In Trentino*...a long way from Verona

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. 

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. 

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.

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.

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. 

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.

Lots of cake for breakfast at the Cristina (a wellness hotel!).

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).

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.

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.

Heading home...

I awoke around 0600hrs. It was time to head home, but first breakfast. Alright, not a particularly healthy breakfast (cake, croissant, Coco Pops, ham and cheese rolls, a sugary fruit juice and a cappuccino) but I was accustomed to such fayre and was ready to head downstairs at just gone 0700hrs. I had set myself one challenge: to see if it was possible to get into the bathroom without activating the fan. I figured I would need to be on the floor, on my stomach, crawling along the ground like a commando, but it might be possible and, of course, I would need video evidence. I lay on the floor with a view to setting up my iphone video camera. The iphone needed to be placed against the wall and then I would proceed to crawl into the bathroom and hopefully the fan would remain silent. Well, the whole thing was a waste of time from the get go. As soon as I placed my iphone against the wall the fan activated itself, meaning that there's no way I would get in their without being 'noticed'. I gave up, there was no point. Was there ever any point?

Waiting for my cab outside the Villa Dragoni, Buttrio

A few more guests had arrived at the Villa Dragoni as there were now five cars parked outside and I heard people last night walking around on the wooden floors, coming up the stairs, going to their rooms. In fact, this morning I saw somebody leaving their room so I'm guessing it's almost a full house. There might be a function going on. One of the people I met at the conference told me she was married at the Villa Dragoni and perhaps things were being set up for the weekend. Today is Saturday and I should have been cycling to Oxted for a cup of coffee and a chill-out, but I can't because I'm still in Italy and I have a cab, a train, a bus and a plane to catch (and possibly another cab when I get the other end). But first, the cab from the Villa Dragoni to Udine railway station and a train to Venezia (that's Venice). I kept nodding off on the train but eventually alighted at Venezia Mestre just before noon. The area outside of the railway station left a lot to be desired. There were undesirables floating around, put it that way and the back streets were littered with graffiti and Chinese restaurants. I'd say this was the Chinese quarter, but that would far too grand a description.

Breakfast on my last morning...

I had two hours to fill before I needed to be at Marco Polo airport and the only real option was to find a cafe and sit there reading and eating. While it had been suggested that I check out Venice and the canals, once I'm locked in to 'getting home mode' anything else is added hassle; all that would happen is I'd miss my flight. So I pushed my luggage around the mildly dodgy streets around Venezia Mestre railway station looking for somewhere to eat. I settled upon the Bologna Hotel and sat in an empty restaurant until somebody presented me with a menu: spaghetti bolognese and a green salad plus a fizzy mineral water and then, when finished and paid up, I headed towards the bus station where I boarded a bus to the airport. It was a short journey and soon I found myself passing through security and passport control and hanging around awaiting departure. I was flying easyJet to Gatwick (far better than London Heathrow and nearer to home). The flight was good and I managed to finish American Pastoral before we landed. I was in seat 1a, right at the front of the plane and plenty of legroom. Strong headwinds slowed the plane down. The flight time was two hours and when we landed I completely forgot about the train strike. It was Saturday evening. I only remembered the strike when I got to the railway station at Gatwick and found it deserted. Taking a taxi was the only option so I called my cab company and then waited in the Costa on the South Terminal - another excuse to eat rubbish, this time in the shape of a cinnamon brioche roll and a cappuccino. I can't remember what time I reached home, it was probably around 2000hrs. Strictly Come Dancing was on and I couldn't believe that a whole year had passed since the last programme aired. For some reason I'm going off the whole thing, probably because of the BBC and their PC stance. Karen Clifton is dancing with another woman and I don't really understand why or what the Beeb hopes to get out of it, what do they want us all to be thinking? Oooh! The BBC is so right on! Most people don't care, I know I don't. We all know there are homosexuals and lesbians and it doesn't really bother us, live and let live and all that, so why does the BBC feel it has to ram it down our throats? If anything, rather than suggest that all is fine and two women dancing together - or two men - is nothing out of the ordinary, I would wager that it has the opposite effect. People are tired of having their consciences pricked, we know it goes on and we don't give a stuff. Get over it!

Breakfast buffet on my last day

I can't remember what happened after that, I sat around, not really watching the television and eventually, around 2330hrs, I hit the sack. I slept reasonably well and had aborted my planned ride to Westerham to meet Andy, I simply had to take things a little easy. But I'll be back in the saddle soon. In fact I'm planning a ride or two during the week if the rain holds off. I need to get back to some healthy eating. All week I've been stuffing my face with croissants, biscuits, cakes (for breakfast!) and it's not good. Don't get me wrong, I've loved it, but I need to get back to the way things were a few weeks ago: two to three mid-week rides, plus my weekend cycling. I need to get back to Alpen for breakfast and green tea and I might start making myself avocado sandwiches so I don't have to visit the caff. Looking at the photo to the left, however, I must say that I miss those extravagant, sugar-filled breakfasts and I was getting used to drinking cappuccinos instead of tea, but generally speaking I think I need to be indulging in healthy eating again and that's the plan for this week.

More tales from the Villa Dragoni...

I'm beginning to wonder whether I'm being assessed. For me, the big question is this: why was breakfast served in my room on day one and thereafter downstairs with, presumably, the other guests? Except there are no guests, it's just me; I know this because I asked. I am the only guest. I think the reason they got me to fill out a breakfast form was to assess my level of piggery ahead of inviting me down to mingle with the others residents, but of course there are none. When I reached 'the breakfast room', which was a dark and lonely space close to the front desk, I spied a table full of goodies. It was as if a buffet had been laid out, but little did I know at the time, it was all for me. There were four rolls, a solitary boiled egg, three croissants, two yoghurts, three offerings of cereal in plastic containers, the bowl of fruit from yesterday containing apricots, a pear and kiwi fruit and, foolishly perhaps, I assumed that because there were the four rolls there might be four other guests, although, apart from the table where I was sitting there was only one other laid out for use; and when I say 'laid out for use' I mean there was some cutlery on the table. Needless to say I helped myself. I ordered a cappuccino and enjoyed a fairly pleasant breakfast, washed down with a couple of glasses of fruit juice. The woman offered me another cappuccino and while I should have declined it, I didn't, figuring it would keep me awake later on.

En route to breakfast...

I had everything timed. I knew it took around 30 minutes to get to my location because I'd walked it twice yesterday. There was no rain so a stroll was just what the doctor ordered, although I had been prudent enough to buy an umbrella in Udine on Tuesday night ahead of dining alone in a small and fairly intimate restaurant. I had ordered pasta with gamberoni and tomato and later had tiramisu, it's one of those desserts that I love but always regret having once I've finished it. Outside it was dark and I had around a 15-minute walk to the railway station where I was hoping to catch a train to Buttrio and then walk the last 15 minutes to the Villa Dragoni, but it was not to be: a woman sitting in a kiosk at the station told me the next train was in 90 minutes and there was no way I was going to try and amuse myself in Udine for such a long period of time. There was only one thing for it, a taxi, so I waited at the rank and, like the night before, one eventually turned up. Once through the gates of the Villa Dragoni I trudged across the noisy gravel to the villa and of course there was nobody around. I went straight to my room and hit the sack.

My day went as planned and at lunch time, after cheese, ham and then risotto, I decided to walk back to the hotel to fetch my business cards. In total yesterday I walked roughly 8km and now it's another day and the bells of the nearby church are tolling 0700hrs. Last night I went out late in search of a restaurant. To be honest, I didn't want to go out, but all I had eaten was small amounts of food and the odd snack during the conference tea breaks. I found a place called the Parc, I think it was a hotel restaurant as I saw a colleague of mine, but fortunately he didn't see me. I was directed to a table and ordered bruschetta followed by roasted chicken breasts with cauliflower and roasted potatoes – a little bland it has to be said and while tiramisu was on the menu I wanted to get back to my hotel. The stroll down to the Parc  – which was a fairly nice place even if the service was a little slow – was blessed with rain so that umbrella came in handy, but on the return walk it only spitting so I didn't bother opening it out. Bored and with nobody to converse with I hit the sack and fell asleep, waking around 0400hrs for no particular reason and then drifting off until the alarm on my iphone sounded at 0600hrs. It's now just gone 0700. I'm showered and ready for the day and, more importantly, ready for breakfast.

Those two windows on the first floor look out from my room

I almost forgot: there are now more guests. I'm not sure how many, but I think three rooms have been taken up by the people I've seen. There were two women checking in last night as I headed to the Parc restaurant, and earlier in the day (I think at lunch time when I returned for my business cards) I saw two men. It might have been that one man was dropping the other off at the Villa Dragoni but short of asking I don't know.

Postscript...

I now know for a fact that there are four men and two women staying in the Villa Dragoni. This morning over breakfast I saw the men. That means there are seven people staying and only five of the 12 rooms still vacant. Oddly, I was rather enjoying being the only guest. There's also a new member of staff serving breakfasts – or rather tending to the needs of those having breakfast, which mainly means offering them a hot drink as everything else is laid out for them. My breakfast this morning consisted of a bowl of Coco Pops (my hotel treat, I never have them at home), two slices of cake (one apple, the other chocolate), some ham and cheese, two rolls, fruit juice and, of course, a cappuccino.

The Villa Dragoni, Buttrio, Italy...

The Villa Dragoni is arguably the strangest place I've ever stayed. It is a very grand, classical establishment set in some impressive grounds in Buttrio and is surrounded by quiet residential streets where it is possible to walk for miles without seeing a soul. Buttrio is the sort of place where you can walk in the middle of the road, safe in the knowledge that you won't be run over. In the villa (I have been here roughly 24 hours) I have only seen one other person and she is the person looking after the place, alone. I asked her if there was anybody else and she said no and for all I know, I might even be the only guest. It's hard to tell as I've not even come across other rooms. There are no corridors with numbered rooms on either side and my room (room three) is kind of on it's own with nothing on either side of it, I don't have an adjoining room in which I might find another guest. It's all very strange. This afternoon I found that I was locked in the place. The door that led to the staircase which leads down to the 'front desk' – if that's what it can be called, it's never manned by anybody unless they know you're coming, and only then if you call them. Last night my taxi driver pressed the intercom on the main gate and eventually the woman (that's all I know about her, she's a woman) opened the gate, presumably by pressing a buzzer. When I look out of my window when it's light there is nobody around, the villa itself appears empty, all the darkened rooms are echo chambers with no signs of life, there are tables without tablecloths or chairs, lights are off, nobody is home and yet I'm told there are 12 rooms here and with a convention in town you'd be forgiven for thinking that the place would be choc-a-bloc with guests, a full house even, but if it is, I've seen nobody.

The Villa Dragoni, Buttrio, Italy...

Today 'the woman' told me that tomorrow (Wednesday) breakfast would be served downstairs and not in my room, which means that if there is anybody else staying here I might see them. It's going to be an interesting morning. 

I've spent the day looking for the conference venue as I knew it was close by (2km away) but just needed to know in which direction to walk. After a fair bit of faffing around and using the iphone's SatNav (something I've been doing a lot over the past few days) I found it and it works out to be roughly a 30-minute walk through seemingly deserted streets. The well-appointed houses on either side of the streets are quiet and there is no sign of life, except on the Via Nazionale where cars travel in both directions going in and out of town. Restaurants are sparsely populated, similarly teashops, not that I've found many. In one of the latter – let's call it a café as they don't have teashops in Italy – I stopped for a cappuccino and a creme-filled croissant (my new delicacy) and asked for directions to the conference venue. There was a man wearing clothes branded with the name of the company hosting the event and he gave me rough directions which I eventually abandoned, but that might have been because I took the wrong left turn and ended up heading back towards the Villa Dragoni. With dogged determination I set out again this afternoon to find it and find it I did. As I say, roughly 30 minutes. An American woman I met at the location (she lives in Pittsburgh and flew in yesterday from London) told me I might need an umbrella if I'm planning on walking. Oddly, I don't think I have much choice in the matter as getting a cab around here is nigh on impossible, or certainly not at the time I need it. Best to put my faith in walking or even cycling. I know they have a bike for hire and I might take it, but perhaps not tomorrow. Either way, a bike in the rain is definitely off the agenda. Fortunately the event starts at 0930hrs, meaning I can get up early and enjoy a leisurely breakfast before heading off.

This evening I took the train to Udine. It takes all of 10 minutes, but there was no time to buy a ticket so I risked (foolishly) a 200 Euro fine. Fortunately there were no guards on board or they simply couldn't be bothereed to do ticket checks. At the station I met a girl from Albania who worked for the company hosting the event. She had been working in Buttrio for the past four months and I think she lived in nearby Udine. She was going to visit her parents, I was simply looking for somewhere decent to eat dinner and eventually found a really nice, quiet little restaurant where I enjoyed pasta with prawns and pomodoro sauce followed by (foolishly, but then I always fall for it) a tiramisu dessert. I ordered coffee but then realised it would be my fourth of the day. Fearing that I might not sleep I decided not to drink it and instead asked for the very reasonable bill (around 20 Euros). Not drinking alcohol makes all meals cheap although I'm told that some of the best wines in Italy can be found here in Buttrio. It was tempting, but I held my nerve and stuck with the sparkling mineral water. The last thing I want after nearly five years of abstinence is to go back on the booze, back to hangovers and the wrong attitude towards life.

Trains between Buttrio and Udine are few and far between. When I reached Udine station for the return trip I was told that the next one would be in 90 minutes. I couldn't wait that long so I waited (just like yesterday) for a cab outside the station. When I was dropped off outside the gates I fumbled in the dark for my key and eventually gained access, but as I trudged alone along the dark, gravel, tree-lined pathway towards the villa I started to wonder if I would meet 'the woman' or whether I'd have to use the telephone number (which she always answers) to enter the building. She wasn't there, she was nowhere to be seen but the the door was open so I went to my room, up one flight of stairs, and then across an exposed walkway reminiscent in so many ways of those fairground ghost trains where the train briefly reappears to onlookers below before plunging back into the darkness of the ride.

It is strange being here and wondering whether or not I'm alone. Tomorrow will reveal the truth of the situation. 

No thunder storms tonight so I guess I'll get a pleasant night's sleep. I must set my alarm to wake me around 0630hrs so I'll be in time for breakfast. At least being downstairs and (hopefully) with other people I'll be able to ask for milk with my cereal. I must say it feels quite weird being here in this huge old building surrounded by trees and lawns and with a freezing cold swimming pool still flaunting itself to those mad enough to consider a swim (there's a huge and very dead black beetle sitting at the bottom of the deep end). I did think about going in having braved the cold pool in my villa last week, but I'll be honest and say that this time (further north as I am) I didn't fall victim to temptation.

Far too cold for a swim...

It is now 2136hrs and unlike conventional hotels, I can't just go down to the front desk and ask for some peanuts or wander into the gym for a spin on a stationary bike; there's no ice machine in the corridor (there's no corridor!) and there's no elevator, nowhere I can bump into another guest and stand their self-consciously waiting as the numbers count down to the ground floor. The television works, but everything is dubbed in Italian and it's odd watching Ray Winstone in Great Expectations speaking in a gruff Italian voice or Clint Eastwood (ironically) in a 'spaghetti' western, a pasta western perhaps.