Sometimes I have a strong impulse to make a stand, make a point, a statement, and it never does me any good. Yesterday, after loitering around the terminal building I made my way to the gate, Gate 22, which was a fair walk, but I needed it after that ill-advised almond croissant and cappuccino back at the café. Remember, I had already enjoyed breakfast, albeit at around 0700hrs and it was now mid-morning.
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| Verona airport |
I decided not to use the automated walkway – or conveyor – as it's just too lazy for words, and besides, it was quicker walking unless I walked whilst on the moving floor. I passed Gate 13 and realised that I would make a stand if my flight was leaving from that gate. No, I won't have it, I simply won't have it.
At Gate 22 there was a little queue and then Groups 1 to 6 were invited to board. I was Group 6 and I haven't the foggiest idea what that meant. I walked through the tunnel to the plane, getting a little angry at the HSBC ads that lined both walls as it was all part of the air travel thing, along with the big brand perfumes, the international banks and suddenly everybody was an Economist reader, everybody knew a great deal about central banks and international politics – or that was what we were being led to believe: that here, inside the claustrophobic passageway that led to the plane, it was all about 'international business' and entente cordiale and all that cosseted clap trap of the well-pressed shirt and the whiff of Paco Rabane. Those days have gone, I felt like saying out loud, "they've gone, do you hear me!" but for the sake of revealing my inner craziness and saving myself the humiliation I zipped it.
I hate the moment of stepping from the jetty on to the plane and being greeted by the cabin crew, this time with a complimentary wet wipe, which I refused. What the hell would I do with a wet wipe? I found my way to seat 28a where I found Dorothy, a 71-year-old woman celebrating her birthday with a trip to Verona to meet her children who were already there [although later I didn't see them at the airport waiting for her, she was looking for a shuttle to take here somewhere and was after somebody who could tell her where it was].
My anger built up [but remained concealed] when it was announced that we would be sitting on the tarmac, in the plane, for the next hour, something to do with our slot, our time of take-off. I seriously considered getting off the plane, making some excuse and just going home. I was on the cusp of doing it because I didn't like the look of the grey skies outside the window and was already imagining turbulence, something I hate with a vengeance. But I stayed put and struck up a conversation with Dorothy and Francesca, a 21-year-old American from Nevada who was studying in London but was visiting a friend who was studying in Verona.
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| Dessert at Polentera Hotel (apple strudel with vanilla cream) |
Dorothy had a sad tale to tell. Her ex-husband, an airline pilot, ran off with a younger woman and has since had four kids with her, but Dorothy was left alone in Dulwich, albeit with the support of her kids (also his, although they have disowned him). Dorothy is a diabetic, but it doesn't seem to bother her. She's also an actor of sorts and has appeared in movies and pop videos. She was in one of the Terminator movies, she told me, unless I wasn't listening properly, although I think she was an extra. Francesca was quietly spoken and clearly from money, she showed us movies of her water skiing in blue seas off the coast of somewhere extortionate and I could tell by her tanned skin that peeked through her ripped and trendy jeans – and the fact that her father was also a pilot (of his own plane) – that an easy life lay ahead. We all 'got on', which was nice, although chatting whilst confined in an airliner doesn't really constitute 'getting on', but I got the feeling that Dorothy wished we all had more time together; this was, however, the conventional brief acquaintance of travelling and while we all made noises of 'see you again one day!' we all knew, of course, that this was our first and last meeting and that we would never see each other again. Nobody exchanged email addresses, put it that way.
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| View from Polentera window |
We were in the air for around 90 minutes, there was no turbulence but a lot of cloud until we'd cleared the English Channel and were half way across France, then the Alps appeared in all their glory and soon the plane was chuntering towards Verona. The landing was smooth and Maria was there to greet me. We drove towards Storo and the Polentera Hotel, which I would later discover is surrounded by mountains. I had dinner alone and then went back to my room to watch television, all of which was either dubbed into Italian or
was Italian. I gave up and turned in, but awoke around 0300hrs and found it difficult to get back to sleep. Eventually I must have nodded off because the alarm sounded at 0630hrs and wearily I made my way to the bathroom.
Breakfasts in these small 'agriturismo' hotels – let's not forget the Villa Dragoni in Buttrio, Italy – aren't particularly healthy: cappuccino (well, I asked for one because it was offered) plus biscuits, sugary fruit juice, a bread roll filled with jam and a slice of cake – were on offer and I scoffed the lot, of course I did, 'when in Rome' and all that, although I was a long way from the Italian capital. I was close to Lake Garda apparently, or so I was told as I was driven away in a Fiat 500 from the Polentera Hotel. I'd expected to be staying a second night, but no, I'm in the Cristina Hotel in Pinzolo tonight, a wellness spa hotel designed for the skiing fraternity. Well, not yet. I will be later today and there's a pool, but I haven't brought any trunks, although I'm guessing there won't be time, there never is. This trip has an itinerary, it's a bit like a conference, but right now I'm sitting in a room 'working' as the whole thing doesn't start until lunch time, begging the question: why did they pick me up at 0820hrs? I guess that there's little to do back at the Polentera, but then there's little to do here so I'm spending my time deleting emails, answering emails, sending emails and I might put a news story online, but other than that there's little to do; I'm also sitting here in a suit, which feels a little bit stilted...and hot. I might have to take off my jacket, it's probably the most radical thing I'll do all morning.
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| Breakfast at the Polentera Hotel in Storo – lots of unhealthy stuff. |
When work was over (it's never over when you're on a foreign press trip) there was dinner, which seemed to go on forever. It started around 1900hrs with ham and cheeses on plates outside of the restaurant, the Champagne flowed but I stuck it out with sparkling mineral having explained (as you have to) why you don't drink, it's such a bore. Dinner didn't start until around 2100hrs and it was gone 2300hrs (and many glasses of mineral water) before I returned to room 143 and another broken night, this time I awoke at 0400hrs and managed to get back to sleep before the alarm sounded at 0630hrs.
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| View from room 143, Cristina Hotel |
Yesterday afternoon I had heard that my Friday evening flight back to London was cancelled by those bastards, British Airways. They'd booked me on a flight home Saturday morning, which meant an afternoon of swanning around in Verona (not a bad call) but in all honesty I'd rather have been going home. Still, I've made the most of it. I found Romeo & Juliet's famous balcony (it's not up to much) and now I'm sitting in Casa Mazzanti, a caffé, drinking a cappuccino. Over here, cappuccinos are not so over-the-top as they are in the UK. Instead they're smaller in size and not so flamboyant. No chocolate on top, just the white milk, they don't stand on ceremony. I'm booked on a flight tomorrow morning at around 11am, which means I need to be at the airport at 0900hrs. I could do without that. In fact I could do without flying. I'd much rather catch the train to Paris and then jump on board the Eurostar to St Pancras, but I'd never get home so I might as well grin and bear it. I think if they cancelled again, I'd be on the train immediately (who's to say they won't cancel again?).
The hotel I'm staying in here in Verona is very pleasant. I'm in room 106 of the Albergo Mazzanti. It was down a side street so my taxi driver was unable to take me to the door and I had to walk the last few yards. It's weird isn't it? You would have thought I'd be happy to be here, swanning around Verona (and I would be had I been getting on a train tomorrow morning (or even tonight) but I'm not. Instead I have to engage with air travel again and I'm not looking forward to it. All that stands before me and the flight is a decent meal and I've yet to work out where I'll be going. I might go back and ask the hotel for their recommendations. Anyway, nothing much more to say so I'll sign off.
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Lots of cake for breakfast at the Cristina (a wellness hotel!).
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| Poor man's Colosseum in Verona... |
* I ought to point out that while I flew into Verona I was quite a way from the city for most of the time on this trip. My first stop was Storo, in the mountains, I'm told the Dolomites, and I was in the region known as Trentino, which is basically a lot of snow-topped mountains with towns dotted here and there. They surrounded me wherever I was, be it in the hotel or out on the streets, they were everywhere. It was odd, because today (Friday) we drove away from the mountainous region in a small minibus (well, it was a large cab). As we drove along with mountains on both sides and at the front and back, I marvelled at the dramatic scenery. Eventually, however, I fell asleep (probably because I'd been getting broken nights).
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| Room 106, Albergo Mazzanti, Verona |
When I regained consciousness we were on the AI motorway and then the A4 motorway and the mountains had gone. The land was flat and I could see for miles. It was good to sleep and I enjoyed every luxurious minute of it. When we reached our destination it was time for more work and when it was over we took the same cab and found ourselves in a small café in a place called Vicenza. The weather here was lovely: blue skies and sunshine. I left my raincoat in the suitcase and we ate alfresco, just a snack, before getting back in the cab and heading for the railway station where my colleagues were boarding trains to Verona and Venice. It was time to say goodbye to everybody. I was staying with the cab all the way to Verona, which was 50km away. I had another night to go thanks to, but not courtesy of, British Airways (they're not as good as they're cracked up to be, a bit like the UK). As I said earlier (yes, this post has kind come full circle) I am in Verona now. I'm sitting in the Casa Mazzanti caffé having a cappuccino and writing this blogpost, which I have now finished.
Well, almost finished. I feel I must say something about the hotel, the
Albergo Mazzanti, as it's absolutely the perfect hotel for anybody looking to spend the weekend in Verona. For a start there's only 16 rooms, so it's small and perfected formed, which is what I like. Second, it's bang in the centre of the city, a few paces away from a huge square lined with restaurants and cafés and only a short walk from the aforementioned Romeo & Juliet balcony and what I referred to above as the poor man's colosseum. I'm sure it's got a proper name, but that's what it looks like. Anyway, the hotel is amazing. As I write this, it's Saturday morning and I really must be making tracks for the airport and a flight back to Gatwick. However, just to say the rooms are great (see photo) and the breakfasts are good too. More cake, I hasten to add, but that appears to the Italian way and I'm certainly not complaining.
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| View from room 106... |
Yesterday I wandered about a little, mainly in search of the Romeo & Juliet balcony, but then a little further, up to the "colosseum" and beyond and then back to the hotel for dinner, although not in the hotel but in the nearby Caffé Dante, which has struck a deal with the hotel (you'll get 10% discount off the price of a meal there). And let me say that Caffé Dante was very good indeed. I had two courses and it was around 54 Euros, not bad considering the quality of the food and service.
I better get out of here, got a flight to catch. All I need to buy is a fridge magnet to add to my collection. Last night I discovered that Verona has a Hard Rock Café, but as I didn't fancy dining there I couldn't very well pick up one of their magnets. The problem is that buying one from the many kiosks dotted around the city is only possible if you have cash. I don't, just a credit card, so I'm without one at present. My only hope is that there will be some at the airport as I don't really want to draw cash just to buy a fridge magnet. That said, it would be a shame to leave Verona without one.
