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Travel Europe - Food for the itinerant soul

 
Hi, I'm Anthony, 24, a Sydney-based writer. Enjoy tasting the Ambrosia that is Europe.

Travel Europe - May 2006

So like, the only thing I want to see, is like, where they shot that awwwesome scene in The Italian Job.

Does this sound like you? Hmm. It’s true that the opening scenes of Paramount’s remake of The Italian Job were shot in Venice. Apparently, it’s the first time Venice officials have allowed a film crew over the speed limit in years. And no one can deny that the Hollywood remake basically put Venice on the map. Like who knew that in the 7th Century, the Venetians faced extinction when the Byzantine Empire issued a decree forbidding the use of holy images in worship? Or that such a decree would have undermined religious practice in Venice? Not me - until I watched The Italian Job. So informative.


Basically, Venice had one choice, they could give the Empire a Liverpool Kiss and a big up-yours, and go on to perish without Constantinople’s protection, or they could suck it up and come up with some ingenious jewel-snatching heist headed by a former New Kid on the Block. Ultimately, they did neither. What they did do, realising that the Empire was blowing a helluvalot of smoke and could never enforce the decree, was elect a Doge (deriving from the Latin word dux, meaning ‘leader’) to serve as a liaison between the city and the rest of the Empire.

Although it was a brave move, it basically preserved the Venetian way of life. As a result, the Palace of the Doge stands today in magisterial testament to Venetian resilience. It’s a beautiful building, gothic in style like its Milanese counterpart, the Duomo, but reflecting the history of Venice itself through constantly revised architecture. Inside are Renaissance paintings and sculptures, as well as Byzantine mosaics.

I even saw the Doge’s sarcophagus, and I was all like “Hey, what’s up Doge?”

The Doge's Palace in Venice
What's Up, Doge?

Hehem. Next instalment I’ll tell you a little story about my trip to St Mark’s Basilica.


Information from:

http://www.etrav.com/pathways/html/doge.asp





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www.photo.net/.../ venice-reflection-74.tcl
Water everywhere
Ok so where was I going with that whole Venice diatribe vibe?

Oh yeah. Venice is cool. The take-home point with Venice is this: although the gondolas look pretty, they’re a rip off. I hear some Australian schmuck paid 80 Euros for a 10-minute ride. What an idiot. Stupid parochial Aussies.

Anyway, with my wallet a little lighter, my friend and I decided to waltz our way down the canals. Me - standard attire: knee high Nikes, ‘didas sweatbands, cape. My friend: trying that whole integration thing. You know, that whole semi-nude open shirt Italian leather loafers whistling a tune brag. Pffff. We’re walking along and it’s an extremely bright sunny day. So bright that sunlight is bouncing off everything. Nothing is non-reflective in this place! The houses shimmer, the people are just eggs with light-strands shooting out, the piazza a giant mirror assaulting my retina. And since there is so much water everywhere, it’s quite hard to tell what’s solid ground and what’s sneaky lagoon…the scene goes something like this:

Hey A___ , why don’t we head down here?

Yeah sure. But isn’t that-

Cut to me and a lot of water. It’s not even the first time I’ve done it. Once at a friend’s party on the wharf, I was trying to make it look like I was pissing with my bottle of water, and yeah, I ended up in the drink.

There are few things funnier than falling fully clothed into a body of water. 1. The way all the clothes cling to your body. 2. Now imagine that with a cape on. 3. Wet leather wallets full of paper shit. 4. Nokia mobile phones. 5. Crying. 6. No one knows you are crying because your face is already wet.

I don’t need to enumerate…you get the picture. Naturally, I dry off quickly in the European heat wave. And within two minutes I’m regaling the locals with my knowledge of sawdust.

Image from:
www.photo.net/.../ venice-reflection-74.tcl




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Venice - Pause Button

May 28th 2006 15:25
Venice is blowing out my mind right now, so much so that after a night out caving in over a bunch of bent uni crews bopping away to lyrical cliches and songs of the doomed, i feel unable to write things sweet and sparkly. Instead, beatific city on water, you might have to wait for another day, probably tomorrow, when i shall return with gusto and fervour to sprinkle your magic over the wavering masses once more.

Until then, adieu


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Venice vs Paris: Death Match

May 24th 2006 21:56
But instead of a decomposing swamp, Venice is lovely. Thank you masterful squeraroli. If Paris didn’t have such damn good PR, Venice would be the City of Love. Let’s face it, everyone likes Italians way more than the French. Pfff. The French. with their damn pain au chocolat moustaches and their dirty little trills.

- I spit on you, American scum


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The Merchants of Venice Part II

May 24th 2006 06:27
…and in many ways, it is. The gondola has evolved markedly since its inception in 1094. For instance, the first crafts had a ‘felze’ – a cabin built in the middle which served as both a sanctuary from bad weather and a hotbed of private consorts. As the main form of transport in the city, this is perhaps what nurtured the idea that Venice is the fountainhead of love and intimacy. Of course, nowadays, all the gondola are jet-powered hovercrafts with robots for rowers, but what’s a little spray in the face to a lover’s tryst?

One lasting feature of the gondola (I promise this is the last tidbit) is its unique asymmetrical shape: the left side is larger than the right by 24 cm. As a result, the gondola can only navigate right-hand turns. This explains why thousands of couples beach themselves in Australian waters every year. The good news is, they always end up in Melbourne


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The Merchants of Venice

May 22nd 2006 12:14
My next stop on my Italian jaunt is Venezia. Venice: one of few cities literally built on water. Laneways are replaced with canals, cars with gondolas and people with fish. Ok, so that last bit isn’t true, but the street vendors will do everything but make guppy faces to sell you a dancing Mickey Mouse. A close friend of mine was hoodwinked by such a salesman within minutes of being in the island lagoon.

“How does he make the Mickey dance? Is it on a string


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So i missed the duomo? Big deal. There would be other duomos. And later that night there would be other stern Italian men rebuffing me from their premises with rather articulate biceps.

Instead we skulked about the piazza, perused the shops where the glitterati go for retail therapy, and generally attracted attention to ourselves. With knee high socks and sweat bands from wrist to shoulder, there was no chance of me integrating seamlessly into the local hubbub (not that the Italians really do hubbub; more like hub-have-some-spaghetti-you‘re-so-thin!). The advantage of sticking out was that the Milanese were amused. They even excused my beady-eyed optimism about Italy's chances in the next World Cup. Everywhere I travelled in Milan I would ask in my worst Italian about the Italian greats, like Pelé and Maradona. Shopkeepers smiled and street cleaners wept. But it was all part of the authentic experience


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By the time I finished my slop bucket duties in the kitchen, it was dawn and so I headed out on the streets again. Destination: the Duomo. Now the duomo is a word which few can barely pronounce; the facial manoeuvre required to articulate this Italian word involves various ancillary muscle groups, including the buttocks, quads and trapezius. It was little wonder I was beaten to a pulp within five minutes of leaving the house; the man I asked for directions thought I was some palsied dope fiend. The more I insisted on saying duomo, the more he beat me.

My friend and trusty tour guide returned from his latest hourly passeggiata to find most of me strewn across the pavement outside the train station. To the Duomo he lead me, and boy was some of my cerebral cortex impressed


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The Streets of Milan

May 17th 2006 01:41
It would be remiss of me to begin my survey of magical Italy without beginning with Rome. Well then, I’m afraid I am remiss. I want to start with Milan, so lump it.

My train arrived at the central station, and there to meet me, bedraggled and faux-bearded was my best mate, Adam, who had been living in that city of fashionistas for 6 months. I felt particularly out of place walking the grimy streets back to his apartment with my enormous suitcase and brimming carry-on. (Might I say at this point that it is a school-boy error to take a suitcase anywhere near Italy. Within a few days of arriving, the handle snapped and much to my chagrin, my 25 kilo bag tumbled down the train station stairs, cleverly gravitating towards Estelle Getty’s doppelgänger. In short: take a backpack.) While the streets themselves leave a little to be desired, what with their industrial design features and oil-slicked gutters, the people were the most upper deck I’d ever seen. The nadir of my fashion consciousness was reached when a homeless guy asked me for a Euro wearing a pair of Manolo Blahniks. I obliged. Hell, if I was asking for drug money, I’d want to look respectable too. I find you just can’t say no to a well-groomed junkie


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I thought I might begin my blog with a piece about that most romantic of European countries – Italy. I can hear the Eurovision announcer’s voice ringing in my ear now…Italy! Not that they’ve won it since 1990 - or even participated since 1997 - but hey, a guy can dream. That dulcet idiomatic European voice somehow conjures all the verve which I associate with this richly diverse nation. The singing masses…

I won’t promise to cover all the territories and nooks of our favourite country to look like a football boot. The soccer-faring ululations of Italy are too many to summarise in one blog. So, as this will go nowhere near doing it justice, I do promise to come back. Visit again. You know, maybe do something remarkable alfresco and become enshrined in some pantheon so I can suck up the sights and smells for free


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