On looking after small people.

If I’m not careful the Midget will have written more about this trip of ours than I have. I’m blaming this on the fact that she’s completely trusting me to have everything organised and sorted. Since we’re travelling with only the vaguest of plans (we’re going to be in Prague in 2 and a half weeks) it means that part of my brain is in constant calculation.

The Midget is a solid leader in many situations, as far as I can tell ever single one in which I’m not around. However I’ve spent years brainwashing her into thinking that my way is the best way. Being the big sister means you’ve got to be aware that this youngerling has spent their life following you.

Hence we were the last (bar one) onto the plane out of Heathrow. And hence the twenty minutes of confused wandering just off the wrong street named mariasomething or other in Vienna. And hence the ‘oh dear all the shops are shut on a Sunday – what are we going to eat – dilemma.

Oops.

And today she missed some of the fishing huts along the edge of the Danube (I have sketches in my diary that I’ll locate when I’ve got a real computer), because I’d worn her out dragging her around viennese parks late last night (yes we almost got locked in – I was too busy prancing around pretending to be a greek goddess). Under the influence of the gentle song of the catamaran engine she fell asleep.

I’m doing ok. As far as I can tell, her biggest complaint is that cake doesn’t constitute breakfast, lunch and dinner. I bought some plums to balance her diet out. It was the first time I managed to find someone who didn’t speak English better than me, it was a lady who only spoke german.

The lady asked me what I’d like, and then a series of would you like that in a bag etc, with me answering first in Italian, Spanish or French and then in English before finally twisting my tounge into German. How do multilingual people cope?

I finally got to “dankeschon” and she laughed bemused uttering a sweet “auf wiedersehen”.

I’m not a natural linguist, although I’m making headway.

We’re now in Slovakia, and since I’m not so lucky as to have learnt slovak, I found myself at that awkward moment of not even knowing how to say ‘thanks’ as we paid for our groceries.

Luckily the very kind man in the ice cream shop (40p for an ice cream…) didn’t mind slowly repeating “dakujeme” until I got it.

[Posted from the tablet whilst travelling]

Luncheon and some posh frescos

By Posted on Location: 2min read

Setting: A monastery in the beautiful Italian countryside that was converted for living in by none monks. The walls were decorated with the original Napolionic frescos from the time Napolean popped in for a visit.

Food: Bread, soup, pasta, more pasta of different variety, salmon, potatoes, fennel, strawberries, more strawberries, cherries, and some sort of pastry thing.

Drinks: Alcoholic and voluminous.

Guests: Of mixed nationality, perfumed and wearing loud jewellery.

Transportation: Open top car, driven by the Italian Stallion.

It all sounds pretty perfect. The food was good, the views from the monastery were stunning. Racing through the Italian countryside in an open top car in the sunshine was exhilarating and on arrival, windswept and grinning with a bottle of wine in my hands, we were met by a flurry of hand shakes and cheek kisses.

Cautiously we stepped into the monastery, I accepted a glass of prosecco and meandered through the rooms staring at the ceilings, floors and walls. The most impressive was the Napoleonic frescoes which included small smiling faces of some of the monks who had been there when Napoleon visited peering down from the ceiling.

Soup was brought out, and I quickly ate some bread to help absorb alcohol. My glass was being regularly refilled by many of the gracious men who passed by with a bottle in their hands.

But there it all kind of stopped.

At a K-town party (ie. one of my tribes’ parties, including the mother’s fancy dress party) there’s a general feeling that you don’t want it to all come to an end. People may be tired and in need of a moment of solitude, but there’s an overwhelming tug towards staying just that little longer. The accumulation of people, those friends, it’s all something incredibly special. There’s a just one more song feeling.

The monastery luncheon had a ‘done my due now’ feeling about it. And to add to that, the bathroom wasn’t exactly clean either.

 

[Written last year but not published.]

That Man

By Posted on Location: 2min read

On our journey thus far we have encountered a number of men (and a woman) that we have labelled as ‘That Man’. ‘That Man’ is a term of endearment that we have coined, describing an individual that has helped us, two rather ditsy British girls, in our hours of need so far on our trip.

They are:

  1. The woman at the first petrol station we used in France (the first ever in the continent). We shared no common language. The petrol went in the tank, but our credit card was refused on the first go. We were rather hysterical, after a rather challenging few hours of learning to drive on the wrong side of the road. Despite her lack of English, and our lack of French, she smiled at us, and beckoned to us to try again. It worked! She grinned at us, wiped her head in mock relief and sent us on our way, with a full tank of fuel.
  2. The Italian men who gave us directions to a hotel in Turin. After getting lost in the one way systems of Turin, and had been driving around for five hours, we were exhausted and desperate. After Betty, also verging on hysterics, virtually begged them for directions, the kind gentleman told me to her to ‘calm down’ (In English!) and gave us directions to our hotel.
  3. The man at the hotel in Turin. We were absolutely exhausted when we stumbled into the hotel. It was late. He gave us a nice room, and hot water for drinks. TWICE. What a legend.
  4. The paramedic men in Rome, who kindly took our picture in front of St. Peter’s Basilica.
  5. The police man in Rome who explained to us how to get home after the trains stopped running for the night.
  6. The local ‘Italian Stallion’ for driving us around the bella Italian countryside in his open-top car and bringing us fruit and yoghurts!

From Kate because Betty missed out: The volleyball team playing on the beach at Terracina. All of them.

(written by both of us collaboratively, like our shared wardrobe)