Day 11. Munich to Rome.
Time to leave The Tent. I’ve really enjoyed my stay. When booking it was a gamble. The prospect of one hundred humans, notoriously filthy and disgusting creatures, sharing sleeping space in a giant gazebo didn’t exactly sound tranquil but the concept really works. The communal atmosphere creates a sense of social collectiveness amongst the travellers who stay here. It’s how I imagine living on a hippy commune would be like, man. As I bed everyone farewell Medji asks to add me on Facebook. He suggests that we play chess online.
“Yeah sure”
I look forward to being tactically humiliated in cyberspace in the near future.
Time for a swift one (litre) before I leave. The Hofbraühaus is the drunkards Mecca. A giant Bavarian beer hall where you sit on long wooden benches to be waited on by no nonsense women clad in traditional liederhosen. The beer comes in heavy steins. It’s strong. I take a seat at a boozy pew and wait patiently to be served. This doesn’t work. I observe that to the rowdiest clientele are the ones getting the attention and there are plenty of rowdies despite it being the middle of a weekday afternoon. I flag down a waitress who brings me a frothy Weissebeer. The brass band pump out a jovial tune that I find myself involuntarily bobbing along with between sips. A woman walks past with a basket of large pretzels. This is how drinking should be done. Apparently Mozart came here to ignite his creative flair before writing the opera Idomenao. He was inspired during numerous steamy sessions on the sauce in this grand hall of piss-artistry. Never mind composing a classical masterpiece, I’ll be impressed if I manage to navigate my way to the airport after a skinful in here.
Munich Airport: As I sit, slightly tipsy, in the departure lounge I take a moment to appreciate my time in Germany. I think fondly of the boozing. Germans drink admirably. The beer is expertly brewed and delicious. You drink because the beer is so palatable. You don’t drink just to get wasted. Getting hammered is just a merry consequence of appreciating the exceptional lager. You don’t chug Weissebeer. You sup. You savour. You appreciate. You relish the flavour. It isn’t fraternal binge drinking. It’s collective appraisal. You’re a connoisseur. You will over indulge. Of course. And you’ll wake up with a Weisse hangover. But it’s worth it. It’s like when you wake up with sore muscles after a strenuous workout in the gym. Your body is aching now but it was beneficial. In the way exercise is good for your body a session in the Hofbruhaus is good for your soul. I’ll drink to that.
My flight to Rome is delayed. Due to the size of my bag, which is way over the cabin allowance, I’ve had to put on a thick leather jack as well as two t-shirts and trousers over my shorts. I’m also carrying three books, two diaries and an iPad. The pockets of my jacket are loaded with miniature toiletries, note pads, pens, a pocket chess set and tea bags. I look like an overdressed psychopath trying to smuggle items that aren’t actually illegal. An Italian couple argue loudly in the departure lounge. Thanks to an old colleague from Florence the limited Italian that I know is vulgar. I know what Vaffanculo means. It means fuck you. The woman shouts Vaffanculo. A lot.
Rome: Hostel Two Ducks is a stark reminder that, up until now, I’ve been very lucky with accommodation. If I were being polite I’d call it aged. If I were being accurate, which I am, I’d call it grotty. It’s located on the fifth floor of a crumbling apartment block on a dark backstreet in the dodgiest section of an already sinister looking part of town. I ascend to the top of the building in a jerky wooden lift which looks like it hasn’t been maintainence checked since it was installed sometime during the early reign of Mussolini. If Doctor Who fell on hard times this is the splintery replacement Tardis he would use. It’s antique. The cables strain and squeak as the box of death heaves up the elevator shaft. With every jerk I’m expecting the faltering cables to snap plummeting me to my doom Wile E Coyote style.
Survive the elevator of terror and meet a bored looking Indian chap at the check in desk who is totally uninterested in my arrival. The booking system is as antiquated as everything else in the desolate building. He blows the dust off of an old diary and checks for my name. I feel like I’m intruding as he begrudgingly leads me to dark room with four bunk beds pushed against the walls. The light remains off as my surly chaperone points to the top bunk closest to the door.
“You…here” he mumbles before wandering off.
I’m left standing in the dark, still sweating in my jacket, holding my bag feeling totally confused. Is he coming back? He’s gone for a good ten minutes before returning with a set of keys which he jangles in my face. He explains which one opens which door but they seem rather superfluous as I’ve just waltzed through every single one of the doors myself and none of them were locked including the main entrance.
I’m famished and sprint to the nearest pizzeria I can find. In a starved panic I point to a margarita and ask for lots. I get two big rectangles which are very cheesy and extremely greasy. I practically inhale them. It’s midnight by the time I return to the cauldron of a bedroom. Eight perspiring bodies roasting in the Mediterranean heat are comforted with with nothing more than two weak portable office fans. They distribute a breeze across the room agonisingly slowly. Every thirty seconds I get a soothing blast of cool air which lasts nowhere near long enough to reduce my body temperature. Lucky I’m so tired that none of the adverse conditions prevent me from drifting off into a sweaty slumber.
Day 12. Rome.
I don’t usually go to church but when in Rome….
On the way to the Vatican I pick up my first souvenir, a bottle opener featuring Pope Francis smiling benevolently. Future drinking sessions shall now commence with the divine blessing of the pontiff as his guiding hand assists with the removal of the cap of a freshly chilled beer. I’m no theologian but I’m certain that this negates whatever mortal or carnal sins I commit while under the influence. Amen
As an Englishman I should get giddy at the prospect of a long and orderly queue. The Vatican museum doesn’t disappoint but, rather fittingly, it requires the patience of a saint. I’m convinced that it’s an intentional test of virtue and commitment. The queue is long. Obviously. But a number of external irritants make it particularly unbearable. Self titled “tour guides” are indiscriminate in who they badger. They offer lucrative holy site packages which include queue jump. To me, it doesn’t seem particularly ascetic exchanging money to enter a Holy site at the expense of others in the line who will now have to wait longer due to your financed pushing in. There’s no point preaching ethics to the hawkers because they’re too busy verbally discharging whatever tosh they think will trick gullible tourists into handing over some dosh. I adopt a tactic of stoicism by putting on a stony poker face and ignoring whoever approaches. It works. For about fifty seconds. They are relentlessly persistent and I end up humouring a gentleman called Ali who identifies us as “brothers” and is willing to offer me his super-duper guided tour for the low, low price he usually reserves for children. It’s still more expensive than all the money I have in my pocket. His attempts to entice me backfire when he promises “three hour non-stop talking guide”. I’m already fed up of listening to his pleading voice after five minutes. Paying for three hours of this acoustic torture would be nothing less than perverse ear sodomy. It’s a polite no from me. Followed by a less polite no. Then an abrupt no. Finally he gets the message. He moves on to the person behind me. I end up hearing the same desperate script, verbatim, twice more. Then one more time, in Spanish. When the group of Californian girls ahead of me in the queue are confronted by Ali, who enquires:
“you speak English…French…Spanish?”
one of the girls, without a drip of sarcasm, replies,
“No, we don’t speak any of those”.
He smirks and begins his spiel.
After two hours in the queue of temptation (the temptation to strangle someone that is) I make it to the museum which is a sensational spectacle of ancient sculpture and fine art. But there is one one monumental problem; the visitors inside. Now I realise that I am a tourist myself. It’s not the presence of large numbers of people that I’m objecting to. It’s the lamentable behaviour I witness which is appallingly inconsiderate. I’m pushed, shoved and poked. People block passages by stopping to fiddle with their oversized cameras. Kids scream. They’re bored, obviously. I get hit in the face by blasted selfies sticks so many times that I don’t know how I don’t end up ramming one so far somebodies backside that their next Instagram post is a photo of the inside of their own colon. I really do hope that their actually is a God and he casts every single person who has ever used one of these narcissism poles into the fiery pits of hell where Satan subjects them to an endless slideshow of every selfie ever taken for enternity while their eyes are clamped open like the reconditioning scene from A Clockwork Orange.
Eventually I reach centrepiece of the museum: The Sistine Chapel. So was it worth it? Battling through the army of audio guide zombies to get here?
Honestly?
Yes.
While gazing up in awe into Michelangelo’s heaven the infuriating crowd swarming around me evaporate from consciousnesses. I’m not religiously inclined but I find it impossible not to be moved by a demonstration of such meticulous skill and immense ethereal beauty. I spent what feels like hours engrossed in celestial appreciation before my neck starts to ache and I’m forced to plunge my awareness back to temporality where I find myself squashed in the middle of a group of French tourists who desperately try to take photos on their phones while an angry guard screams
“NO PHOTO”.
He’s completely ignored. I fight my way out of God’s paradise into the scorching heat of hell outside. Rome, in the height of summer, is extremely hot. St Peter’s square feels like a giant frying pan. There’s no shade yet still I find more people selling selfie sticks than bottles of water. Says all you need to know about human egotism if you ask me. Jesus wouldn’t approve.
Esteban
Esteban 