Italia

I recently got back from a little trip away to Rome, courtesy of my lovely girlfriend! It’s a pretty awesome place and very different to anywhere I’ve been before so it was great to be educated in the Italian ways of life. Below are a few things that I learnt whilst we were there.

Green man doesn’t mean go

The roads in Rome are really rather wide and the stereotype of Italians driving fast exists for a reason! Couple this with the first-day-of-the-holiday confusion of which way to look when crossing and you have a nasty game of chicken on your hands. Despite the fact that mopeds are seen in this country as a slow and cheap means of getting around (for pre-driving aged boys who want to impress the girls at school) they’re pretty fast off the line at the traffic lights, so beware! Another fun added extra is that even when it's a green man cars turning right at the junction still do so. Mamma mia.

Scooters: the enemy

Beggars are annoying

If you think we’ve got it bad here in Britain, go to Rome. Everywhere you go there are beggars and street sellers trying to flog you the kind of crap that not even charity shops would accept. For example; mini camera tripods (which are highly unlikely to even fit your camera anyway), flubber stuff which splats then reforms (just why?), bubble guns which make the most irritating ‘gun’ sounds; I could go on. This last item became quite ominous on day three as we were sitting in a square enjoying the sun and double figure temperatures (oh how I’ve missed you), and the crazy guy who was selling said bubble guns occasionally materialized out of the shadows, the only sign of his coming being the “n n n n n n” of the gun. I pray that he never gets his hands on a more dangerous weapon – he looked fairly psychotic.

The Italians are still riding the wave of good architecture.

Roma Termini: come on guys, where's the effort?

Rome is renowned for some amazing buildings and some incredible artwork, often combined, like in the Sistine Chapel or Saint Peter’s Basilica. We went to see both of these, and Emily even got a sneaky picture (naughty naughty!). They were breathtaking to look at and awe inspiring to imagine the work taken to complete. However, I feel that their modern architecture leaves a little to be desired. We got the train from the airport and arrived at Rome Termini which is the most hideous station I’ve ever seen!

The Sistine Chapel: jolly good stuff

Italian fashion is… different?

In our guidebook it said that it was “…important to take a nice outfit as Italians dress very well”. Which Italians? Maybe it was because we were hitting the mega tourist venues but at times it felt like we had wandered onto a crime scene investigation site or into a cellophane factory the amount of plastic puffer jackets we were surrounded by. I thought Ugg boots were bad but at least you’re not susceptible to getting a static shock off someone wearing them.

'Get the Italian look!'

Oh and just to finish, the Italian language is the best language. It's so fun to try and talk even if you're hopelessly bad like I am! Also, their ice cream is to die for darling.

Melt in your mouth goodness

Gone but never forgotten

They say that decisive moments in your life play out in slow motion. Today I had one of those moments.

I was out on my bike (predictable) an hour from home and three hours into my ride when I reached for the final flapjack (homemade I must add; my first rather poor effort). After rummaging around for a bit to find it amid the spare bottles and wrappers, I dug it out and stuck it in my gob. I was going up a climb so decided that I best get out the saddle in order to make it to the top as my speed was dropping to a pathetic amble by this point. As I stood up on the pedals I hit a few bumps in the road and to my horror as I did so the flapjack slowly tumbled, in a flurry of oat-y, sugary deliciousness, to the ground.

I must re-iterate the facts now: this was my last piece of food in the whole wide world at this point in time. For a non-cyclist this might be hard to fully understand but when you’re out training alone with no money (really stupid move by the way but something I always do) and you run out of food it becomes a matter of survival. Even seasoned riders never really know when their legs might crack and say; “No thank you, I’ve done all I want to. You can make your own way from here”. That is the biggest fear of every rider.

You can better imagine my torrent of emotions now. Within two seconds of dropping my snack, I was slowing to a stop, wistfully imagining doing a U-turn and sweeping up the tasty morsel safe in my arms, then riding off into the sunset. This hope was promptly crushed, metaphorically and physically, by the Vauxhall Astra who had been driving behind me. I rolled to a stop and had a little moment to myself; I’m not ashamed to say shedding a tear, not just for the flapjack but for myself too. How was I going to make it home?

Anyway I regained control of myself, erected a tasteful cross on the side of the road in loving memory and carried on my way. This account is proof that thankfully I did in fact make it home alive.

More or less what my memorial looked like.

 Another teary tantrum occurred at the tender age of fifteen when I was desperate to get out on my bike before it got dark but I kept pinching the inner tube and getting blowouts. Three inner tubes later and I was a blubbering mess. I’m slightly less of an emotional wreck now, or at least I get most of it out on the bike, but good God don’t make me watch Schindler’s List.

Schindler's List - too emotional.