your breath away.19) The satisfaction of doing something that is completely yours and that proves your independence,20) Knowing that, if all goes to plan, you will get so many more opportunities to do this again.
I had to get a train from Athens to Patra, which was fairly uneventful excluding a frantic 15 seconds at the station as two trains pulled in next to each other at exactly 12.06, the specified time for my departure. And then there was the fact that I had to change, having not been notified by the unhelpful and grumpy gentleman at the ticket office. Other than this, however, it all ran smoothly. In Patra, I went to a cafe with two college freshmen from Colorado who I had met on the train, and sat there talking for the greater part of the afternoon.
When that chance came, it was worth the wait. The scenery of Kefalonia is probably more beautiful than any I have seen so far. It also earns the title of being the only place I have been to to which I would move unhesitatingly if given the chance. Like the other Greek islands, Kefalonia is rugged, montainous with beautiful calm blue seas and rocky beaches. It differs, however, in that it is so green and lucious; so alive. I started the morning by going for a walk to explore and get a feel for the island's landscape. I didn't have a destination or route in mind, but I headed inland, walking at first along a track and then veering off onto a country path. For nearly three hours, I didn't see another human being, a welcome break from the bustle and chaos of Athens. If you blink here, you might think you were walking through fields in southern England; there are small paddocks, mossy walls, arboreal paths and hundreds of coloured wild flowers. Beneath the surface, however, everything is more dramatic and impressive: ants three-quarters of an inch long, flying insects as thick as your thumb and sheer peaks replacing the rolling hills of England. Walking back along the path between shade and sun, I could almost picture Pelagia hunting for snails - either you'll know what I'm talking about, or you won't. Everything about this landscape is timeless.
Again, I spent the afternoon at the beach, and this time ventured to swim. I chose a rocky cove because it was deserted and later discovered why. After half an hour swimming in the warm water and another fifteen minutes drying on a rock, I looked down and saw a trail of blood trickling from my foot down towards the sea. Given the length of time this must have been open, I could not work out how much blood I had lost, but on closer inspection the wound was fairly deep, giving the appearance of my having tried to carve myself a sixth toe. Reluctantly, I limped back to the apartment and dressed the damaged foot, sadly acknowledging that this would put an end to my doing any swimming for the next few days.
Sleep was predictably interrupted. Despite there being so much space it was impossible to get away from televisions, which were for once playing films in English. Thus, whenever I woke up, I started to get into a film and had to watch to the end. But by late morning, the ferry had pulled into Bari in southern Italy. The port at Bari is arranged fairly counter-intuitively, and I was at first concerned that I found myself out in the open without having gone through passport control. Checking that this was ok, I then sat to wait for a bus. The local taxi drivers, however, had other ideas: I accidentally managed to get a 20 euro fare down to 5 euros and still rejected it, and one man even tried to convince me that the bus had broken down and a taxi was my only option. But I stuck to my convictions and eventually the bus for the station arrived.
After I had purchased my ticket I made for an internet cafe. Incredibly, the first one I walked into had two familiar faces standing at the counter waiting for a computer: the two Americans I had met just four days before on the way to Kefalonia. They were also going via Naples and needed somewhere to stay so we decided to stick together and they made reservations at the hostel I was booked into.
Although Bari looked to be surrounded by some interesting sights, we didn't have long enough or the means to fully explore them so settled into a cafe. The area was not as bad as I was expecting, and there was some impressively complex graffiti, but the city centre itself was a fairly nondescript Italian city. The four-hour train journey that followed was hot and stuffy, but the scenery was interesting and a complete contrast to that of northern Italy that I know so much better: greener, with gently rolling hills, rather than the jagged valleys of the north. The time passed quickly enough, reading the paper and playing cards. We had to change at Caserta, and once we were in Naples we needed to get the Metro and walk through the now dark streets to get to our hostel. It had had been 28 hours since I left the beach at Kefalonia, and I was exhausted.
We explored some of Naples itself in the afternoon, looking at some impressive churches and soaking up the atmosphere, and in the evening the three of us went to a pizzeria that Giovanni, our host had recommended as the best in Naples. Included on the vast menu were pizzas named after each and every one of the owner´s 21 children. ("Great man," Giovanni had said, "... great woman. Their television was broken.") Finally, we got icecream, and sat to eat it on the steps of one of the city´s famous churches as the cars careened past us wildly.
The second day I was on my own. The weather had improved, but most of the city activities are indoor ones so I could not justify finding a park and lying in the sun. Giovanni, very proud of Naples and obviously still bitter that Rome had been chosen as Italy´s capital after unification, provides his guests with brightly annotated maps and insistent advice on where to go. Following this, I took a tour of what was beneath the city. The first part was a Roman threatre, found some years ago underneath someone´s house - interesting, but there are better examples of theatres across the Roman world and you don´t have to descend beneath a trap-door to see them. The second half, however, took us through a bigger system of ´caves´, originally the underground water system and more recently used as bomb shelters in WW2. These were fascinating, and carrying a candle for light through a 50cm wide passage was strangely atmospheric. The one downside, was the tour guide, a Neapolitan Manchester United fan who insisted on speaking in a bad Glaswegian accent. On a tour that included Brits, Americans, French, Italians and Germans, he also insisted on telling several uncomfortable and long jokes about the war, seemingly oblivious to his both audience and the passage of time. Finally emerging from under the ground, I headed for the archeological museum. It is well stocked and even includes a ´Secret Room´ - I´ll let your imagination do the work here - but after several hours it can get a little monotonous.
That evening I was again treated to a Giovanni home-cooked meal, and again had to sing afterwards. Some new and noisier people had moved into the room which made sleep difficult, so I took it easy the next morning, walking around town and then returning for my bag and making for the station.
I managed to sleep surprisingly well on the lower decks, surrounded by the elderly and those few younger travellers who were not part of the Italian/Spanish trans-European pub crawl. Indeed, when I woke up, I was shocked to see that it was past midday and I had spectacularly missed breakfast. So, in order to make the most of the sun, I headed upstairs. Yes, I chose to endure the aforementioned hell, but only because I wanted to make the most of a day I would be spending entirely on a ferry, and the only way to do this would be to spend as much time in the sun as possible. Fortunately I managed to find a corner away from the crowds and spent the day relatively quietly.
The day passed quickly, and by early evening we could see the Spanish coast. The sun was just threatening to creep behind the mountains when we disembarked in Barcelona.
I saw a little of Barcelona that evening, but was mostly too tired from my time in the sun, and went to the hostel, found some food, and met the other travellers there. It was an interesting crowd, including two Estonians, now Londoners, who I would spend the evenings and mornings with over the next couple of days. One of the Estonians, it turned out, worked in a McDonald´s in London I had been to a number of times, and to which, after hearing some of his stories of kitchen hygeine, I shall not be returning to again.
Knowing that effectively I only had two full days in the city, I got up early the next morning with a busy schedule planned out. I started on La Rambla, the bustling street in the centre of town that attracts 250,000 people every day (though only a fifth of these are native Barcelonans). At once, I loved Barcelona. Dozens of street performers, musicians, human sculptures line the street, while flower stalls break up the usual souvenir and newspaper stands. The centre of the street is built for pedestrians only, and in spirit it feels like a medieval city centre rather than one of the biggest tourist destinations in 21st century Spain. Every time I turned around, I hald expected to see dancing bears. (To challenge my first impressions, a few days later I read that a great ´clean-up´ of the street is being proposed to deal with the - apparently - ubiquitous prostitution, violence and drugs. These seemed to escape my notice.) The market, too, was incredible: a cavernous and energetic Catalonian take on food shopping. I just bought a smoothie and looked at the more interesting examples of Spanish cuisine.
During talks in the hostel, I had discovered that Mt. Tibidabo was the best place to see the city from, and being a fan of that great sitcom Friends I naturally had to make the pilgrimage. I had to get two tubes, a bus, and a cable car to get to the top, but once there you can see across the whole bay area and it was worth it to see how the city fits together. However, the top has been ruined by efforts to draw more tourists and an amusement park takes up most of the space. From here, I went to another of the city´s main attractions: Guell Park. There being no metro station bordering the park, I spent around an hour just wandering; gradually the heat started to dehydrate me so I made serious attempts to locate it. It was an interesting and certainly worthwhile stop, but the masses of tourists made it difficult to enjoy. Parks, for me, should be for relaxing, not keeping your hands in your pockets and dodging between crowds. Finally, I made for probably the city´s most famous architectural work: Gaudi´s Sagrada Familia. A strange combination of the Gothic and the Modern, somehow otherworldly like something out of Lord of the Rings, this unfinished cathedral towers over the surrounding buildings. I didn´t go in as the line was long, the weather hot, and the entrance expensive. I think I will wait until it is completed in 2020 and get my money´s worth.
My remaining time I spent lazy, soaking in my last hours in the city. More than anything else, Barcelona had surpassed my expectations. I had come here merely as a stopping point on my journey home, but somehow it turned into an adventure of itself and will remain one of my favourite European cities for a long time.
In the evening, I made my way to the port, checked in, and sat down to wait to board the ferry. Every time I looked at my watch, I could for the first time in two months count down the number of hours until I would be home. First, however, I had to endure my worst sea voyage yet.
Simply by waiting at the port, you could tell things had changed. At least 90% of the passengers were British, and those that weren't were mostly English-speaking. (Although, 'what sane Spanish person would holiday in Plymouth?' would be the obvious response to this.) People just walked up to the checkin and started speaking English without even asking if the person behind the desk could understand it, a big breach of travel etiquette. They headed straight for the duty-free and bought cases of cheap wine, beer and spirits. They sat, moaning about this and that, talking as if they hadn't just spent a week or more on holiday. It turns out that many of them hadn't. Later I was to discover that many people just travel from Plymouth to Roscoff to Santander to Plymouth as a sort of economy cruise, sometimes not getting off the ferry, and if they do only to make the most of the duty-free. Extraordinary.
On board the ferry, I was at first very impressed. With the exception of my Marmaris-Rhodes disaster, the ferries I have travelled on have got progressively better over the course of the trip, and this completed the journey in style. A couple of good restaurants, bars, and half a shopping mall meant getting bored here would be quite difficult. Some people, however, seemed to manage it. Soon after boarding, there were calls for 'Bingo!', and it was promised by the onboard organiser of 'entertainment' that this would be played in due course. First, however, was the football: Man U vs Barcelona. I found a nice private table from were I could keep an eye on one of the many large flatscreens and my fellow passengers and bought a paper and a magazine to read. I tried to walk downstairs to get some food, and ended up spilling much of it due to the unsteadiness of the floor, so I returned to the football. This of course finished with the British getting angry and the few Spanish crew members jumping up and down in glee. Hooliganism averted, however, the bingo began. I'm no bingo-expert, but the rules seem pretty easy to follow. But by the end, half an hour of listening to random numbers combined with a worsening seasickness, made me feel like I was stumbling drunkenly through a game of NumberWang. I went to bed. Sleep was just out of reach, however, and after about an hour in this state I was alarmed by an awful wailing, as if a mother had lost her child over the side of the ship. But gradually, it settled into something resembling a 1980s ballad and I concluded that it must be one of the onboard entertainers.
The next day was difficult to get through. I couldn't make myself sleep through it, and so I had to endure an aching tiredness and dizziness, not helped by further games of bingo and a second outing for the entertainers in the background. These latter were no better than a mediocre karaoke performer, but might have got through to the second round of X-Factor if they had been young, charismatic and attractive. They were neither young nor charismatic nor attractive.
Thankfully, by mid afternoon the shore of Southern England became visible on the horizon. I walked outside and stood in the sun as the last minutes of my trip slid away.
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