Tag: travel

Arrivederci Roma. Taking my baggage to Monopoli

It’s a total myth that Mussolini made the trains run on time. Pure propaganda. Just something he told people to prop up his image—a kind of early “Make Italy Great Again” move.

Unlike me, insomnia doesn’t take holidays. I woke at 2:30 a.m. and never made it back to sleep. My alarm was set for 6:30 to get me to the airport, but that was irrelevant—insomnia had other plans. I arrived at Roma Termini well before schedule, early for my 8:00 a.m. train. I didn’t mind. It gave me time for a coffee, a pastry, and a bit of people-watching—while being elbowed aside by a few Italian women who clearly needed their caffeine fix more urgently than I did.

One woman strolled past me with a tiny black poodle on a leash. Behind her trailed a boy, maybe twelve, dragging a cat carrier in one hand and a backpack in the other. Inside the carrier was a small black cat who, despite being repeatedly knocked against the boy’s leg with each step, looked oddly calm. Stoic, even.

Boarding the train with time to spare, I found my seat and tried to store my luggage. It didn’t fit in the overhead. It didn’t fit behind any seats. I checked both ends of the carriage—no luggage rack. I asked the train guard for help. He shrugged, turned away, and offered that uniquely Italian solution: “no problem.” Several others seemed just as lost.

Meanwhile, the black poodle escaped, the boy now juggling the dog and the cat carrier. I stepped on the leash just in time, stopping the poodle from trotting off into chaos. The boy gave me a grateful nod. The woman seated next to me gave me a sharp glance. She didn’t appreciate my oversized bag—frankly, neither did I by that point. I finally found a single empty spot in the next carriage’s storage area. My suitcase hung halfway out into the corridor, wheels and all, but I decided to let the train gods deal with it.

Later, on a walk through the carriages to find food, I had to step over other bags just abandoned in the aisle. I shrugged and looked away. Not my problem. I was adapting.

The sandwich I bought tasted like cardboard. Its best-before date was still nearly two weeks off—June 19, 2025—but I took one bite and buried it back in the bag like a bad memory.

Despite being a high-speed train moving at over 160 km/h, it still managed to arrive in Bari late. Eleven minutes behind schedule. Just enough for me to miss my connecting local train to Monopoli. I had planned everything to arrive in Monopoli with plenty of time to drop my bags, grab my swimsuit, and head out on a sailing and snorkeling tour. A dip in the sea would’ve been bliss—for both my mind and my osteoarthritic joints. But thanks to that delay, I missed it. No tour, no swim. Just a tired, hungry, thoroughly annoyed version of myself on a platform in Bari.

The coastal scenery, with glimpses of olive groves and the occasional trullo—those traditional conical-roofed houses—should’ve lifted my spirits. But fatigue dulled the beauty. I barely registered them.

Monopoli, however, saved the day.

The moment I arrived, the weight of the journey began to lift. My hotel was charming, the staff warm and welcoming. From my room window, I could see the marina—where my boat tour should have departed. I rolled my eyes and sighed, then headed out for a walk.

A short stroll brought me to a sun-drenched piazza. I sat down, ordered a glass of local wine and a platter of meats and cheeses. With each sip and bite, the irritation faded. Mussolini didn’t make the trains run on time. As I looked around the town, I thought, it doesn’t matter. No matter how bad the journey, Monopoli seemed worth it at first glance.

Rome – if you want to.

What Made Me Think of Rome?

I can’t quite remember when the thought of Rome first crept in, but I remember exactly where it happened. I was on a flight from Melbourne to Sydney, watching the flat fields of Victoria slip away beneath us. As the plane climbed, I looked out at the rolling hills on the horizon—and, for some reason, I thought of Rome. The Seven Hills. The Eternal City.

I imagined wandering its ancient streets, soaking in art, architecture, and centuries of history. I pictured myself eating pizza and pasta, sipping espresso at little corner bars. I tucked the thought away, saving it for another time.

Since then, I’ve travelled elsewhere. But this time, the thought of Rome wouldn’t be ignored. The Seven Hills were calling. So I left a cold, wet Sydney behind on an early morning flight bound for Italy.

Before leaving, I impulsively booked a three-hour Vespa sidecar tour through the city. I didn’t pause to think whether it was a good idea. Before I’d even paid, I was telling anyone who’d listen: I’m doing this. That’s how excited I was. And the tour didn’t disappoint.

I left my hostel early and wandered through the streets to the meeting point. Of course, I stopped on the way—for a café latte and a tiny pistachio cannoli at a small bar. Maybe it was the warm sun on my back, maybe it was the friendly “prego!” from the smiling waiters, or maybe it was just Rome itself—but that coffee tasted like the best I’d ever had. The cannoli wasn’t bad either.

At the meeting point, a gleaming pistachio-green Vespa with a sidecar rolled up. The driver introduced himself as Roberto. With limited English but great warmth, he asked if I wanted a coffee while we waited. He brought me to a little machine nearby, proudly explaining—in Italian—how it grinds real beans fresh for every cup. A macchiato from the macchina.

Soon, two more Vespas pulled up with four friendly American tourists. Our guide, Manuel, was a passionate Roman with a gift for storytelling—mixing history with humour, facts with folklore, and always a personal touch.

For three hours we zipped through Rome, stopping at iconic landmarks and Manuel’s personal favourites. I couldn’t stop smiling—or waving. I waved at people crossing the road, on the footpath, in passing cars. They all smiled and waved back. A small dog barked; I barked back, grinning. It felt like the entire city was reflecting my joy.

At midday, we reached Piazzale Garibaldi for the daily cannon firing. But it wasn’t the only loud bang. It turned out to be the last day of school, and the streets were full of laughing kids letting off fireworks, dousing each other with shaving cream, and firing water pistols. Once I stopped jumping at every explosion, I couldn’t help but laugh too.

As the tour wound down, Manuel asked where I wanted to be dropped off. I didn’t really want it to end, but he suggested Piazza Navona. I agreed—fairly certain I hadn’t been there during my last visit 20 years ago.

I thanked the delightful Roberto and wandered into the sunlit piazza. I lingered in the heat before sitting down with a cold Peroni and a classic Pizza Margherita.

Ah, Rome. La dolce vita.

Sayonara. The sun sets on the package tour

I had forgotten how good Japan is to visit. Despite Hans Solo, despite the long hours in the bus, despite the patience required to travel with 36 other people who just one.  week before were perfect strangers. Despite the fact I said I would never do a package tour and despite the fact the package tour took us to just a few key sites and totally missed out on seeing the actual cities of Tokyo and Kyoto and had us on the outskirts. Despite my complaints about all of this and more – Japan is beautiful.

The Japanese people are kind and patient – and extremely quiet. The food is delicious, well prepared and beautifully presented. Even the food at convenience stores and highway rest areas is fantastic and we experienced many at both of these. I laughed out loud at our first highway rest area. I walked into the female toilets to find women from our bus, videoing the facilities. They hadn’t seen anything so clean, functional and well organised including live flower arrangements, at public toilets before.

The trip to Mount Fuji, Fuji-san, was six hours on a bus and Fuji was clouded in. Fortunately we saw it later from the bus on the trip back to the airport to leave Japan. Fuji-san was mocking Hans Solo. At least that was what I thought. Or maybe Fuji-san was mocking us.

The one optional tour we did in Japan was a day trip to Hiroshima. Half the tour group including us sisters started the day with a Shinkansen train trip to Hiroshima from Osaka. There we were coupled with 12 members of the “dog” bus or “doggie people” as Hans Solo referred to them. 

The museum at Hiroshima was harrowing. The exhibition included photos taken soon after the bomb was dropped, original accounts from the people of Hiroshima including interviews, artworks and poetry. If we weren’t already crying at the sadness and the shame of humanity, seeing and hearing the small 10 year old students on a school excursion sobbing out loud, made me gulp in an attempt to prevent my sobs. The students were being shielded by their teachers in an attempt to hide them from view but to little avail. This made the sorrow more heartfelt and tangible. We were seeing photos of children, the same age as those on the excursion, burnt, black, with rags of skin hanging off their limbs. The visitors moved silently through the exhibition; the children’s sobs the only sound apart from the shuffling of feet. I was glad to reach the end and move from the darkness into the harsh sun. 

The afternoon part of the tour took us to Miyajima Island and the Itsukushima Shrine. A ferry ride to an island was exactly the antidote needed. On the bus to the ferry, Hans Solo was telling us that Miyajima is famous for its oysters. He asked the bus if we like oysters. The ones that did yelled out a loud “Yes”. 

“Yes”, he repeated, “will you eat oysters”?

“NO” yelled the people who don’t like oysters.

“What?”, asked Hans “you like oysters but you won’t eat them? Why can’t you make up your mind”?

The doggie person, male, across from me said “because they are women”.

If looks could kill, I’d be charged with murder. He returned my death stare with a “what?” look, seemingly innocent eyebrows raised. Casual, uncalled for misogyny is just not my thing. Again, a ferry ride and an island are the perfect antidote.

Miyajima is beautiful. We visit the shine, take a few selfies and stop for lunch. Wild deer gently walk past visitors and seek rest under the shady trees. Before long, it is time to head back and we all gratefully break away from the doggie people once we reach the train station. 

The following day is a trip to Nara to see, feed, bow at and avoid the deer. The park is beautiful and shady, the deer docile until you have rice crackers in your hand. You feed them a cracker and they bow to you. You bow back and give another. However, if you aren’t fast enough, they start butting, biting and chasing you. Hugely funny when it happens to other people. Also, a word of warning, it’s better not to get to close as they suddenly pee and poop and both can end up your leg. Also, muddy horns and grassy teeth can stain clothes.

With the tour over and Hans Solo’s banal commentary on everything from look at the guy filling his own petrol tank, “this is self-serve” to “see the panda truck, this is removalist. They pack up your home and move for you”, there was only one last thing to do, the five and half hour bus ride to the airport, then home via Hong Kong. No such thing as a direct fight when you are doing an inexpensive two-for-one Trip a deal.

I was worried about doing a cruise and a package tour. I would do a cruise again. I never thought I would say that, but I would. Would I do a package tour again? At the beginning of the trip, I was thinking maybe I would, if it was a small tour. Now I’m saying never. Never ever again. Sayonara.

Tokyo CSI – The Case of the Missing Case

During the chaos of disembarking from the ship and the bus being late and people going missing and fighting and all the rest of it, I quietly went to speak to our new guide, Hans. Yes, a Japanese guide who had been given a Dutch name. I advised him of the problem.

“We have a problem. One of my sisters has the wrong luggage case. We think someone took hers by mistake, as they have the same red bandana tied around the handle. It was the only one left, so she took it but it is not her case. Are we able to sort this out? Can you help us please”?

“Yes. Yes. I will do but first, you see the situation. Many people here. Many people missing. No bus. I need to find the bus”, Hans replied.

“That’s OK, but we need to find the case”, I replied.

“OK. OK” he yelled over his shoulder as he disappeared amongst the dozens of buses in the parking lot.

Finally, when we were almost all on board, and he began his commentary about how we were going go find the missing passengers, a little about himself and some information on the dual religions of Japan. During his commentary, he would keep stopping to answer phone calls. Every time his phone rang or he looked at a message, Margaret and I would look at each other, nod knowingly, and assure each other this call was about her case. 

It never was.

I asked him after the break if he had any news. Hans assured me he had called the port and the case was being looked for. After the first tour highlight – I forget what that was now – I asked him again, “any news on my sister’s case?”.

“No news. Sit down now”, he snapped.

The bus, again named the Monkey bus, took us to the next site. The heat in Tokyo was unbelievable. It was now 36 degrees and walking anywhere was out of the question for us. We sat under a tree eating ice-creams while Hans Solo, as we were calling him, led the hardy to see the gate house of the Imperial Palace.

Back on the bus, Hans Solo advised we were about half an hour by train from the centre of Tokyo. He offered to take an extra excursion later that evening to “the intersection”, Shibuya Crossing. The Shibuya intersection is known as the busiest in the world. It is estimated approximately 2,000 people cross there every two minutes. Discussing with the sisters, we decided we wouldn’t go. I had been before and the others were tired. One of our fellow travellers on hearing our discussion, leaned over and said “I’m from India, I have seen that many people many times. We won’t be going”.  Given the sour feeling that had descended on the group, this light relief was welcomed as we made the decision not to go. 

I advised Hans Solo, when checking in we wouldn’t be going and asked him about the bag again. He replied there was no bag left at the ferry terminal and if we didn’t hear anything tomorrow, we would need to go to the police station back near the port. Rolling my eyes, we checked into our hotel and decided to stay local for dinner and have an early night.

Unlike China, the optional tours in Japan were optional. So we decided to ditch the tour to visit a volcano the other day. We needed some space and rest from the bus, which was feeling like a crowded share house. Instead we stayed in the local area, Asakusa and helped Margaret restock on clothes and underwear. We rest of us also took advantage of the the shopping. 

I was last in Japan almost 15 years ago and it is incredible now how inexpensive things are, especially food and clothing. The convenience stores are a fantastic place to get the freshest sandwiches you have ever eaten for lunch as well as an amazing array of food that you have never thought of, that tastes so good.

After lunch, I texted Hans to find out if he had any information on the bag. He texted back that we would go to the Police Station near the ferry terminal tonight and asked if 8:00pm was ok for us.  What option did we have? We had planned to go into Tokyo city, but the bag was more important. We agreed knowing the ferry terminal at Yokohama was approximately an hour travel each way.

At 8:00pm, we met him downstairs. A few week-meaning fellow Monkeys, all had ideas on how we could find the bag. I pointed out …. somewhat impatiently … that during the day, I had tried calling the phone number on the bag, I had emailed MSC three times, I tried messaging the phone number on the bag, and finding the owner on facebook. All of which was “much more than Hans had done for us” I said loudly and looking at him accusingly. He then joined me in telling the others that we had to go. Somewhere along the line, he changed his mind and the local police station would do. I guess he didn’t want the two hour journey either.

We walked out of the door of the hotel to the corner police box. It was open but unattended with a sign to call a number. Hans spoke to a local in Japanese and told us we had to walk about ten minutes to the next. We did dragging the offending bag behind us and cursing the person who had taken Margaret’s bag. 

In the police box, slightly larger than the first, a young police officer was dealing with an old man sitting on the only seat in the room. Hans told us he would wait outside as he was on a phone call. His assistance in helping us was certainly lacking. We walked into the cool police station and waiting for the police officer to finish with the man. Then an older police officer came out from the back, nodded at us and wondered what to do. I knocked on the window and angrily beckoned Hans to come in and help. 

Hans pointed to the case and spoke in rapid Japanese. The older officer stared at the bag the whole time. When Hans finished, the officer asked a few questions, his eyes never leaving the bag. By now the younger officer had chased out the old man and was listening, her eyes darting between us an the case. Hans answered his questions and then started to make a phone call. As he did, another officer walked in from the front door. The story was repeated. The old police officer was still staring at the case. By now, I was ready to laugh. I looked over at Marg, so I could indicate with my eyes, that I was about to laugh out loud at the never-ending stare at the case. It was if staring at it would make it disappear and for his quiet night to return. Margaret, however, was holding back tears.

The last police officer to join in the discussion sat down at the computer in front of us. He told us in English that he was searching the data base to see if Margaret’s bag had been handed in. It hadn’t. He then told us, two forms would be filled out, one a lost property report for her bag and the second a found report for the other bag. Which the older officer was still staring at. Hans was still on his phone. Once the forms had been signed, and we quickly agreed we didn’t want a reward for the case we handed in, if it was offered. It was over. We left the police station and walked back into the hot Tokyo night, two days since Margaret’s luggage was lost, knowing we would probably never see it again.

Sailing into a storm

I didn’t expect this. I never thought I would say these three words. I love cruising. All of my favourite things in one place. Waterslides, swimming pools, spas, bars, dancing, karaoke … I could have got exhausted in thinking about what to do next. China was behind us, Japan in front of us and nothing to do but kick back and relax for three days … with the other 396 Trip A Deal cruisers and 4,500 other tourists, mainly Chinese. The food was plentiful and good. The seas were calm. The weather balmy and the margaritas icy cold.

Cruising was fun. Until the last night. Earlier that day everyone on board had received instructions on disembarking early the next morning. We were allocated numbers, stickers, disembarkation times and meeting points. We were given 18. We had a round sticker with the number 18 on it to wear on our chest. We had name and address tags for our bags with 18 boldly stated, and stickers for our cruise card to make sure we were paid up. No one could leave the cruise without paying for their margaritas. We were to dock at 5:30am and our allocation departure time was 10:00am. 

It started at the dinner line. A fact that someone had heard from another bus that they had been told by someone. Rumour spread through the Trip A Deal buddies like a fast moving virus. We were to ignore the departure times given by the ship. We were not to put our bags outside our cabins to be collected as instructed. Instead, we should take our bags down to level five reception at 7:00am.  All the Trip A Deal people would be let off first as we needed to be on our buses by 8:30. Some of us caught the rumour virus, others fought it, and others escaped it altogether. Someone else had heard a Trip A Deal representative was boarding the ship that night to give us all a letter. Others pointed to the travel information received by the company in our travel documents which said “You will be required to disembark your cruise in Tokyo at 8:30am. Early disembarkation will result in long waiting times at the port with limited capacity, and this will ensure your travel group stays together”. Everyone had different interpretations of this instruction.

I called the front desk and was told we “could do either”. We hedged out bets. We put our bags out for collection the night before. Decided to be down at 7:00am to see what happened. If everyone disembarked, we would go too. If not, we would have breakfast and leave at our allocated time. Not long after I fell asleep, I woke up in a panic and decided to pull all four bags into our small cabin. Rushing out into the corridor, I realised I was too late and our bags had already been taken. Trying my best, not to worry about things, I tried to fall asleep by telling myself, we had made the right decision in the first place and all would be all right in the morning.

At 7:00am, I went down to see what was happening no level five.  Many of our group, the purple monkeys, were there. Lots of others from the nine other buses were there too.  All with their bags. The main topic of conversation was still whether or not getting off at 7:00am with your bags was a rumour. All of a sudden, some doors opened and people started leaving. I called the sisters and told them we were moving. Jostling each other, hitting others with wayward day packs, and running over toes with large heavy bags, the Trip A Dealers swarmed towards the exit doors. My sister arrived and we joined the throng without our luggage. At the exit, my sister, Margaret, was turned back. She had linked a debit card, rather than a credit card to her account. She owed $2.50 and was sent back in to pay. Rather than leave her alone, I went back in to find her telling Louise and Ellen, we would meet them at the tour bus – wherever that was. We fixed Margaret’s account easily and went back downstairs to join the long queue. A staff member noticed we had no luggage and advised us to go upstairs to level six and leave that way. We did as said. There was no queue whatsoever and we were out faster than we could blink.

Downstairs all of our luggage was lined up under a sign that said 18. We picked up our bags and quickly caught up to the others at passport control. In no time we were on a comfortable shuttle bus to take us to our tour bus in a nearby car park. Lots of the Trip A Deal buses were already there. In fact, all of them were except for the Purple Monkey bus. We waiting in the shade of a truck as the temperature quickly soared to its 34 degree high. Breathing in the fumes of the truck that was running to keep the aircon inside going, members of the group began to get more and more cranky. We were tired – well, those of us that were there were tired,some of our group still had not turned up. We arrived at about 9:00, a small group had been there in the shade of the truck since 8:00. It was then, that Margaret realised the bag she had, was not hers.

Our guide finally turned up, but no bus. That didn’t arrive for another 20 minutes or so. The guide did a head count. Six of us were missing. We told him the names of the six. I told him about the bag. He wasn’t able to focus on the bag as by now, the group were tired, cranky and hot. The ones that had been waiting there needed a toilet and some of us were hungry. Others hung over. We waiting until 10:00am. Two more of the group had turned up. Four were missing. All up – apparently there were 20 of the 400 people that still had not disembarked. One bus was to wait for the missing, the rest of the buses would go. As our bus left, many of our group clapped and cheered. This led to the man who had popped his shoulder, Justin, to stand and declare “Some of you will not like what I am about to say, but I’m disappointed we are leaving without members of our group. You don’t leave people behind”. An uncomfortable silence fell over the group that followed for the rest of the day. Little groups formed, whispers and accusations followed, even after the missing four had rejoined us. The tour took us to a couple of sites before arriving at the hotel. We are the only bus at this hotel which is nice. What wasn’t nice was the camaraderie of the group had gone. As had Margaret’s bag.