Florence’s Ostello Archi Rossi was one of the best hostels we stayed in during our 2006 European adventures.  So it was really no surprise that we ended up back there on our most recent Italy trip.

Archi Rossi has all the things you would expect from a hostel: dorm rooms, internet computers, breakfast provided.  But at Archi Rossi, the internet is free (and indeed, our five bed room came with it’s own internet-enabled PC); the dorms are large and clean; and the breakfast can be selected from fairly extensive menu.  The location – just a couple of blocks away from the Santa Maria Novella train station.

But when it comes down to it, what’s really memorable about Ostello Archi Rossi are the walls.  The hostel management have embraced the traveller’s need to leave some trace of themselves (see the Via dell’Amore in the Cinque Terre, for example).  Hence, over the years, and as hundreds of travellers have passed through, the walls have become covered with graffiti.

And so the messages that Matt and I wrote in October 2006 were still there two years later.  And we added another, and Mum did too.

Note: ‘stupidagini’ is the Italian word for ‘rubbish’ (probably more the exclamation of disbelief than the synonym for litter).  However, it was more the sound of the word which made it Matt’s nickname throughout our time in Italy.

Tash

We were supposed to go to Murano in August.  At the airport, I’d chosen my holiday reading – Marina Fiorato’s The Glassblower of Murano - specifically because of our own proposed trip to that very glassblowing island.  What I hadn’t counted on was the Italian heat at that time of year, and the fact that, in such a heat, glassblowing becomes a severely unpleasant activity.  Thus, in August, the glassblowers go on holiday and the workshops revert to being glass stores, trading on pieces blown in the months before.

So we picked up some rolls and cold meat and Italian biscuits, and travelled out to Burano instead.  It was still early, giving us plenty of time to get to the island which is located 14km and a 40 minute vaporetto ride from Venice.

While Murano is famous for its glass, it’s rhyming neighbour is known for its intricate lacework.  And there’s certainly plenty of stores along the main street of the island selling samples.  From bibs to bookmarks, table linen to tops – if it’s made in lace, it’s probably also made in Burano.

Aside from the lace, what stood out for me in Burano, was the lack of crowds.  Having just left the people filled alleys of Venice, it was lovely to walk down a side street in Burano, in between the multi-coloured houses, and be the only ones there.

Perhaps, next time I’m in Italy, I should look out for a book set in Burano.  Or perhaps, I should just move there and write one.

Tash

The Vatican City is an independent city-state located in the centre of Rome, with its own government (headed by the Pope), administration, postage stamps, guards and iron-on patches.  It’s also the home of St Peter’s Basillica, the Vatican Museum and the Sistine Chapel.

Matt and I originally visited the Vatican City (and purchased the iron-on patches) on our honeymoon in 2006.  In August this year, I returned with my family – and saw all the highlights at a much quicker pace.  I’d learnt my lesson from last time.  While, in other parts of the world, it pays to get to tourist attractions early, in the Vatican City, getting there early still means waiting in a three hour long queue.

This time, we arrived at the Vatican Museums about an hour before closing, and within fifteen minutes we were in.  Admittedly, this didn’t leave us much time to see the art – but I’d seen it before, and I just wanted to show my brother the Raphael Rooms and the Sistine Chapel.

We weren’t so lucky with the queue to visit the dome of St Peter’s.  We couldn’t find it at first, and when we did, it was long.  So we waited, and waited, as people were taken upwards elevator-load by elevator-load.  Finally it was our turn, and we squeezed into the lift, and followed the crowds, and suddenly we were inside the dome and it was amazing.  We could see the individual mosaic bits up there and the floor looked a long way down.

And then we noticed that the people in front of us were not moving.  And neither were the people in front of them.  And the floor was a long way down, and I started noticing that bits of mosaic were loose, and other bits had fallen away.  And I didn’t have my phone.  15 minutes passed.  We were still in the dome.  Suddenly from behind us, there was one of the St Peter’s officials, saying ‘Scusi! Scusi!’ and pushing his way through the crowds.  About five minutes later, the line started moving again.

It’s interesting, thinking back, I can only remember vaguely the art of St Peters, the Pieta, the statue with the rubbed away feet.  But I can remember intensely the fear that were were stuck in the Dome and the distance to the floor and wishing Matt was with me and wondering what would happen next.

Tash

Jess’ recent Italian entries have inspired me to return to blogging about our own summer adventure.  Today, in the darkness of a London afternoon, my thoughts turn to Rome and to our ‘hostel’ there, Campanella3.

Matt and I had stayed in a hostel in Rome before, during our honeymoon in 2006.  While that was a memorable experience, it was all for the wrong reasons.  Crowded dorms, people sleeping in the reception, only two bathrooms, snorers, no sleep, no security and so on.  So, when it came to picking a hostel for the return visit, I decided to spend a little more time on HostelWorld, researching our options.

But even it’s great online reviews couldn’t prepare me for the fabulousness that was Campanella3. It’s not near the main train station and wasn’t quite on the Central Rome map we’d photocopied.  So, once we got out of Ottaviano train station, we did end up wandering back and forth along Viale Giulio Cesare for what felt like half an hour before we found the turn off.

It was worth it though.  This was no hostel room, it was an apartment.  There was our bedroom with four beds, a television, plenty of cupboards; a double room next to us; a beautifully decorated bathroom; and best of all, a fully stocked kitchen.  Pots, pans, knives, forks, an espresso machine and directions to the supermarket – everything we needed to cook our own Italian meals.

Even better was the ‘breakfast’ that the owners provided for us.  Again, Campanella3 earns a set of inverted commas for exceeding our expectations.  Usually the second B in an Italian B&B is a croissant and a cappuccino.  Here, we were given baskets that were overflowing with croissants, muffins, pastries, juices, chocolate bars and much more.  And, when we decided to take some of the extras for lunch, we were embarrassed to find that they were restocked for breakfast the next day.

And, once we got used to the winding roads, we found that we were only 10 minutes from the Vatican, home of Renaissance artwork, guards in strange uniform, and a famous dome which we got to know a little too intimately.  But that’s a story for another day.  Maybe tomorrow.

Tash

I don’t know where to start writing about Italy.  I’ll probably end up doing a few entries over the next couple of weeks; I probably won’t do them in any sort of order.  It was my second trip to the country.  I was spending pounds and not New Zealand dollars, which was why on one morning in Rome, I ended up at the Ara Pacis Augustae.

This time round, €10 didn’t seem too much to pay for an audio-guide and entry to the glass museum near the banks of the Tiber River (€10? That’s only three and a half single scoop gelati for example).  It didn’t seem too much to get away from the crowds and the heat of the morning, into the quiet and cool of inner sanctuary.  To be able to take photos of the reliefs on the outside of the altar, to walk into it, to touch the stones which were first carved in memory of Augustus’ achievements in the years BC.

On the short sides of the altar, there are reliefs showing a procession of priests and members of Augustus’ family.  I stood for a while, even after the audio-guide had stopped explaining who they were – and thought about how their likenesses had stayed in stone for so many years.

I studied the Ara Pacis at high school.  I studied Latin.  I studied classics.  The Ara Pacis was there in my text books, maybe even my exams.  But it wasn’t real until almost 10 years later, when I stood there and touched the stones.

This morning, my parents are on a flight back to New Zealand, and I wish I could be everywhere in the world all at once.

Tash (naTacitus)