The Italian Job: Negotiating trains

One of the benefits of flying from Milan is that it is quite cheap, with many of the low cost airlines flying in and out of its airports.

But the biggest of drawbacks is that you have to negotiate the bizarre nature of the Italian transport system. Typified by this story I had at Milan Garibaldi train station last week.

The first thing I realised was that all the ticket machines had big signs emblazoned across them 'Out of order'.

All, that is, apart from two which were stood next to each other. I thought: 'God. If there are just two functioning machines out of 20 couldn't they have at least spread them out a bit. The previous 18 in a row were all not in working order and then two, adjacent to each other, working just fine. Ridiculous.'

Anyway, that was to prove the least of my problems.

So there we are: myself and a group of strangers that were soon to become close friends due to having the same predicament on the horizon.

Stood, looking at the ten metre long screen with the pending trains, their expected times and the platforms already assigned, a typically Italian story was about to unfold.

See, the trouble began when it became apparent that the train we all wanted, to Malpensa Airport, didn’t have an assigned platform.

Anyway, no problem, I thought. It’s 22:30 and there is still a full eight minutes until the train to Malpensa departs. Surely the platform number will come up shortly. I mean, the train to Centrale has a platform, so does the one to Turin. And the one to another part of Northern Italy, it had its number assigned nearly half an hour ago.

But no one seemed to be going anywhere else. We were the only people at the station in this suburb of Milan at this late hour. The Milanese were all probably using taxis.

22:30, soon became 22:35 and still no platform. Then 22:37. I could hear a train in the distance but was it the one I wanted? Was it the one my newly acquired 15 friends all wanted, many of which were Italians and looking as puzzled as I was?

Some, thinking they were being smart, began to shuffle in the direction of platforms where they could hear noises that seemed like trains but turned out to be nothing more than the snoring of local tramps. They would do this but they'd remain within eyeshot of the big screen, as if they didn't trust their own senses.

Then, suddenly, as the clock struck 22:38, up it came: platform 13.

A mad rush ensued as we had less than half a minute to run from one side of the station to another. We ran, luggage trailing in our wake, towards the platform that just seconds earlier, was unbeknown to any of us.

Some of them, understandably, didn’t make it. The Asians, who always seem to have more luggage than everyone else put together, didn’t make it. The Italians did, but they lost a handbag or two en route. I made it but was sweating like a pig in a sauna once on the train.

The passengers already on board looked a little flustered too but I guess they had had the same experience at the previous station.

Benvenuto in Italia.

Istanbul - where the streets have no name

Istanbul is probably one of the best cities in Europe. There I've said it. No hanging around. No quibbling. Never again can I be accused of sitting on the fence.

Nevertheless, even possible greatness has to be undermined by something and the city formerly known as Constantinople succumbs to such occurrences.

So let's get them out of the way now. Firstly, quality does come at a price, especially if you want to eat by the water. Not quite on the same level as a Moscow or a Tokyo but, still, on occasion, you will have an expensive bill manipulated by mischievous waiters.

Furthermore, Istanbul is full of 'Del Boy' characters shouting out how great their product is and encouraging you to dig deeper into an already severely dented wallet. Sadly, these people are not selling faulty watches but are dragging, sometimes literally, people into their eatery with what turn out to be false promises.

OK, so that's the negatives so let's get on with the positives. The place is beautiful, almost serene at times, particularly in summer as the sun glistens on the Bosphorus, Istanbul's famous river that separates Europe from Asia. By all means take a tour on a boat for an hour or two as it is relatively inexpensive and a great way to see more of the city.

The fact that the most of there streets appear to be nameless will soon be forgotten as you wander the streets. Once you've settled on your restaurant, you will not be disappointed, especially if you chose a rooftop location where you can eat, drink, smoke a shisha and enjoy the star-lit sky (n.b. always ask for a free bowl of fruit and you'll almost certainly get it).

Something that will not escape your attention during your visit will be the occasional drone of noise coming from the mosques, presumably at prayer time. However, I found the sound created a strangely mixed feeling - one of enchantment and of being disturbed.

Nevertheless, once inside a mosque, you will delight in its splendour. It put me in a state of extreme relaxation, so much so I eventually snoozed off, prostrate. When awoken by a security guard I was told I must make a quick exit. When I suggested I was not the only person asleep and queried why they were not being subjected to the same punishment I was informed they were praying. Damn! Why didn't I think of that first?

Up the Dorf

Dusseldorf: Look at those lights

 
When thinking of weekend breaks, Dusseldorf is not somewhere that immediately leaps like a salmon into the mind. More like a fat dog than a salmon (ok, ok, but you try and think of something that doesn't leap very well). Yet this is not fair. It is a pleasant city, with a good night life.

But what is it with those Germans and their towers. Forget the lederhosen, the large beers and the women with hairy armpits. They are just clichés. No. The real obsession they have is with those God-forsaken towers. Why are they so special in Germany that every major city has one? And they are drooled over like some kind of catwalk model. I'm sure there is a legitimate reason for this but given that I am not exactly a culture-vulture, it is beyond me.

Apparently Dusseldorf's is better than the rest. And why is this, I hear you ask? It's in the lights, so the locals claim. By some complicated calculation you can tell the time by counting the number of lit up dots. I cannot be bothered to go into it but trust me, it'll take you a while to work out what the time is. Even the DDorfers (I'm not sure that's how they are called but let's go with it) take around a few moments to work it out. As a result, it is then an unknown period of time later and the process needs to begin all over again. Maybe those Germans are not so efficient afterall. Nevertheless, even a homeless bum should, in theory, be able to work out the time. How nice. In England they’re lucky to get a shit soup at Christmas.

The Altstadt (old town) is nice and is the centre of the city's nightlife. By the way, it is described as old in a nice way. Not in a Welsh kind of 'old' where it is grey and stinks of piss. No, this is 'old' as in wise and thought-provoking. In fact, after several local beers lots of thoughts are provoked, as is the odd piss so maybe it's a mixture of the two.


There's a river too.

Bedford - why go anywhere else?

When it comes to choosing a destination for a stag many think of Barcelona, Benidorm or Bratislava.

Bedford, however, is frequently overlooked and having visited there as part of a stag party I am struggling to understand why.

It has everything one could ask for when seeking a good bachelor party location - classy women who wear skirts which reach their mid-thigh, plenty of kebab shops and a fine river to go swimming in if you are happy with sub-zero temperatures and a little debris.

Furthermore, you will not be disappointed by some of the alternative cuisine on offer. Bedford is certainly multi-cultural (I even met someone who knew the Italian word for pizza. His favourite Italian restaurant was called Pizza Hut).

The Chinese we visited on the Saturday evening, the originally named Golden Palace, was full of wonderful East Asian delicacies. From chips to Tesco's Value ice cream, this place had the lot. I even learnt something from my experience, Black Forest gateaux is not something restricted to Germany, they have it in China too.

As for the drinking holes on offer you will not be disappointed. Hooch for a pound and wonder-bras get in free at a particular downtown club is something that cannot be missed.

Yes, Bedford certainly ticks all the right boxes.

Sofia - cheap and cheerful

Sofia: one of Europe's cheapest cities

When you are aware that Sofia is the cheapest city in Europe it immediately fills any backpacker/tourist with a sense of excitement. Whether it be the 'Tommy Tourist', the 'Shopaholic' or, indeed, the alcoholic.

With this in mind I thought it best to take advantage of some much needed retail therapy. This belief was enhanced by my journey from the train station to the city centre where, apart from the picturesque backdrop, the city seemed, at least on the surface, to have about as much character as a Swiss guy who was going through an identity crisis.

This initial feeling was altered a little by some of the churches and cathedrals which, apparently, were particularly attractive from the inside. I would have known this for myself, of course, had I actually experienced them but, apart from the occasional glance, I only went inside one.

You have to understand, though, that free tourist attractions are generally most attractive in expensive locations but given that Sofia was cheaper than a Northern bird on a cold November night these buildings were all too frequently ignored, much to the chagrin of one observer who I met in one of the town centre's two Irish pubs. The pub was called O' something or another, I think, and when he asked me what I had done with my day and when I responded with 'Shopping' he gave me a look of disgust.

It is important to realise this guy was one of those people who knew all about what you should and should not do when on holiday - by that I mean where to go and where not to go. Very irritating indeed. He then proceeded to tell me what I should do with my following day. I duly listened, nodded and agreed, so I guess that makes me an even bigger idiot than him.

To make matters worse the local beer in said pub was nearly as tasteless as Budweiser which I put down to some naughty tampering as the local beer, as a rule, was generally quite good.

On the same evening I encountered a rather drunk, middle-aged Austrian who, upon realising I was a tourist, he simply slurred: "Why?" I don't think he was referring to why I was a tourist but, actually, why Sofia? At least, that's what I think he meant.

A pleasant surprise, compared to other poor countries, is the lack of hasssle one receives from restaurateurs and other such marketeers.

On my last night in the city I can honestly say I had the best meal on my travels this year at an endearing little place called just off the Alabin street in the city centre.

Not only was the outside ambience great but the food was both excellent and there was plenty of it.

In addition, the street side ice-cream vendors need to be taken advantage of... By that I mean consume there ice-cream (that's not a euphemism), not... oh you know what I mean.

Finally, I urge anyone who wishes to visit the city to book their accommodation in advance. Not because it is a city bustling with tourists but because there are so few options on offer, or not to the naked eye.