Despite the fact I fucking love travel and it’s when I feel the most alive there are many moments the week before a trip like this I ask myself WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? The lead up was a week of constant grind; packing, sorting, cleaning and organising threaded through normal work and domestic stuff along with Hugo and Bear’s birthdays and the celebrations that go along with that. I love big projects, one woman shows, writing books, The Love Party etc and I know this is part of the project. When you find yourself saying WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING? you know you’re almost there.
Skiing is a perfect example of it. You’re up early, packed and have locked up the house. You get up the mountain which involves hours and an often chains, insane weather, traffic jams, car sickness, navigation rage and frayed nerves. You are then finally at ‘the snow’ which is the closest thing to being on the moon. You trudge to the ski gear hire place scratchy eyed, dry mouthed and in a room that smells of damp and foot odour you are fitted out with heavy cumbersome boots you lug back through the snow to where you are staying, balancing skis and poles over your shoulder and carrying what feels like 15 kilo boots in the other hand with the straps cutting into your fingers. After mashing the accoutrements/weapons/mobility aids into the locker and then wrestling yourself and sometimes children into layers of ski gear you then gather your stocks, skis, gloves, hats, lift passes, phone, goggles and money and finally jam and lock your feet and ankles into heavy boots with steel mouse traps on the soles. It’s at that point I am always huffing and puffing as I stand up facing the snow outside and feel sweat pouring down my back and I haven’t even hit the snow.
My self talk response to WHAT THE FUCK AM I THINKING? is looking around and seeing all the others who have endured the massive ordeal today, over history and to look around at the huge amount of infrastructure built for this ‘fun’ activity. I activate all my amazing memories of skiing and reassure myself no, I am not making them up. Ovary up, push forward and soldier on. And of course, it’s brilliant. After I have reached the Got My Money’s Worth moment the rest of the time I think about what a doddle it all is, wonder why more people don’t do it and start planning the next adventures.
Planning a one month trip involving five countries, ten destinations and 11 people is a little like spinning plates and herding cats while fucking a spider. You circle in from up high, decide to do it, pick the departure and arrival date, book the return ticket tossing up cost with ridiculous departure times, horrifying lay overs, and long flight times. You then slowly fill out the detail until you have flights, transport, accommodation, travel insurance, packing list, house and animals sorted, work on hold and ‘oh shit we probably should sort international drivers licences and FUCK are all our passports valid and JESUS I haven’t even checked if we need visas or not.’
I am an experienced traveller and chaos wrangler so I know not everything will go to plan. Ever. You’ll have good days, shit days, brilliant days and days where the wheels completely fall off and other days when magical things happen. Then there are the mercurial days when the mood flips on the head of a pin. A shit day comes good and an amazing day curdles. The more people involved and the longer the trip the more variables involved. Perhaps that’s why it makes me feel so alive. You can only manage and predict so much. Occasionally trips are shit. Very occasionally the whole trip is a total write off. I have been a very lucky traveller That’s why when I am at that WHAT THE FUCK AM I THINKING? place I remember the ‘I’ve got my money’s worth’ point. That’s the point when everything else is a bonus.
So we all arrived in Rome on Saturday night at 9.30pm. By 1.30pm Sunday I’d reached the I’ve Got My Money’s Worth. By 6pm Sunday I’d decided it was the best travel day of my life.
The motivation behind the trip I’ll explain later but the boys dad Marz picked us all up from the airport in a black Beyonce’s entourage van and after a drink and some antipasto with Marz and his lovely partner in their Airbnb Bear and I were installed in our little apartment over the road. I don’t know what the area was called but we were on Via Guiseppe Ferrari. Despite thinking as we were leaving for the airport from home at 1.30am that a 5am flight was one of my most bananas ideas it was indeed a flash of genius. We hit the sack, slept for 8 hours and woke rip roaring and ready to tear Rome a new one.
Coffee. We started to wander and we weren’t seeing anything I was crazy about but the more we walked the more we were gagging for it. I have a travel rule; never eat anywhere more than once and make every meal count. Bear points to a place with plastic chairs out the front, a bain marie inside and a drinks fridge behind the counter. ‘Here looks good’ to which I responded ‘No fucking way’. We got a whiff of wifi and found a few places nearby, one that had been named one of the top coffee bars in Rome. Sciascia Caffè. I used my patchy Italian to order coffee and a couple of toasted ham and cheese paninis. We absorbed our breakfast as the Romans wafted in and out and then we wandered the empty streets. I have been to Rome before but had forgotten or not realised how beautiful it is. I find the Italian soft air and soft light intoxicating. Rome has a smell too. I can’t describe it. History, coffee and cleaning products.
We wandered for hours through the relatively empty streets and down along the river inhaling the place. The weather was perfect. There was a marathon being run so there were there heaps of hot cops about. Also a LOT of hot young priests. At one stage a well dressed middle aged guy started yelling out of a moving car asking us if we knew where a florist was. He pulled up and we told him we weren’t Italian. He then regaled us with his terrible morning it was his wedding anniversary and his wife (she’s Tasmanian) cried because he hadn’t bought her flowers and the florist near the hotel wouldn’t take American Express and there was a marathon being run so he couldn’t get anywhere because the streets had been blocked off…
He said he was like a manager for Ferrari or something and asked if we had any cash on us. Keep in mind this guy was super well dressed and driving a fairly expensive car. ‘No Euros’ I said ‘just Australian dollars’. ‘Can you give me a hundred? I can go back to the florist she’ll take any cash and if you do I’ll give you this gift.’ He reached onto his passenger side and said ‘You can have this, but you have to promise not to sell it.’ In the padded box was a Ferrari watch, wallet, pen and torch. I had already decided to give the guy my last Australian $50 before he handed over the Ferrari gift box. He sped off telling us we were super nice. We laughed and laughed. There is NO chance this was a rort. Who would come up with such a far fetched scam where they drove up to strangers, asked for foreign currency and then gave them a Ferrari gift box with the word Fancy in gilded letters on the lid of the box.
We decided to go to the Vatican. Bear is a bit crazy for The Young Pope and sometimes he thinks he actually is the Pontiff and makes us call him Holy Father. I checked out what was on at the Vatican and low and behold the Pope was addressing the folks at noon. We rocked up to find, the whole of St Peter’s square surrounded by military and x ray machines. It was impossible to get into the square without the equivalent of an airport security check. Really? What’s with the security? Where’s your all powerful God? So your prayers aren’t working any more.
The square was packed. Il Pappa didn’t address from the usual balcony but from what appeared to be his bedroom with a maroon bath towel with gold letters emblazoned on it hanging out the window. Talk about can’t be fucked. The crowd went wild. I can speak a little Italian and could make out he talked about the sickness of the world a lot. At the end he did a shout out to certain groups in the crowd Romper Room Style ‘Hello to the Sisters Of The Saucepans From Colombia, to the Legion Of Mary from Boston, to the Parish Of The Holy Spirit from Galway….’ As you could imagine the groups he names fully lost their holy shit.
We walked away past the hawkers selling rosary beads, selfie sticks and shorts with the statue of David’s cock printed on them, the beggars and the tour groups. I looked back at the religious metropolis and thought ‘What a fucking rort’.
We passed one of the free drinking fountains you find all over the streets of Rome. I had been hanging out to drink the water. The last time I was in in Rome was 1994 and drinking it was like a magical elixir. Dear god it’s the sweetest water I have ever tasted. We wandered around trying to find a place to lunch. We passed a guy shooting up and dead rat as we raved to each other about how magical and beautiful Rome was.
The place our mate suggested to eat wasn’t open but we stumbled onto a gorgeous very traditional trattoria full of Italian families. We passed tables groaning with food sat down and ordered from a slightly dishevelled waiter our age who managed to understand my pigeon Italian. We were staving. The food and wine arrived and as I demolished the most perfect meal I could have wished for I felt like crying with joy. It was at that moment I thought ‘I’ve got my money’s worth.’
We were wandering back home though the bustling streets full of happy people and sunshine for a nap and a shag when Bear’s son Reuben, his partner and her sister messaged us, told us they were at a place near the Spanish Steps and to come and have a drink. They’d only arrived the day before, so we stumbled in to them in the back streets sitting out the front of a cantina. There was hugs, kisses and little shrieks. Bear was thrilled beyond measure. The joy of having a drink with one of your grown up children who was now a traveller and just rocks up to Rome by their steam when they hear you’re in town.
I have always told my sons everything i have learned has been from travel, working in catering and living with people.
