Taking It Milan-easy

I hadn’t originally planned on visiting Milan next; I’d intended for it to be my last stop as my flight home was booked from there. I’d had an idea to move on to Venice after Florence, but when further research (which somehow I fitted in between all my Forster reading and art ogling) failed to find my two key travel requisites of 1) sensibly priced travel at sensible times and 2) a good central hotel, at least for the first night, I decided to save Venice for another time and look at other options. Before I’d left London, My Eldest had made the tantalising suggestion that while I was in Italy I fit in a visit to Bellagio, on the shores of Lake Como, to see his good friend and my sometime drinking pal Sarah – and a quick look at train timetables showed that Bellagio could be reached with ease and in hardly any time from Milan. Figuring that a weekend in Italy’s – some would argue the world’s – fashion capital would be rather more exciting than a weekend in a sleepy lakeside village, I decided to stop for a couple of nights in Milan en route to the Lakes; within a few clicks my hotel was booked and train times confirmed, and I was on my way.

Although marred as far as Bologna by two noisy brats belonging to parents who seemingly couldn’t have cared less about my discomfort, the train journey provided some beautiful views, firstly of Tuscan countryside, then the hills of Emilia-Romana and on into the clear green plains of Lombardy. Approaching Milan though, things aren’t so pretty, as scenery gives way to the grey urban sprawl that one would expect from what is, first and foremost, an industrial city. I hadn’t expected much of Milan architecturally anyway; no-one I’ve spoken to who’s been has been able to muster much enthusiasm for its aesthetics, instead extolling the virtues of the city’s two main attractions (certainly to me) of its world-beating shopping opportunities and vibrant social scene. So that was all I was expecting to do: shop and socialise.

Things started well when, having reached the Hotel Ariston by a combination of the Metro (as grimy as Rome's, but fast and cheap) and tram (fabulously rickety and retro) I found that it lived up to its hotels.co.uk description of being bright, central and modern. My single room was small but very comfortable, and being high up on the sixth floor had what I guess a creative travel agent would sell as 'Duomo glimpses'; I could just see the uppermost spires of Milan's wedding cake of a cathedral. I made that my first port of call; although I'd taken the tram from Duomo station to the hotel to save lugging my suitcase, it was only a very easy walk from the hotel so I wandered up via Torino and across the piazza to see inside. It wasn't amazing, to be frank; while from the outside the Duomo is pretty spectacular, its immense peaked roof a mass of over 100 spires and many hundreds of statues all topped with a golden Madonna (of the blessed Virgin variety, not Ciccone, though that would be fun...), inside it's rather gloomy, austere and repetitive although it does boast some impressive, monumental stained glass windows and the jewel-laden crypt (and corpse) of the 16th century zealot San Carlo Borromeo.

I moved on to my kind of place of worship, the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele. Adjacent to the Duomo and accessed by a soaring, ornate archway, the Galleria comprises a vast cross-shaped arcade rising up four storeys to a beautiful domed glass ceiling. While certainly classy, it's an odd hotch-potch of shops; of the four prime corner spots at the centre where the two promenades meet, one each is occupied by Prada - the original 1913 store, no less - and Louis Vuitton, while the others are a McDonald's and a Mercedes-Benz store. Elsewhere there's a Gucci store which boasts the world's first Gucci Caffé, a Tod's, and various high-end outfitters, but there's also a dozen or so very run-of-the-mill book stores, CD shops and mobile phone retailers which detract from the Galleria's cachet. Largely however, what shops there were was academic, because with very few exceptions (Prada among them, joy of joys) everything in the Galleria was closed for a holiday. Slightly perturbed but still determined, I set off for the famed Quadrilatero d'Oro or 'Golden Square', the rectangular block of streets delineating one of the world's most exclusive shopping areas where the scores of designer flagships offer up goodies unavailable anywhere else in the world.

First was via Manzoni, home to the Armani megastore; occupying an entire block and housing not only every one of his lines from Emporio Armani down but also the Armani Caffé, florists, bookstore and chocolatier, as well as Armani/Nobu and a nightclub, Privé, with Armani Hotel coming soon: Closed. Then the length of via Montenapoleone, home to the likes of Ferragamo, Etro, several more Prada boutiques, a massive Gucci...closed. Left down via San'Andrea, for Ferre, Trussardi, Moschino, Chanel...Closed (and in the case of one of the only two shops, along with Prada, that I'd really wanted to see, the bonkers upside-down, Alice In Wonderland palazzo of Viktor & Rolf, closed down!) I'm guessing that by this point you can probably guess what I found on via della Spiga, destination address for the Dolce & Gabbana world flagship? Yes, all chiuso, to use an Italian word I learned the hard way. Surely there were other things to see and do, I hear you cry? Well frankly, not really; turning up in Milan on the weekend of Ferragosto (August Bank Holiday, if you like) is the fashion-lover's equivalent of seeing Pompeii on the only day it's up to its ass in molten lava. Window shopping is all well and good as a time-killer, but when you're in Milan with time on your hands and a platinum card burning a hole in your pocket only to find all the shops shut, well it's like that moment in every Indiana Jones movie where he gets his hands on the priceless treasure only for it to explode/melt/crumble to dust.

Gutted, but wanting to get something out of Milan, I ambled back to the hotel to consult my trusty guide books as to what else might be worth seeing, and was pleased to find that there were few points of interest nearby. The church of San Sebastiano on via Torino provided an enjoyable few minutes admiring its barrel shaped interior, and I was intrigued by the black-and-white columned confines of the piazza dei Mercanti, the mercantile hub of medieval Milan where trade has been carried out for over seven centuries (except, one assumes, during bloody Ferragosto...) By now it was time for some food, and just the right time of day to try out Milan's famous aperitivi culture. As with cañas in Madrid, so too do Milanese bars give away some tucker with early-evening drinks, but on a rather grander scale, and just across the corner from my hotel I chanced on Pan e Vino which offered a choice of drink (I plumped for a nice large glass of Gavi di Gavi) and all-you-can-eat from a heaving buffet of mostly meats and salads with some bruschetta, pasta and fresh fruit for good measure, for just €8. Now it's a well known fact that 'all you can eat' are my four favourite words in the English language, so you'll see that suddenly Milan was seeming a lot more attractive. Several platefuls, enjoyed at a terrace table, later, I waddled back to the hotel for an early night, pledging to sample the nightlife the following night.

Day 2 in Milan started well with a superb brekker in the hotel; although only the usual self-service continental type affair of cold meats, cheeses, pastries, fruit etc, pretty much everything on offer was organic and of very high quality, including some delicious jams and breads and, oh heaven, Twining's English Breakfast in the tea caddy. Fortified, I set out to explore some of Milan’s notable, non-retail based sights and in the course of a few hours walking took in a great deal. I began at the church of San Ambroglio (Ambrose), where the mummified remains of Milan’s patron saint are on display, along with two faithful crusaders, in an eerie, subterranean spot-lit glass sarcophagus. Together with some other interesting statues and chapels and a peaceful, high arcaded cloister, it made for a worthwhile visit. From there I went on to the church of Santa Maria della Grazie, home to Michelangelo’s Last Supper, but not having thought to make the absolutely essential advance booking to see the same (as far as supper bookings go you've got more chance of getting a Saturday table at The Fat Duck) I had to content myself with a nose round the nave.

Fancying some greenery, I skirted the Parco Sempione, which perfectly fits the part of ‘blissful oasis in the heart of the throbbing metropolis’, on the way taking in the landmark Torre Branca (I’ll take Wallpaper*’s word for it that the views from the top are great, my head for heights not being one of my stronger characteristics) and the looming medieval fortress of Castel Sforzesco. From here I strolled along via Dante – comparable to Oxford Street with its big mid-market stores, almost all closed, of course – coming out pretty much back where I’d started on piazza del Duomo. Here I was at least partially able to satisfy my urge to shop, as I found that La Rinascenta, whose ubiquitous paper carrier bags had caused me to write it off as being some sort of naff high street chain, was in fact a very swish department store, and my enjoyment of roaming the aisles of designer delights was dimmed only slightly by the unwelcome attentions in the fragrance hall of easily the most aggressive phalanx of spritz bitches that it’s ever been my misfortune to encounter. Running the gauntlet has nothing on D&G Light Blue vs. Dior Homme Higher Sport in this gaff, I’m telling you.

Dodging over-keen, over-tanned scent salespeople is hungry work, so having been impressed with my first visit, I took myself off back to Pan e Vino for the aperitivi buffet (the selection on which, pleasingly, was different from but just as generous as the night before) and having filled my boots decided to check out the night-time scene in the Ticinese district just a few blocks south of the hotel. It’s a funky, trendy, slightly edgy area, very much like London’s Hoxditch and indeed Chueca in Madrid but without either’s abundant gay scene (the two gay bars on my map in the area being, yup, chiuso). There were a whole list of places I’d wanted to check out, bars both gay and straight (the Dolce & Gabbana Martini Bar being right at the top of the list) and clubs likewise (Armani Privé, as well as some of the grittier gay clubs) but a little online researching found that – AGAIN! – they were all either shut or, in the case of the gay clubs that were open, required the purchase of something called an Arci-Gay Card, a kind of all-in-one membership card that allows the bars to circumvent licensing and gender equality laws to be open all hours and strictly men only. A good idea if you want to be able to cruise for sex pissed at 3AM without any risk of your sister walking in on you, but bad for the international gay jet-setter only in town for 48 hours. Grr.

Oh look, I’m going to stop boring you now with all these dull descriptions of places I didn’t go; if you’d wanted to know what the outsides of places in Milan looked like you’d be on Google Earth, not reading this guff. I had a much more successful time in Milan, which I’ll tell all about in due course, on the way back from Bellagio – and Bellagio is an altogether much more exciting story.

Gay Ol' Nights in Florence

I was bursting with excitement as I sank into my vast leather armchair of a seat on the 12.50 Eurostar (no relation) to Firenze Santa Maria Novella. On my first (and to date, only) visit to Florence, with the family in 2007, I'd seen pretty much all of the city's star sights thanks to my sister's expert organisation and so on this visit I was looking forward seeing 'the rest', and to being at liberty to do so at my own pace and not, as had been the case last time, with mum in tow (love her as I deeply do, seeing Florence in intense June heat with a short-legged 70-year-old is not necessarily an experience I would recommend). Coffee in hand, I got stuck into A Room With A View, the first half of which is set in Florence, and in just an hour and three quarters and seven chapters, I arrived.

I took a cab from the station and a few minutes later was dropped outside the Pension Orchidea, a Rough Guide recommendation I'd booked before leaving Rome. I couldn't have wished for more Forster-esque location: the Orchidea occupies the first floor of a twelfth century palazzo in a cobbled street just behind the Duomo, Florence's immense, breath-taking, technicolor cathedral. The rooms are basic but perfectly fine for a short stay, and the Italian-American owners have done wonders at making the place homely - when I found that there was English Breakfast tea included in the selection of help-yourself-anytime drinks in the lounge area, I practically wept with joy. Best of all though was the location, right in the centre of the city within easy walking distance of just about everywhere, and so I set out on foot for my first destination.

Now, while Florence's top three attractions are undoubtedly the Duomo, the Uffizi gallery and Michelangelo's David, for a fashion and footwear junkie such as I the fourth has to be the Salvatore Ferragamo Shoe Museum. I'd not been able to persuade the family to go last year - funnily enough, they were more interested in seeing Botticelli's Birth of Venus than Eva Peron's slingbacks, the Philistines - so on this visit it was right at the top of my itinerary. Tucked away in the basement of the Ferragamo flagship store and company headquarters on the heavenly shopping stretch that is via Tornabuoni, the museum (€5 admission and worth every cent) is a compact but fascinating collection of sketches, photographs, lasts and of course shoes, spanning the eighty-odd years history of this (sadly deceased) shoemaker to the stars. Here the hand-whittled lasts of the shoes of Hepburns Audrey and Katherine; there original artwork from Ferragamo's iconic Art Deco-style ad campaigns; here photos of Sal himself ministering to the tootsies of Marlene Dietrich; there, Judy Garland's very own, sky-high rainbow wedges in a glass case. After about an hour of pure camp cobblers, I sashayed out onto the street and into the boutique thinking I might invest in a slice of Ferragamo glamour all of my own, but compared with Marilyn Monroe's original red rhinestone-encrusted stilettos, the conservative if beautifully crafted men's collection could only be an anti-climax.

Taking a left onto Lungarno Corsini (factoid: the embankment streets are all called Lungarno something-or-other from lung'arno, literally 'Along the Arno', the river which bisects the city), I strolled down to the Ponte Vecchio, the only one of Florence's bridges to survive the Nazis' bombings when they retreated from the city in 1944. It's a remarkable structure, with its higgledy-piggledy piles of shops and alleyways, famed now for its myriad jewellery shops all seemingly peddling the same eye-wateringly sparkly and buttock-clenchingly expensive gew-gaws which everyone comes to gawp at but never, it seems, to buy. I did, with a long-term view to perhaps popping the question to a certain young man, actually pop in to look at a very nice platinum and diamond ring, but when told that it was a replica of the rings designed by Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston for their ultimately doomed marriage my interest quickly waned. From there I ambled back to the hotel via the Piazza della Signoria, half-ignoring the statuary for which it's best known to instead make a bee-line for the plaque marking the spot of the Bonfire of the Vanities, so brilliantly and evocatively described in Sarah Dunant's novel The Birth of Venus which I'd recommend to anyone who's been to, or might like to visit, Florence.

After a couple of quiet hours spent reading my Forster and enjoying some Japanese nibbles and beers from the Asian grocers I'd been delighted to chance upon on via S.Egidio, I headed out for some supper at Trattoria da Benvenuto (it translates, sweetly, to something like 'The Welcome Inn') where I enjoyed juicy marinated sardines followed by roast rabbit and veggies, washed down with the house red which, at €2 for 250ml, was a bargain in a city where it's perfectly possible to eat extremely well, and likewise reasonably cheaply, but very rarely the twain in one place. (A footnote here about restaurants; I had hoped to re-visit the wonderful Coquinarius on via dell'Oche where as a family we'd enjoyed a couple of superb meals last year (their pappardelle with rabbit ragu is worth a visit in its own right), but alas like so many small businesses it was closed for most of August and scheduled to re-open, frustratingly, two days after I was due to leave!) Replete, I thought I'd check out the scene, but a quick flit to three of the bars on the list found them all pretty much empty (in one I was in fact the only punter, even at 11.30) so I called it a night, moseyed back to the Orchidea and snuggled under the covers with Edward Morgan.

Next morning I was up early and, wanting to live out Chapter 2 of A Room With A View, 'In Santa Croce with no Baedeker', headed to the church of Sta. Croce where Miss Honeychurch has her memorable encounter with the Emersons. Whilst externally the church is almost as elaborately beautiful as the Duomo, Forster's description of the interior - "But how like a barn!" - proved highly accurate, the high beamed ceiling and sparse decoration indeed resembling a farm building, but I was nonetheless quietly wowed by Michelangelo's tomb and the Giotto frescoes so highly praised by Forster's Mr Eager and berated by old Mr Emerson. I moved on to the Bargello museum, home (ostensibly) to much of Italy's finest sculpture as well as collections of bronzes, pottery and miniatures but usually overlooked by most visitors in favour of the city's other show-stoppers. While there are some beautiful works in the collection - I especially liked Giambologna's statues, and particularly his Ocean - a couple of things niggled. Firstly, the published entry fee, like at the Colosseum in Rome and as would prove to be the case elsewhere in Florence and beyond, was bumped up a few euros by a non-discretionary extra charge for a 'special exhibition', which in this case proved to be some bronzes and statues which whilst admittedly impressive, were almost entirely taken from the museum's permanent collection. Secondly, one of the museum's main draws, Donatello's androgynous bronze David, was being restored and consequently face-down in a special frame in the room it usually occupies, and while I know conservation is part and parcel of a museum's role, there are plenty of places in Florence where I could see a gorgeous young man's firm behind without it costing me €7. Finally, the Bargello's famous Michelangelo room, which on paper has one of the most comprehensive collections of his work throughout his life, was remarkable on my visit less for what it contained than for what it didn't; many plinths were empty due to the works being either on loan, under restoration or indeed in the 'special exhibition' across the hall. Had any of this been pre-advised at the entrance I might have though twice about visiting, but on balance it was a worthwhile experience and one I'd recommend.

Continuing the Forster trail, I took a stroll through town to Lungarno della Grazie where, at number 2, Forster located the Pension Bertolini and, within, the room with (or more specifically, without) a view of the book's title. While these days the building is a smart private hotel rather than the simple pension run by a Cockney where Forster himself stayed with his mother, it was still great fun to see the building and idly speculate, looking up, as to which of the windows looking out onto the Arno and beyond might, had fiction been truth, have belonged to the room occupied by Lucy and Miss Bartlett. After lunch at a large, noisy but reasonably priced brasserie, I crossed the river to the district known as Oltr'arno - what we might call in English 'T'other side of the Arno' - to visit Florence's second biggest gallery after the Uffizi, the Palazzo Pitti. This was a revelation. Every single ornate, gilded room in this spectacularly well-preserved palace yielded something noteworthy, from masterpiece after masterpiece by Titian, Rubens and Raphael to sculptures by Canova, and from the sumptuous draped and flocked interiors of the royal apartments to the odd, and oddly fascinating sight of Napoleon's bathtub. While the Gallery of Modern Art, housed somewhat incongruously in the same building, contained very little of interest, the main floors more than made up for this and I was so fascinated that I was more than happy to kill time, waiting for the spectacular lightning storm which had blown up outside to subside, by going round the entire collection twice.

That night, after having given into temptation and just this once foregone fine Italian cuisine for a McDonald's (which I at least ordered in Italian, if that counts) I decided to give the scene another try - it was Friday, after all - and was greatly pleased to find that Thursday night's near-total desertion had been an exception and that Florence's gay community was alive, well and drinking. Starting off with a couple of beers at the trendy, friendly café-bar Piccolo (busier outside in the smoking area than the smoke-free inside: welcome to Italy!) I moved onto the creatively-monikered Y.A.G. Bar which was pleasingly packed and noisy, with a big video screen showing mostly British and American pop acts allowing me to have the unbridled joy of throwing shapes to Girls Aloud and Whitney Houston while the Florentines watched aghast. Unable to find putatively the scene's most popular club, Tabasco, the tiny street given as its address not appearing on any of the maps in my possession, I rounded off the night with a quick visit to the dark 'n' dirrrty Crisco, a men-only joint very typical of the late night gay scene on the Continent complete with 'Ring Bell For Entry' sign, a peephole for the doorman to size you up through, a nose-bleed techno soundtrack and very, very old, grainy porn (had there been sound I would have expected 1920's clipped vowels and the odd "What-ho Albert! Steady on as you penetrate old chap!") showing on a big screen. There, I was befriended by a group of Italian lads who taught me some choice Italian phrases in return for my help with English profanities, but I turned down the invitation from one of them to put words into action and instead heeded Miss Bartlett's advice to Lucy on their last night in Florence, to "Go to bed at once dear. You need all the rest you can get."

In the morning I left for Milan.

Rome, where you want to...

First things first: thank you all for your immense patience in awaiting this very long overdue update on my various travels, trials and tribulations over the last month or so. Without further ado, here goes; as there's a lot to get through I've broken it down into bite-size, city-by-city chunks so that you can savour a morsel in your tea-break, come back for another nibble at lunch, and savour the left-overs of an evening...or just skip straight to whichever bit you think will be most (or at all) interesting, or simply will feature you! To get things started: Rome.

Rome

The first leg of my Italy trip started fabulously with perhaps my most hassle-free flight ever. For the first time, I flew from London City Airport having scored a bargain fair with Swiss via Zurich, and believe me it is a joy. Half an hour from home by DLR, London City is what, I can only imagine, it must be like flying from a private airfield; no queues at check-in or security and a spotless, quiet and really rather luxurious lounge from which every gate is just a couple of minutes stroll. It was also my first flight with Swiss, and both the chocolates and the Teutonic stewards were delicious. I killed the couple of hours transfer time at Zurich airport browsing the swanky boutiques on its mini-Bond Street shopping stretch and enjoying a beer and a baguette (which I impressed myself by managing to order in German, a language I hitherto hadn't known I spoke) in one of the stylish bars, before boarding my onward flight and arriving at Rome Fiumicino just an hour or so later. Next it was all aboard the 'Leonardo Express' for the €11, forty minute train ride to Termini station, and before you could say 'Benvenuto a Roma' I was checking into the Hotel Massimo d'Azeglio on via Cavour, right next to the station.

Having settled into my very comfortable and pleasingly large room, I headed out into the Rome night to see if the hotel was as central as it appeared to be from the map. It certainly was; a five minute stroll down via Cavour and a side-street brought me to the spectacular-by-night sight of the Colosseum and its neighbour, the charming Arch of Constantine. The area was alive with people, tourists staring up at the centuries old structure open-mouthed, lovers canoodling on the grassy hillocks nearby, photographers snapping the spotlit ancient monument in its hulking nocturnal glory and plenty of police keeping it all safe and salubrious. I was suitably awed as I walked around the perimeter, taking in the vastness of the near-2000-years-old edifice and enjoyed a camp moment remembering Audrey Hepburn whizzing round the same path on the back of a Vespa in Roman Holiday.

First site seen, it was time for a sight of the scene and so I flip-flopped off to Coming Out, a large and busy cafe/bar on the nearby via San Giovanni in Laterano. A few doors away I found the delicious (in every sense) Ice Cream Bears, a gelateria owned and run by, you guessed it, a couple of hulking bears whose creamy goodness attracts a cuddly, hairy clientele. Although the only two de facto gay venues on the street, the bars in between cater to the overspill and on a balmy evening like this the crowd, mostly a diverse selection of boys but with a fair few girls, pours out onto the street and drinks and gossips the night away in the shadow of the Colosseum - a quite remarkable experience. I finished off the night - wanting to get some beauty sleep ready for sightseeing on the morrow - with a flying visit to Hangar, an altogether darker and heavier three-room affair on via in Selci just a couple of minutes from the hotel. there's much to recommend Hangar, not least a rather horny (in both looks and mind) clientele, but the clincher for me was the novel payment system - on the way in you're given a card on which the bar staff write down what you've had, and you pay on the way out. This was the bar's last night of business before closing for the summer break so I was glad to have had the experience while I could!

The next day, after a good night's sleep and a very good breakfast, I embarked on a day's sightseeing that would ultimately nearly kill me with its length and breadth. Against all warnings not to try to do too much of Rome in one day - it wasn't built in one, after all - I started early, and finished late, taking in many of the most famous sites and wearing out a pair of flip-flops in the space of a few hours. I began with a walk across town, heading for the Pantheon and on the way taking in a couple of fountains, the Tritone by Bernini and the iconic Trevi (which I completely chanced upon, surprised as many must be by its odd location at the back of an otherwise unremarkable civic building at the junction of three minor shopping streets!) Before seeing the Pantheon's spectacular if utterly bonkers and strangely proportioned interior, I enjoyed an eye-opening caffe machiato at La Casa del Caffe Tazza d'Oro - it translates, deservedly, as 'The Golden Cup'. Next I moved on to the Vittorio Emanuele Monument, also known (variously) as The Altar Of The Nation and the Vittoriano. This vast white marble bulk, topped with mighty equestrian statues (most notably of the King after whom it is named and putatively exists to honour) is - how can I put this?- not exactly universally popular, but it has its attractions. One, a free exhibition on the history of the Italian army, rather thin on the period 1939-45 but otherwise interesting and staffed by real Italian soldiers. Two, it's a pleasingly cool escape from the Roman heat and offers a comfortable way to reach the top of the neighbouring Capitoline Hill . And three, atop it all there's a pretty reasonably priced canteen serving delicious salads and juices (my caprese was heavenly) and from which the panoramic views of Rome are picture perfect.

Refreshed, I moved on to the Capitoline, arriving in the piazza Campidoglio. I skipped the museums around the perimeter in favour of taking in the buildings' exteriors and descending the cordonata, the gently sloping ramp designed by Michelangelo and flanked at the entrance to the piazza by his statues of Castor and Pollux (and being nudes, one can see their Pollux very clearly...) From here I went on to the Colosseum, still as magnificent by day as by night but once inside I wondered whether the 45 minutes I'd spend queuing was worth the fairly limited extent of what's inside, and from there - where, to be honest, I should have called it a day - I pushed on to the Palatine and the impressive ruins of palaces of Caesars past, and the Forum (I'd like to report that a funny thing happened on the way, but alas not). The latter was, despite my increasingly severe, self-inflicted Ancient Rome Fatigue Syndrome, simply magnificent, still - despite the ravages of the centuries - sufficiently complete as to give one a real sense of what life day-to-day, with its triumphal arches, temples, mausolea and senate chambers, could have been like.

By this stage exhausted, I limped back to the hotel and after a very pleasant siesta, set out again on foot for the Spanish Steps, which I approached from their top end and descended (picturing myself as Jude Law, or perhaps Gwyneth Paltrow, in The Talented Mr Ripley), weaving my way through the youthful, noisy crowds to the designer label heaven of via Condotti then up via del Corso to the piazza del Popolo which I found, in its dullness, rather disappointing. I doubled back down via del Corso to a quiet piazza where the restaurant, deli and bar Gusto appears to be taking over every available space and so they should in my view, given how delicious were the gourmet aperitivi served with my Campari and soda - my 'Italy drink'. Fairly full, and wholly knackered, I opted for a simple supper, an excellent pizza Diavola and very boozy Tiramisu at an anonymous restaurant near the hotel...and so to bed.

Worn out by that day's excesses, the next morning I slept in and then after a leisurely late breakfast set off by Metro ('grimy', I jotted in my notebook) for the Vatican. The piazza at St Peter's, so famous from years of televised appearances, was immensely impressive, beautiful for its symmetry and scale (even though the fountains were, sadly, inactive) but I have to say that I found the basilica itself, and the vast, labyrinthine Vatican Museums, to be bordering on the obscene. I am not irreligious, but I really do fail to see how when there is so much suffering and poverty in the world, so much preventable sickness and death, and much of it in nominally Catholic third world countries, that it can be right for so much wealth to be hoarded by a church. I left as quickly as one can when there are near on twelve miles of corridors all of it strictly one way, and returned for a quiet afternoon of reading and blogging (NB: Italy has an anti-terrorism legislation, strictly enforced as I found, that requires anyone wishing to use internet or cheap telephones in internet cafes to produce photo ID, a passport or driving license. Odd!) I went down to the hotel bar for 'Happy Hour' - i.e., more Campari & soda with more free nibbles, then headed across the road to the tenth-floor roof terrace of a sister hotel to watch the sun set over the city.

The rest of the evening was nothing if not flattering. Firstly over an excellent dinner of saltimbocca a la Romana, washed down with a very nice Verdicchio, I was approached at my pavement table by a not-at-all unattractive man who after very little initial preamble invited me home with him for sex - I declined, having not even tasted my veal yet and really rather wanting to. Then, having moved on (unaccompanied!) to Coming Out, I struggled to avoid the predatory gaze and subsequent advances, entirely unwelcome but wholly understandable, of a travelling Belgian. Nice to know I've still got it in me, so to speak.

Booked on a train to Florence the following afternoon, I nonetheless wanted to get some value of the morning if I could, so I strolled a few minutes from the hotel past the pretty fountains of the piazza della Republica to two noteworthy churches; one, Santa Maria della Vittoria, which houses Bernini's famous sculpture of Saint Theresa in Ecstasy (in, not on, please note, but from her face it's hard to tell) and the modest but beautiful basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli which fronts the remains of the Diocletian baths or terme from which Termini station gets its name - not, as I and no doubt you would have thought, from its being the end of the line. Churched out, I had just enough time to pop to the international bookshop for a copy of A Room With A View - my 'guide book' and source reading for Florence, my next destination. I was able to board the train feeling that I had really seen Rome, not just the main sites but some less obvious ones too, had savoured its food and wine, and experienced life as it's lived by day and night. Exhausting it may have been, but new relationships always are, and I think this was just the start of what will be a life-long love affair with Rome.

Next instalment coming, ASAP!

Queens of the Valencia Scene

OK this has, I'll grant you, been a long time coming, but I've at last found time to sit down and write up the last leg of my Spanish adventure. Ironically I'm doing so as the first leg of the Italian tour comes to a close - tomorrow I leave Rome for Florence - but the sooner I'm up to date the better so here goes.


I left Palma late on Friday evening, a little emotional but nonetheless excited about my next destination and all the more so for knowing that I'd be met there by Dougie who is at pilot school in the city for the next couple of months. Things didn't start well; I had a run-in with a vile German at the airport which left me ridiculously upset (I had the temerity to walk faster than him in the line to security and upon realising that his aggressive Teutonic expletives were falling on uncomprehending ears, he barked at me in English, "We are not here for fun!" "Fuck you matey, I am here precisely for fun," thought I, but kept schtum lest it turn into a new European conflict...) but all was soon forgotten when hardly as soon as we'd taken off we were landing again.


I called Doug as soon as I was off the plane and arranged to meet him at my hotel, the Melia Plaza, in an hour; I'd barely had time to dump my suitcase and utter a 'wow' at the vastness and loveliness of my room when there was a knock on the door and Señor Colman arrived. All residual sadness over thoughts of Fritz and anger over the German at the airport disappeared at seeing my long-lost dear friend, and we raided the mini-bar and caught up over beers while enjoying my spectacular view of the Plaza del Ayuntamiento below.


Despite having been in Valencia for two weeks already, Dougie had not yet made any forays onto the scene and so, like two naughty girls who've just been released from the convent, we headed out into the balmy night. All that we knew - from my trusty guidebook - was that the scene centred around calle Quart, and a moment of sheer hilarity ensued when we stopped at reception to ask where we might find said calle: the receptionist being busy, we asked a little bespectacled security guard, whose descent into uncontrollable giggles and knowing winks outed him as being on our autobus. 


Delighted to find that it was just minutes from the hotel (how I have such luck with these things I don't know - the same's happened in Rome but that's not for here!) we clip-clopped along à la Carrie and Samantha and after a couple of fruitless sashays up, down and around Quart we landed upon a packed and stylish café bar called Trapezzio where we downed drinks and eyed up boys until it abruptly closed around 1.30AM. Pleading first-night-in-town ignorance to one of the barmen as to where to go next proved beneficial: a flyer boy was summoned with a wave and thrust free passes to Deseo 54, the hottest night in town, into our greedy little hands.


A short taxi ride later we found ourselves at Rojo Vivo, the club where Deseo takes place, and a few generous-ish tips early on ensured that as the club rapidly filled up to shoulder-to-shoulder capacity, we alone never had to wait for a drink at the bar. Not being chemically enhanced as the vast majority of punters (mixed, but more gay by a long way, and generally beautiful) seemed to be, it was nothing short of miraculous that we managed to last until...oh I guess about 6.00AM when we finally admitted that we'd had basta and taxied it back to the Plaza.


Next morning - alive but for the grace of the gay gods - we strolled through Valencia's beautiful sunlit streets to the Plaza Santa Catalina, home to Valencia's hulking and not-really-very-pretty cathedral. We sat down to an al fresco tapas brunch at La Sardineria, a very gay-friendly place specialising in (no prizes for guessing, folks) sardines but also offering a wide range of tapas classics both fishy and otherwise, and chewed the (metaphorical) fat while enjoying the array of delights the cute Latino waiter brought out, among them huevos revueltos con jamon - that's yer actual scrambled eggs and ham, don't you know - and patatas bravas. Suitably nourished to brave the challenge, we paid €4 to climb the cathedral's impressive octagonal bell tower, El Miguelete, and - arriving at the top somehow not dead from exhaustion and altitude sickness - we were both impressed at the sweeping panoramic views over the very handsome city way below us (our smiles in the photo here may be because of this, or may perhaps have just been down to our relief at having made it to the top without falling to our deaths from the winding, vertiginous, rail-less stairs up!)


After a detour via the architecturally impressive, canary yellow wedding cake that is the Estacion del Norte to buy my ticket to Barcelona the next day, and having taken in the spectacular, Roman amphitheatre-style bulk of the bull ring, we were ready for more sustenance and headed for Bar Pilar on calle del Moro Zeit, reputed to be Valencia's best tapas bar and famous for its clochinas or baby mussels. The reputation is well-deserved; our clochinas disappeared in a matter of seconds, the calamari was, we agreed, the best we've ever had, and even a plate of whole baby squid in garlic, the result of a clumsy linguistic cock-up on my part and served when we were already pretty full, were delicious.


While Dougie went home for a little siesta (these midgets do tire easily...) I headed to IVAM, Valencia's contemporary art gallery, and although the building is a peaceful, calming temple of minimalism, the art within - echoes here of my MACBA experience in Barcelona - was disappointing, the work of one featured artist (Vicente Colon) consisting entirely of black scribbles. Three rooms of it. Undefeated, I took a long route back to the hotel taking in the outskirts of the city and a visit to the gorgeous shop of Paquita Ors on calle de la Paz. Doña Paquita Ors, a qualified pharmacist and expert in all things dermatalogical, is Spain's answer to Estee Lauder. Her appearance is utterly bonkers - do please have a look at her picture on the website - but she is absolutely revered by the cognoscenti who make up her clientele, and her two delightful assistants took great pleasure in helping me choose a cologne which (if you can catch me for a sniff you'll agree) has all the makings of a new signature scent.


With Doug reappearing, rested and refreshed, it was time for dinner and earlier in the day we'd booked a table at Basilico, owned by friends of a friend of Dougie's, on calle Cadiz in the soon-to-be-supercool neighbourhood of Rustafa. This turned out to be undoubtedly one of the highlights of my whole trip to date for many reasons. Firstly, we were greeted like old friends by Arif, the chef, and his partner (in life and business) Alex, and an extra pavement table set up for us. Arif is a suave, worldly hunk of a man, not unlike George Michael in his sexy days before he turned to dope and went to seed, and Alex is six foot two of Gallic gorgeousness, charm and sang froid. The menu was intriguing, not the Italian one might expect given the restaurant's name but in fact a combination (please - we'll have no 'fusion' on this blog thank you very much) of Mediterranean and Asiatic influences accompanied by a short, interesting wine list.


For starters, Doug went for the seasonal salad with goat's cheese crostini and red onion jam, while I opted for steamed dim sum (which were yum yum); for our mains, I took Alex's recommendation of the teriyaki salmon, marinated for hours until rich with flavour then poached to just done-ness, served on dressed egg noodles, while Doug went for red curry prawn noodles which he ooh-ed and aah-ed over with all the enthusiasm he normally reserves for Argentine barmen. We washed it all down with a bottle of crisp, chilled Rueda, a Chablis-ish Spanish white, all the while being fussed over like VIPs (which of course honey, we are) by Alex and chatted to as often as kitchen lulls would allow by Arif. Portions were so generous that dessert was out of the question, but we did manage (between us, not each) some chilled vodka, super-duper espresso, a Martini and a mojito (the cocktails on the house, bless you Arif and Alex!) all of which took us and the Basilico boys well past closing time. If ever you go to Valencia - and I do recommend that you do - go to Basilico; I really loved it and everything about it.


Full not just of food but of energy too (probably down to the espresso!) Dougie and I again hit the scene, this time with Arif in tow; much to our delight, he had decided a few hours out would let off some steam after an exhausting night in the kitchen, so the three of us hopped in a cab up to Quart and hit Venial, a sprawling club and bar where it seemed at least half the folks from Deseo the night before had rocked up to get down (and perhaps get off) to the commercial dance soundtrack. For a breather (and to see if we could marry Dougie off to a sexy Spaniard) we popped round the corner to the dark, cruisy and fabulously named Nunca Digo No - 'I Never Say No'! - where Arif, so my new best friend, and I, married men both, propped up the bar while Doug went off to explore some of the 'darker' reaches of the venue. His exploring didn't last long; the lights went up not long after our arrival (it was only 3AM, after all) so we tottered back to Venial where we watched the stage show (men and a lady come on in sportsgear - men and a lady dance in sportsgear - men and a lady remain in sportsgear...thrilling stuff!) and giggled and drank for a while longer before we decided to call it a night and head for our beds.


By Sunday, Dougie was quite the broken flower so I was left to my own devices and filled my last few hours very pleasurably. I began by taking the bus across town to the Ciutat de les Artes y Ciencias, the spectacular complex of futuristic white buildings all but one designed by Santiago Calatrava to house the city's performing arts and science spaces. As I walked around taking in the exteriors of the rib-cage like Umbracle, the perforated drum of the Science Museum and the spaceman's helmet housing the concert hall, I sipped on a chilled horchata, every Valencian's favourite summer drink made of tiger nuts and tasting not unlike delicately salty soya milk. Returning to town for lunch, I pigged out, at Sagardi, on gourmet pintxos, a sort of tapas-for-one to which you help yourself from the bar and pay - by an honesty system - when the cocktail sticks each is pierced with are counted up at the end. My time slowly running out, I was simply delighted beyond words that with just enough time left to enjoy it without rushing I chanced upon a vast Tintin exhibition at the Centre for Contemporary Culture, my absolute love of the boy detective meaning that I wrapped up my visit on a massive high.


I left Valencia with a smile on my face and some memories to treasure; I was delighted to have a chance to share them with Matthew and Xavi, the lovely friend who had invited me to dinner at his flat in Barcelona when I first arrived and who insisted I join him again on my return. My last few days in Barcelona were less packed but just as much fun as the first few; I enjoyed the Fundación Joan Miró more than any gallery I've been to this trip, and I rounded it all off with a mega-crawl of the scene on my penultimate night, revisiting some old favourites (including Dietrich, where a shine was taken to me by the Dutch squash team, still in town after that week's Gay Games!) and discovering new ones, notably Museo which was chic but unpretentious. I left Barcelona - and, for now, Spain - full of emotions, full of new experiences and lessons learned, all of which I'll sum up in a post of their own. For now it's on with the travels; hasta luego Spain, and ciao Italia!