Celebrity Square

My bare arms get me banned from the eclectic marble mayhem of the Basilica
San Marcos in St Mark's Square. It doesn't matter whether or not I'm a
believer, whether or not I've moved mountains to get there, or that we've
been round most churches in Europe in little more than swimming costumes; in
Venice bingo wings cannot be seen in a sacred space. I'm not sure whether to
stamp my feet or congratulate them on their fashion policing. A man in dark
glasses tries to sell me a large aubergine coloured paper napkin to wrap
around my shoulders. I decline, send the family on into the church and
retreat back out to the square, against the flow of the tide. At three o
clock in the afternoon it is still forty degrees, and the queue for the
cathedral is showing as much sign of abating as the queue of pigeons looking
for sweet-corn from the tourists. I step over both, looking for shade to sit
in. There is none. Anyway, I'm not allowed to sit down, as sitting is
prohibited on the grounds that the square is a living work of art. If I sit
down I risk a fine. Art is not all about self expression here. Although if I
wanted to sit in a bar selling a bellini for an overinflated price then that
would be fine; in fact the throng of hovering white jacketed waiters would
be almost pleased to see me.

I am looking at the nuns. A group of them are milling around taking pictures
of themselves against the backdrop of the church. They aren't involved in
the queue for the basilica; perhaps their vocation entitles them to a
fast-track pass of the worlds churches, a kind of ecumenical Disneyland
scheme. The pigeons sense there'll be no snacks forthcoming from ladies in
white dresses and steer clear of them. Then it happens. The only thing I can
compare it to is an eclipse. The sky goes dark, and the birds calm down. The
Italian lap dogs are stiller than ever. For a moment, probably a rare
moment, there is a silence across the square. And then people begin to surge
forward, towards the far end, where the vaporettas dock every few minutes to
disgorge their tourist cargo, lifting the water to very edge of this
historic and internationally celebrated bit of mud swamp.

People are shouting, "look, look" in every language; even the nuns are
sprinting forward with their cameras. I turn back to see what is going on
and the landscape has changed. A celebrity has arrived. A celebrity so
massive it dwarfs everything on the horizon; even a cathedral that has been
dazzling people for hundreds of years, with its ornate columns, Italian
masterpieces and golden mosaics. Stuart has our camera; it seems I am the
only person in the vicinity to see this vision with my own eyes rather than
a lense. The queue for the cathedral has dispersed. More people surge
forward with cameras poised to fill in the darkness left by a
disenfranchised sun. They snap and they flash at the celebrity. And the
visitor snaps and flashes back at this historic monument. This 'living work
of art'; those who've come to worship, to appreciate great Venetian
architecture, or just enjoy an ice cream with a pigeon on their head is
captured in stillness forever.

The Celebrity X cruise ship is five or six stories high, and from this far
away its passengers look like the animated pin people in the movie Titanic.
There are thousands of them; standing outside their bedrooms, on the upper
decks. I imagine them clutching champagne, confetti and Cavalli handbags and
congratulating themselves. They are, after all, on the cruise ship of cruise
ships; so rich and commercially successful that it can dock near the square
and sail right past; as close as you can get, at the peak spot of three o
clock in the afternoon. Celebrity X Cruises strives to give St Mark's
Square what it lacks; some modern glamour; some topical interest, some of
that must have X factor. In one of the most famous squares in the world,
celebrity still counts and money can buy you the best view. And how can a
painting or a fusty old church compete with a cruise liner that can outshine
the sun? Just as the thronging August tourists themselves eat into the
beauty of the square and its buildings, this steel hulk, travelling in the
name of culture and glamour, overshadows the sculptures, masterpieces and
buildings. For a moment it's just them, watching us, watching them. Giotto
is risotto. The cruiser moves on, so slowly you have to pinch yourself that
it is moving at all. But it is. It has other cities to brighten, other photo
calls to attend.

It's all over and people begin to form orderly queues once more. The sun
takes its place back in the sky and people begin to sweat again. On the
Grand Canal the gondoliers get to work. My kids run out of the church to
tell me that anything good to see in Venice comes with an extra charge. Not
quite everything, I reply. Everyone in this square has just taken home a
picture, a living work of art, containing a real life celebrity, for free.

Party time in Venice

Water laps onto stone. The haze of dawn and the morning mist combine on the lagoon, casting blue light over the skyline as it wakes. I have fallen in love with this city, with its early morning waterways, intense alleys and deserted passages. I have one hour to explore it alone. The tourists, and my children have yet to start the day.

I wander along a wide canal, a slight wind against my face, brushing away beads of sweat. A ferry chugs by, pressing commuters against each other like the London Underground in a heatwave. A baggage boat follows, carrying a range of international luggage bound for who knows where? I walk over a bridge, feeling the muscles in my legs, as a water taxi driver polishes the walnut veneer of his prized vehicle with a leather cloth. To the Basilica Santa Maria, where last night we watched as a ballroom dancing club claimed the sacred space by tangoing on the steps. This morning two American women spread out yoga mats and bitch about absent Venetian husbands.  

It may have been an unusual choice to finish a cycle tour in a place where bikes are banned, but what more iconic place is there than Venice? Right now, on a wide stone step, with a take away latte macchiato, and the view of St Mark's forming a the backdrop, this is my celebration.

 

Our arrival was less clear cut, and rather less celebratory. We disembarked from the ferry into rush hour hell. A giant car park, leading to an enormous bus terminal. A dead end, flooded with tourists, street cleaners, coach drivers, police. Gay men parading like peacocks at the start of their night out. Stripy gondoliers hanging out in the sunshine waiting for the next set of honeymooners to step onto their curved black vehicles and take a ride to paradise for a fistful of euros. Our bikes looked strange, as though we'd stumbled onto a film set with the wrong props. So we rode, four kilometres down a narrow cycle path on an endless bridge into Venetian suburbia, where we had booked a hotel for the night. As lorries thundered past along with the night train to Paris, we kept our eyes on the cranes at the end of the lagoon, to our destination; the town of Mestrae. But as the bridge dumped its cars and coaches onto new carriageways, the cycle path ended abruptly, leaving us stranded on the wrong side of the road, with a motorway in between us and our hotel. There was only one thing for it. To cycle back in to Venice, in the dusk, turn around at the bus station, and cycle back out again, in the dark.

We had made it to Venice. But not really. We were here, then not here, then here again, then not. It would be a good few hours before we would get onto the water, and celebrate our arrival.    

 

 

 

D&G vs Tescos; battle of the shades

Each time I jumped the handlebars wobbled causing us to weave a more dangerous path along the tarmac strip of land that passed as a two lane road. I wanted to keep us in as straight line, make our movements as predictable as possible to passing traffic. Twitching was dangerous and my stoker sensed it too.

"Dad, what are you doing?" Cameron shouted at me nervously as another car honked and we veered towards it as it rushed to overtake. "Why do they keep honking?" It's not something we'd experienced much of until the last couple of days but as we approached Chioggia hoping to catch ferries to the southern Venetian islands to reach Venice by the back door, it seemed everyone was hooting. I'd like to think it was a gesture of support, saying 'well done for getting so far', applauding our 'beautiful family' and our commitment to human powered travel, and certainly the waves, stares and photographers hanging out windows suggested friendly intent. But more prosaically most were just honking 'Watch out, we're coming past.' Close. And very fast.  If the volume of honks showed support, the speed and passing distances revealed a fundamental lack of respect for cyclists.

It wasn't quite the romantic approach to Venice I had imagined.  There was nothing on the map to suggest a minor backroad across the lagoon towards Chiogga would be a death trap for cyclists. But then I knew nothing of the volumes of traffic drawn to the Veneto Lagoon, to Venice itself and to the strip of umbrellas, loungers, bars and campsites that choke the Adriatic near Venice.

For days we'd been wondering why the Northern Italians towns and cities we'd been passing through were so empty but arriving in Sottomarina it all became clear; Italians love tacky, parcelled up, all inclusive seaside resorts.  After dicing with death for an afternoon we spent the night on a small sandy pitch at a 3* campsite, advertising its own private 20m stretch of access to the Adriatic.  "You get free use of a beach umbrella" the lady explained as we checked in at 9pm, in the dark at a cost of 50 euro.  We also got free access to the Barbie Doll disco which began at 10.30pm and kept the camp kids entertained opposite our tent into the early hours with special karaoke Italian versions of Black Lace, Cotton Eyed Joe and the Hoky Coky.  We arrived glad to be alive but the feeling was soon waning.  

A new day brought more tough choices, the lady at the campsite casting doubt on our plan to take tandems and trailers on the ferries to Pellestrina, Lido and onto Venice. "They are small boats," she explained shrugging her shoulders, "Maybe but maybe not. You will have to see."  The shrug of the shoulders cast doubt deep into my psyche. What if we couldn't get on the ferry, or worse if we got on the first and second ferries but were refused the third and had to ride all the way back. Should we retrace our steps on the yesterday's road from hell? Or try and negotiate a private boat crossing direct to Venice? Or ring the man with a van who's due to pick up our bikes and take them home and completely reorganise our rendezvous? With a weeks worth of hotels and travel arrangements all made in advance now was not the time for this kind of uncertainty.

It's easy in these moments to take the easy out but somehow it's not in our nature. At some level I think we relish the greater sense of adventure that comes when you pursue the more uncertain course. We cycled through Chiogga like bubbles in a bottle of aqua frizzante, rushing to escape the chaos and catch the ferry, dodging café tables, market stalls, pedestrians, mopeds, cars, buses and vans all weaving around trying to avoid each other and get somewhere very important. We arrived at the ferry terminal in a sweat. As Kirstie approached the ferry hand started to wave her through.  Until he saw the trailer. Then he shook his head. By the time he caught sight of the second tandem his hand was already raised to a firm STOP gesture. He shrugged his shoulders "You will have to ask the captain." I tried to read his eyes to see what the likelihood was but all I could through his dark Dolce and Gabanna shades was my own anxious reflection.

The captain arrived. More D&G shades, clean shaven with a crew cut, his immaculately pressed short sleeved shirt showing off strong bronzed arms, a picture of Italian style. I wondered how I might persuade him, me unshaven, dressed in my dirty black shorts and t-shirt, with tangled hair overgrown after six weeks on the road, trying to look cool in my 4 euro Tesco mirror shades. There was no point trying. This one was in the lap of the Gods.  He looked us up and down, surveyed the load   and took pity on us in a cool and business like fashion.  And so the door opened to Venice.

The ride along Pellestrina and Lido was picture perfect with little traffic, on quiet roads through sleepy Veneto villages.  No more nightmare, the approach to Venice finally took on the dream like quality it had always had in the naiveity of my mind. Riding abreast we pedalled along as a family with the Adriatic on one side and the famous lagoon on the other. There cannot be a more picturesque and perfect way to approach Venice. We peered across the deep blue waters to the carless pedestrian paradise of Venice, imagining the personal glory of our final arrival after 44 days pedalling 1900km across Europe. As we hopped across to Lido and to the final ferry terminal for Venice we slowly realised it was all going to work out.  Our journey would end as it had begun, amongst the canals of a great European City. From Amsterdam to Venice by bike; two tandems, two trailers, two adults, three kids and a dolly. This family had crossed Europe by bike.

It's not real, it's just a dolly

When we're on the road, our little band of five can seem less like a family and more like a travelling kindergarten or zoo. Sometimes I lose track of who I've got with me at any one time. Still, on the plus side, my ability to uproot my family and take them with me on cycle tours seems to be an aphrodisiac to Italian men in lycra, who quite often screech to a halt at eighty miles an hour to chat, whistle, clap or look longingly at me with an eye to marriage. Have they never seen a woman pedal all her children over the Alps before? But then I remember. Women don't cycle in Italy. It would mess up their hair.

But the latest promotion of Hannah's dolly from the trailer to the back of the bike has been a bit of a passion killer. Somewhere before Bassano Del Grappa, Cameron spotted a very small baby seat abandoned by the side of the road. Just right for Hannah's treasured dolly, 'Baby Findley.' It was quickly cleaned up and attached, and Baby Findley was strapped in. Now we look like two adults and four children travelling together, which wouldn't be so bad if Baby Findley was a rag doll or a teen Barbie look-alike with breasts and hips. Instead he looks like a newborn. And I have become Myra Hindley. 

Since the acquisition of the baby seat, it goes like this. Stuart cycles past and men nod with respect. A guy and two kids, off cycle touring. Great. And wow, a tent; guy camping with kids, Bravo. Then they see me and fall in love. Strong woman with eight year old boy cycling companion, and cute little bambini in the buggy. Wonderful, wonderful. But then their eye is drawn to the baby seat. Newborn tot strapped haphazardly onto luggage, and lolling listlessly in forty degrees of midday sun. Not heroic, but criminal. "It's not real, it's just a dolly," I want to shout, but it's too late, they've passed, without the look of love in their eyes. The next vision of testosterone and lycra is fast approaching and I can't reach the baby to stuff it into a pannier as it would unbalance the whole bike. A few days ago Baby Findley's head fell off and that's the best I can hope for as another Italian stud approaches. Yesterday as we cycled into Padova even the nuns were giving me the evil eye.

And if this weren't bad enough, Matthew has decided I really need a Chihuahua to improve my street cred. He is lobbying Stuart to buy one for my birthday. "You could fit it in a barbag and sneak it into hotels at night, they'd never notice," he pleads. No way. Getting a family room in a hotel for five is hard enough as it is. Tourist information has been known to shut up shop when they see us coming. And that was without dolly or dog. We have a routine with hotels. I go in first, with Cameron, who is briefed to look cute and say nothing. I tell them we have two children, and also a baby, and could we all share three or four beds in a family room? Quite often they agree, particularly if they see the bikes or its raining, and they show me the room. By the time I have the key it's too late for the owner to backtrack when a strapping three year old 'baby' jumps out of the buggy demanding to know whether there is a TV in her room as she hasn't seen an episode of Mr Bean for days. But now Baby Findley has scuppered any chances of this system working, as they catch sight of him first, assume he is the baby, and want to know why we are trying to cram six people into three single beds.

From now on, we'll have to go back to camping, where it didn't matter how many people, dogs, animals or dollies we crammed into the tent. And I'm not having a dog for my birthday and that's final. Although if it would fit into my bar bag….    

The waiting game

The café on the square looks closed, the tables outside empty, but the door is open. It's an improvement on the other two bars in Cartigliano whose doors are firmly locked for siesta. Where do Italians go for a lunchtime drink or snack?

The kids pile in noisily and head straight for the euro ball machine and I make for the counter. We're gasping for a drink after a hot morning's ride out of Bassano. The Veneto may be easy riding but there's no escaping the heat with little shade between villages on the open plains.

The café is empty except for a silvery haired man behind the counter tidying a display of cigarettes, his brown, wrinkly hands precisely lining up the edges of the packets like a local sculptor might attend to the finer points of his latest cherub statue. I stand at the counter and wait for some kind of acknowledgement, internally practicing my order in Italian over and over, "Vorrei due café per favoure… Vorrei due café.." I feel invisible as he finishes arranging the Marlboro's and turns to wash the only dirty glass.

Two young men enter the bar, visions of Italian soccer blue. They lean on the counter and fix eyes on Sky Sports on the TV above the bar. It's Saturday, the football's on and they seem content to watch and wait for service. The old barista polishes the glass, places it on the rack above his head, takes down another smaller glass and places it on a doily he's already put down on the counter.

An elderly man arrives, his stick clattering along the polished floor. He makes straight for the newspaper rack, carefully unfolding the day's news and laying it out on the counter. He says something to the barista who turns, picks up an espresso cup and without a word shuffles towards the coffee machine and places it under the nozzle.  Is this how you get service?

Two more men arrive, looking hot from a morning labouring in the fields. They pull up a stool, take lottery tickets and pens from the counter and start to mark their lucky numbers. The barista patiently works to separate two conjoined ice cubes and persuade just one into the small glass on the counter. He chases the ice round and round the ice bucket with a spoon. I am transfixed by his actions and my internal mantra.  "Vorrei cinco limonota y due café per favore. Vorrei Cinco limonota y due café per favour…" but there's no point saying it out loud yet. He's not ready to hear me. He doesn't even know I'm here. The ice cubes separate and one slides into the glass. The other is carefully returned to the ice bucket. For later.

A young boy arrives and makes for the food cabinet, distracting me for a moment as he looks over the stale looking panninis, toast and pizza.  Now I feel hungry.  "Vorray cinco limonota y due café y uno pannini y uno pizza per favore…"  The coffee machine dispenses its shot of espresso into the waiting cup. The old man reaches into the fridge, extracts a bottle of mineral water and drowns the single ice cube. He fetches the espresso and places it on the counter next to the bar then drags a stool over to the bar. He looks like he's finishing up and I psych myself up to order. Think like an Italian, talk like an Italian, I tell myself.

The barista pulls up his stool and glances across at me. I open my mouth and he sits down. He picks up the little coffee cup, sips at it and smiles. He sloshes the water around the melting ice cube and sips at that too, placing the glass down carefully on the mat on the bar. He looks up and down the counter surveying the growing queue of customers interrupting his siesta and nods as if to ask, 'Who's first?'

Little Italy

A man drove up to Trento's main Piazza in his tiny car. Not a Smart car, but a tiny shiny red vehicle, just room for one. He nodded at a creamy skinned Italian girl in a café and she nodded back. After a moment she reappeared in the Piazza, carefully carrying a cup and saucer as slender as her body. He took it from her, and drank the tiny espresso in second without leaving his tiny car. They exchanged a few cents and he drove off. It was a brief moment in a colourfully faded city, but Matthew loved it. It reminded him of an episode of Top Gear where Jeremy Clarkson drove around his office in the smallest car in the world. "I think this one was smaller, shall I write to Top Gear?" We strolled back to our hotel in the morning sunshine, wondering how you buy such a car.

In the main Piazza, opposite our hotel, stood another creamy coloured apparition. It was early so the main doors of the cathedral were still closed. But in the corner we found a narrow door which Hannah might have called a fairy entrance. It was open; its' cool darkness inviting us away from temperatures already in the mid 30's. We crept in, straight onto the altar where five priests were saying mass, to a congregation of four. Perhaps they thought Matthew was a choirboy. Anyway, they said nothing, barely registering our presence. Perhaps people stumble in through that tiny door all the time. We did a U turn, back out into the blistering heat.

Stuart and the kids were having breakfast when we reached the hotel. "Look Mum, teeny rolls," said Hannah, trying to break open a small but perfectly formed piece of bread. And there were teeny croissants to go with them, along with a teeny weeny espresso for me, which I drank in one sip. We ate the rolls, and then examined the basket of cellophane wrapped goodies that also appeared. Titchy but perfectly formed pieces of toast, like miniature copies; little chocolate filled croissants and individual wafers. All the excesses and big coffees of Germany were now well behind us. We now had both feet firmly in Italy, where everything seems small but perfectly formed.

We looked at our map, and realised that our days of downhill riding were about to end. We had a mountain to go over to switch valleys and continue our journey along the Via Claudia. And time was ticking by. It was eleven before we got our act together and left the hotel. We bought some baguettes; little thin ones that the baker cut to fit into a small paper bag, and checked with tourist information that our only option was to leave the city via a steep cycle path. And so we set out in the midday heat, pedalling straight uphill. We managed a hundred metres of vertical climb, often getting off to push the bikes. Italian hills were anything but tiny. We collapsed outside a café in the village of Cognola. The woman was mopping the floor, but said she'd let us have ice creams before she closed for the afternoon. The shop next door let us buy some pizza slices before they too closed until four o' clock. We sat outside two closed café's as the shop owners wound in their shutters and awnings, leaving us burning in heat that was registering 44 degrees. "I don't believe it. The Italians have a siesta. Everything closes in the afternoon," said Stuart despondently. "They have their tiny rolls and tiny coffee and then do a tiny bit of work before shutting up shop for most of the day. Leaving us stuck on one of their bloody great big hills all day. Powered by the smallest bread roll known to man."  

We pushed on, stopping outside a bus shelter when Cameron started showing signs of heat exhaustion. It was only ten kilometres to a lake warmed by natural thermals, but at this rate it would take the rest of the day. He swapped with Hannah and continued in the buggy, shooting himself with a water pistol to put an end to his misery.

Lago Di Caldonazza was huge. And warm, and choppy. We were all in it like a shot. This was no tiny swim. We stayed forever.

The Fashionista

It's ten days since we left behind half of all our clothes in the wash-o-mat in Augsburg and no-one seems to have noticed, well at least amongst the family. We adapted worryingly easily to wearing the same outfit day after day, washing it where we can, drying it in the sun and thanking our lucky stars that we were mostly left with black. But I sense things changing now we are firmly in Italy.

It took a while to realise we were in Italy for while the border was obvious this time nothing much changed when we crossed it. Despite 90 years as part of Italy (having been 'given' to the Italians after the 1st World War) the Italian South Tyrol remains very Austrian in character; most people speak German, serve wurst and strudel and live in Tyrolean style villages. Cultures are not easily changed from the outside; you don't become Italian just because someone tells you you are, changes your name, rechristens your village or makes you learn the language. But this part of Italy's fascist history is a diversion from the fashionistas who are troubling me more.  You see after only a few days here I am feeling pressure from elegant Italians to clean up our shabbily dressed family.

The first thing you notice as you accelerate down the Val Venosta towards Merano, Bolsano and Trento is the apples.  In fact it's almost the only thing to notice.  I've never seen so many fresh red, green and yellow apples, hanging by the dozen from thousands of rows of trees. Millions of fruits ripening in the sun in orchards that stretch for 100km or more, down and across the entire valley.  A giant apple factory serviced by little blue, green and red orchard tractors, trundling up and down the rows, lifting and moving enormous green plastic crates to carry the fruit down the valley to giant fruit processing plants.  There must be something about the soil here that is particularly good for apples. And the water, fed by pipe and pump to a network of spray heads stretching right across the valley, many of which cast an inviting spray across the cycle path.

It was the spray that first brought my attention to the fashionista. In the sweltering heat the irrigation sprays are so enticing, chattering around and around, casting fine mist into the air and pummelling water jets across our path. It's a refreshing game cycling along, adjusting your speed to try and ride through the mist but avoid the full force of the jets.  Although we seemed to be the only ones playing it. While we merrily rode in and out of the sprinklers the Italian riders seemed more cautious. At first I thought it was vanity for compared to Holland and Germany where cycle fashion was eclectic, the Italian riders all look so neat and tidy. There's more of a cyclists uniform here, less tourers, more sports riders, mountain bikers and racers and all spotlessly clean in pristeen lycra bibs and tight shorts, little white socks, shiny helmets, clip in shoes and mirror shades. Just looking at them makes me feel dirty as they shoot past in packs of two, three, four or five, looking so cool, feeling so cool they obviously don't need cooling down.  Staying so cool means avoiding the sprays, timing your run so the spray can't touch you because nothing can touch you when you look like that.

We arrive at a camping café after a particularly good dousing and stop for coffee. We're happy and high, soaked from head to toe, our gear dripping and notice the washing we'd hung out on the bikes to dry (for we'll never trust a launderette again) is not just wet but spotted too. Sitting down over coffee I read up about the valley and the irrigations systems, about how committed they are to water conservation and recycling  and of how it is common to recycle grey water from septic systems for irrigation. Slowly the truth dawns on us. There are perhaps reasons other than fashion for avoiding the sprinklers. At least we kept our mouths closed. No wonder people stare, not only do we look rather unfashionable and unkempt cycling along on our loaded bikes in our single set of dirty black, unironed clothes, we also choose to bathe in shit water. We have a thing or two to learn from the Italians yet. We are going to need to clean up our act.