Alone, a brisk walk through the cold, wet Sydney streets of July leaves a twinless soul to ponder. My thirst for summer developed, my need for a break increased and the money which I saved for so long, was ready to be spent. For six months, Europe had dealt with Nino. Now they had to deal with me!
When packing, I examined every beneficial aspect of the Blundstone boot in the United Kingdom. I debated the importance of polar-fleece and decided that in Italy, style most definitely comes before comfort. Yes, preparation certainly deterred my longing for sisterhood. Ever since she had left I thought only of reunion. It didn't seem so important now.
Having mastered the Sydney to Queensland peregrination, I considered myself quite the jet setter. This sad and delusional perception was soon altered. The flight was a mesmerising time of discovery. I learnt not to wash sleeping pills down with a litre of coke. I learnt how to appreciate an alcoholic beverage at high altitude. I learnt not to make eye contact with my non-English speaking Norwegian neighbour and finally, that not conversing with anyone for twenty-four hours leaves one with a bizarre chain of irregular theories on life.
In a daze, I arrived at Heathrow Airport. Dragging my monstrous pack through the gates, a nervous energy swept over me. I could sense my sister's presence. Well, not really, but I could hear her singing "Advance Australia Fair". Yep, that was her alright. She saw, she ran, and she bowled me over.
To the average person, the first thought that comes to mind when hearing the word accommodation, is bed. This is not always the case. Nino worked in a bar and lived in a small attic. "Cute - where's my room?"
After two days of sleeping, eating jacket potatoes and discovering every street, shop and castle in Old Windsor, the two of us travelled to the country's capital for our first expedition. What an experience! With a zip up back pack and camera in hand, I followed my sister into the chaotic world of the tube. She warned me, "It'll digest you whole and spit you all over London." The tour guide from hell. In desperation, I was dragged to every tourist destination possible. "Where's the fire I asked". She blocked out any irrelevant questions.
Trafalgar Square, Leicester Square, Piccadilly Circus and Oxford Street. The whole Monopoly board was covered. We walked by day and drank by night. "A pint of your best lager please". I learnt quickly. I spent money, a lot of it. The electrifying consumerism apparent within the famous Camden Markets momentarily transformed me into the latest in vogue style queen of the "City of Fashion". However, baked beans, expensive high-tech night clubs and numerous photos in red telephone boxes finally took their toll, it was time to move on. The beach perhaps?
Scarborough. Once described as "the shit hole of the world". The train ride was short, the seats, sticky. We sat next to a drunk. She bought us some wine. The venue was chosen, not for its historical importance, but so we could experience the beach culture of England. Yep, fourteen degrees and brown sand, it's summer alright. Bathing with the lower class, white bellied wader seemed invigorating, but we weren't there to swim.
The conjectured village of tarpaulin tents overflowed with gambling instruments and spinning amusements. Coloured flashing lights left the captivating East Coast shimmering with a fluorescent twinkle. We'd sung the song and now we were part of it. "Scarborough Fair", the Las Vegas of England. Warm soft drink was served, but we didn't care. The people were friendly, the beers cheap and fish and chips the most affordable meal.
More importantly, we learnt about the Bed and Breakfast. Nino and I shared a room. We gossiped, giggled, and I asked her if she minded carrying those extra kilos. "Oops". Out with the lights and ready for a new adventure. "Salut".
"Speak French to the French and they'll speak English to you". Frantically, I tried to learn the whole French language as we sat choking in the smoking section of the Channel Train. With Paris t-shirts and maps in hand, we arrived at our comfortable, Marie de Clichy Youth Hostel. Here, we ate croissants, chatted to foreigners and drank copious amounts of French champagne.
Although inhibited by a time factor, the sighting of every famous tourist attraction was made possible by the reliable but congested Metro. With the rest of Europe, we waited patiently in the fifty kilometre line and yes, did catch a glimpse of the glass covered Mona Lisa. We climbed the Eiffel Tour, prayed in the Notre Dame and saluted the Arch de Triomphe. More importantly, we travelled the city in search for the finest street front cafe. All supplied tuna baguettes, served cafes and stocked immense quantities of grog, "une biere merci.?".
After every cultural experience, Nino and I would meet for a drink. Here, we sang, argued and spoke of food variation. An inability to order anything other than baguettes or croissants caused slight starvation. Pizza is what I dreamt of.
"Ciao bella" was the only phrase Nino knew when we crossed the Italian border. The twelve hour, overnight train ride was an ordeal. ''Cheap tickets only cover carriage class" we were told. Our orange, vinyl seats collapsed into the size of a single bed. Closing my eyes I thought, you can never be too close? Strangled by her Walkman, I awoke with a foot in my face and an Italian officer at the door. "Venice, five minutes."
We strapped on our packs and exited the air-conditioned carriage. I couldn't breathe. Humidity was one hundred percent and the temperature was fifty plus. When we reached the gates, the average, dirty station was disregarded as the illusionary Venice became reality. Sandstone bridges interlocked the maze of narrow streets and huge courtyards. Glossy, black Gondolas competed with the overflowing ferries on the glassy water roadways.
With green eyes, brown skin and blond hair, the perfect male specimen became part of the faultless beauty evident on the pastel coloured buildings and pebble stoned pathways. To get a closer look, it seemed the beach was a good idea. Unlike your Manly or Bondi, it was situated in between two private resorts and looked like a construction site. Complete with grey sand and luke warm water, we were quickly reminded of why it was time to move on.
It was in Rome that we became advocates of the MacDonald's tourist map. They were brightly coloured, had illustrated symbols of each historical monument and indicated the position of every "Macca's" restaurant in the city. With this, we made our way to our hostel, dumped our bags, and set off for some history.
"Rome, the most dangerous city in the world". Thanks Mum! I walked through the busy streets carrying two wallets, a hidden money belt and a bolt locked back pack. Apparently I was useless. I had no idea where we were going and, after a few "locational" problems, the map was confiscated. Our first destination was Saint Peter's Square. Stone archways encircled the scaffolding covered church where so many people and pigeons had praised the Pope. As a sign of respect, short pants or singlets were not allowed inside the church. Whilst many stretched skirts and made sleeves from napkins, my sister and just pulled out our new "Roma" t-shirts. Yep, style was definitely more important.
The inability to understand the transport system left us only one option - to walk. We travelled from the Colosseum ruins to Vatican City. We trekked from the Sistene Chapel to Trevi Fountain. We walked through plazas, we walked to art galleries and we walked to the station for our last Italian train ride.
"Travel by ferry to the Greek Isles, it's just like a cruise ". With one thousand other island party hopefuls, we boarded the "Diamond Princess" through the cargo compartment. Our dock-class tickets allowed us access to the lavatories, the night club and a bed on the hard metal floor. Huddled on top deck, the two of us awoke at sunrise to see a distant Corfu. With damp clothes, salty skin and one heck of a headache, the hostels bus awaited its new guests.
The somnolent convoy of hung over guests was taken down a set of narrow concrete stairs set into the depths of the Greek mountain side. We were given identification bands, a greasy breakfast and a shot of Ouzo. Although only 6:00am, somehow the toxic aniseed tempted me, "I'll have another one please."
After a quick nap, it was time to work on those European tans. The pebble covered foreshore was filled with brightly coloured beach chairs, brollies and bikinis. Towering, cliffs and green mountains framed the cove with gigantic, jagged rocks penetrating the dark, salty water. An afternoon temperature rise would awaken our love for the shade and incite our shopping instincts. A wooden bridge led us to the island markets where counterfeited brand names, fake Greek tiles and souvenir magnets became a necessity. As night fell, a sun setting swim turned into a moonlit bask. Beer by the water, dinner in our togs and a quick shower was all the preparation needed for a night at the club. At midnight "Zorba's Dance" would play and the "Greek culture", came alive. Quite willingly, but very much inebriated, several cocktails encouraged me to have a plate smashed on my head. "Ouch, just one more time?"
"Be careful on the roads, Greeks drive like madmen". I was told this as I hired my yellow moped. The fact that I had never ridden before did not concern the staff, "just take it for a spin before you hit the roads". Like a 400CC racer, I mounted the bike, slipped on my Blundstones and casually drove it into a wall. "Sorry. Can I have a helmet?"
As my passenger, Nino wasn't too impressed with the collision and, for the first ten minutes, closed her eyes and strangled my waist. In between beach-hopping expeditions, cute, Greek villages appeared on the hill tops. Old, black-clothed women holding donkeys and carrying water buckets greeted us outside whitewashed houses. Hoping for some free food, we waved and looked cute.
Nothing much was said as our final night neared. With a Toga Party to attend, sleeping seemed inappropriate and packing, unheard of. At 4:00am we thought it best to get ready for our voyage home. Belongings covered the entire room and we were drunk.
The "Early Bird" bus took us back to the docks. Nino rested against me as we shared a coke. I didn't talk much. We were handed our expanding bags, given a cheap, Corfu badge and left standing together in the middle of the bus stop. It was hard to say goodbye to your soul mate, especially a second time. Nino whacked my shoulder, "see you in six months then". We didn't hug, we didn't kiss and we didn't gaze longingly into each others eyes. "Yeah, keep safe mate". As she walked to her ferry, a fragment of the connection which we had always denied, detached. "See you in six months."
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