Highlights Of A Whistle Stop Tour

Highlights Of A Whistle Stop Tour.

I close my eyes trying to make myself believe I've imagined the rats
scatting around me. The packed platforms of London's Victoria station.
The announcer beams out around us. His voice is nervous. People become
more aggravated and restless. The train is already forty minuets late.
Rain drizzles off umbrellas and the freezing wind is only sheltered by
the people packed next to me.
I open my eyes. The rats are still there. Their scruples echo down the
eerily quiet hall of the station. Open-ended platforms allow in the
warm breeze of the night. Cold slabs of stone cool my legs. 4.30am. Our
train leaves Milan Central at five. Sleeping on the cold floor of the
station has given me cramp all over. I get up and look for my trainers.
There are only four or five other groups in the station, which is
patrolled by police, yet my trainers are missing. I inspect my bag to
find my travellers cheques gone also. I wake my three companions for a
quick cry before going to the police. Checking everyone's feet as I go.
Always looking on the brightside I realise it will give me an excuse to
go shopping once we hit Venice in two weeks.

Sitting in a circle on the floor of a nightclub in Corfu is a bit
surreal. Lights dim. Music starts. Pink Ouzo is passed around in shot
glasses as a reminder that we are in the Pink Palace. Once downed we
are rewarded with china plates smashed over our heads. Various drinking
competitions, judging of the best Toga worn and fire eating is followed
by music and dancing until the early hours.
Strolling across the beach back to our apartment reminds me of
nothing. Pure paradise in my drunken world. The rising sun. The start
of a new day for some. The hustle and panic of getting though London's
rush hour on route to work. Only rushing here is to get though the
European cities. Bern, Rome, Paris, Corfu, &;#8230;but not now. I
reach my bed and enjoy.

Lake Orta is the wind down stint of the holiday. The lake at a
stones-throw. Windy back streets hide authentic shops and Italian
churches. Like any majestic small town really. Thinking to Brighton old
town. Narrow streets people scuffle to get down reveal medieval
building, cobble pavements and uniquely expensive shops. No tourists
here though. Lazy days spent swimming in the lake are broken up by
trips to the local market or a speedboat to the tiny island in the
middle of the water. The convent is the only site here. Hushed whispers
escape from the windows where a vow of silence is supposed to be in
order. Arrival back to the main land rounds of the day with a
traditionally large Italian meal.

Florence is a beautiful city by night. Opera plays in the streets as we
glide along the riverbank looking at the sites. By day we can not do
anything. Immobilised by the constant heat. Awoken at seven in the
morning by the glare of the sun. Crawl out of the pit of sweat that has
gathered in the tent overnight and spend the day searching for the
shade is the best we can manage.

Walking through the streets in Munich is like fighting you'r way though
Oxford Street. Familiar shops provide relief to any homesick girl. A
bicycle tour of the city now cancelled, as we do not follow directions
on the map very well. Find a nice restaurant that offers Pizza, (now we
are out of Italy), drink the night away with a keg of beer in a garden
pub and wonder how we made it this far without being able to read a
map.

The campsite has finally quietened down to a gentle buzz. Most people
are sleeping or chilling out on cannabis. Our tent is still damp from
the lashings of rain that fell this afternoon. The canal beside us
quivers in the gentle breeze. I can see the shadow of a monstrously
large chicken coming straight for me through the canvas. For the 28th
night out of 29 on holiday I am kept awake by my partners
snoring.
Then the rain starts again. I know it will be going all night and
already it is starting to come through the sagging roof. I feel like I
am stuck on a day trip to Margate beach rather than on the last leg of
a unique treck though Europe, Amsterdam. On the beach we are alone. The
windbreaker pulled snugly around us can not stop the wind, nor the
drizzle of rain. Mum hands me, her baby, a sandwich. I inspect the
contents. Ham and sand, a gritty combination. After braving our best
British front the weather finally gets the best of us and we
reluctantly retreat to a caf? with a view. Just like tomorrow, we will
retreat to another train. I twiddle my toes to stop my soggy socks from
sticking to my feet. It seems to scare the chicken away.