48 hours in Naples and 40 metres underground

It's the beginning of September but we totally  feel the cold of 5 am as we approach Udine by train. The sun is still hidden behind the Alps and the few passengers around us seem sleepy. But they are certainly not going to such an exotic place and they don't have the adrenaline rush of the beginning of a journey like we do. 

As Yasmin and I descend towards the south, perched villages and semi-arid fields alternate with the large stations and suburban areas we pass through. Sitting next to us, two old ladies who are now widows have found each other and talk about how nice it is to travel together. Puglia, Campania, Sicily...but strictly at the end of season "or eotherwise it would be too much chaos". I don't tell them, also because they think I'm not Italian, but I fully agree with them: it's very nice to travel together with someone else. And in the end we arrive: Naples.

 

The first impression just outside the station is of North Africa. Dirt, traffic and hot air. Then, walking along Corso Umberto I in the direction of our accommodation, the traffic and the ubiquitous stalls mingle with noble palaces, university buildings and fashion shops. This is something new for me, which perhaps I have only glimpsed in Palermo. 

Above: One of the rare city dustmen in Naples; Below: a well swiped off scooter

The sea. We look for it immediately, and we can see it but we can't reach it. The pier next to the Maschio Angioino is interrupted by a military zone. In the other direction a long harbour strip begins, mostly closed to the public. While alongside the sea, cars tussle with eachother on the avenue.

 

People. When I take off my shirt I don't notice that my ID card has ended up on the ground. A couple on a motorbike behind us does notice it, stops to pick it up and chases us to give it back. A farmer who’s regulating the irrigation of his field is waiting for nothing more than a good morning to start chatting and inquire about my life. A bartender asks me how I am doing and insists on not believing my answer. An old lady in line wants to make sure that nobody passes me and protects me. Caterers and vendors who enjoy offering small gifts and pointing out how those are not included in the final bill. So many small flashes which might not be representative, but they certainly smell of generosity, irony and curiosity. In a word: humanity.

 

Pizza. In Naples there is generally no hurry. One prefers to postpone and not immediately think about what has to be done, unless it is not strictly necessary. But when the good in question is pizza, it is necessary that the pizzaioli move quickly and that there is a clear and efficient system to manage the customers. Since the whole city is a customer, or at least I get this impression. Both the places we come across, one renowned and the other one specialized in fried pizzas, have kilometric rows and precise systems to respect the order of arrival. In both pizzas, the thing I love most is the tomato sauce. Followed by pasta, so good that once we’re finished there is no crust left in my carton (never happened before!). We eat them both by the sea, because in the end - if you want - you always find an outlet to the sea. But you'll have to struggle a bit to find it.

 

Privacy. We also struggle to find the cathedral. We walk back and forth in Via dei Tribunali, the Greek-Roman Cardio, but we still miss the crossroad to the cathedral. Once again we see the target (behind the rooftops) but the road is being blocked. On the other hand we have a panorama over the lives of the inhabitants of the city. Conversations on the phone or from one moped to another, pieces of street fenced in like a balcony and windows wide open on the street where everyday scenes take place or where, more frequently, someone sits down and looks us straight in the face. But in the old Naples you go beyond the deprivation of privacy, you feel really pulled up your sleeves in all directions. 

 

Claustrophobia. The port and market area is historically the poorest and most densely populated area. It is therefore the most filthy area, but also the most touristy because it is in the heart of the city. Especially in the evenings, whether you walk along the crowded arteries of the neighborhood or take a detour along the smelly side streets, the prevailing feeling is one of claustrophobia and the desire is to escape to open and less shady spaces. 

Corners in old Naples

The following day Naples is a different city. The pedestrianised Naples of Piazza del Plebiscito and the elegant Naples of Monte Sant'Elmo belong to some other galaxy than what we’ve seen the previous evening. The sky shines over the sea and the Vesuvius, while everything seems clear and shimmering from above. The funicular takes us back to the sea level, to Montesanto, where a small table is promptly set up for us on the sidewalk of a street and we are served a superb pasta asciutta. 

 

Names of places. Some religious, others dialectical, others Greek and Latin sounding. But certainly not univocal. In fact Google Maps takes us to Pozzuoli, instead of Bagnoli, while we are looking for the Villa of Posillippo. But it doesn't matter, since there’s plenty of Roman remains there too, including the amphitheatre wanted by Nero, which is still standing and is hosting a concert in a few hours.

 

Stratifications. Perhaps not even in Rome do you go so "down" in time. The underground of Naples are in fact already incredible like this and much has not yet been excavated. As a guide tells us, "you can't tear down history to look for more history". And so you only dig where you do not go to destroy anything, which is very rare in Naples. But in other cases there is no need to dig a lot because the underground has never really been abandoned. As in the case of the 40 kilometres of Roman aqueduct, kept in use until the outbreak of cholera in 1883 and reused as anti-aircraft shelters in the Second World War by thousands of Neapolitans. In Naples you can live the present by stepping on history with your feet, but on the other hand it has always been like that and you don't pay much attention to it. 

 

Books. Maybe I have never seen so many books on sale as in Naples, and it is a great sign. The books already welcome you at the mega Feltrinelli of the central station, but it is the small bookshops in the centre with their stalls - especially in the area of Piazza Dante, near the University - that fill the streets with books and culture. You can perceive a cultured Naples, student movements and literary cafés.

 

At the end of our stay in Naples, before heading towards the beaches of Cilento, we emerge from the underground and are greeted by the tarantellas of a quartet of street artists. We make the “Pizza wallet”experience, which is a good lunch despite costing one euro. Although still lacking in peace and quiet, it is difficult to leave Naples.

The view from Monte Sant'Elmo

Nerone's anphiteatrum in Pozzuoli

Paestum. We pass through Salerno, skirt the sea for a while, cross countryside full of greenhouses and finally arrive at the dilapidated, but undergoing renovation, station of Paestum. Another evocative name, assigned by the Lucans population to the Greek colony of Posydonia, and never changed again. Also because the city was forgotten for several centuries, being in the middle of a marsh (now reclaimed) and too close a target for the maritime fleets of the past.

 

In fact, there are less than two kilometres from the seafront pine trees where we are camped to the Greek city. In non pirate and non-touristic times it is a great luxury to have the temples of Athena so within walking distance. I realise this already the first morning when I go exploring at dawn, woken up by the dogs in the neighbourhood, woken up in turn by the cockerels of the farm next to our campsite. 

 

But it is also true that the urge to show the world the beauty of Paestum has in the past led to the construction of roads all around the Greek city. The Archaeological Park, which occupies a relatively small part of the area bounded by the Greek walls, is in fact bordered by a fairly busy provincial road (even at dawn!) and a series of farms that carry out their tractor activities "within the walls". 

 

However, it remains a magnificent place. Like Stonehenge, Machu Pichu and the pyramids of Egypt, this place is a direct link with the man of the origins and with his manifestations of magnificence addressed to the otherworldly. The very architecture of the temples of Paestum, the size of the steps of the stairs and columns, was not on a human scale but on a God scale. Finally, another sensor of connection to the man of the origins is given to us by the theatrical representation of the Euripides’ Medea, set right in front of Athena’s temple. Suddenly, the theme of spirituality and the search for contact with the divinities is no longer relevant, while the very human thirst for revenge, unleashed by the feeling of hatred towards someone who has betrayed us and by the very ancient need to preserve the honour of one's own name.

Medea in Paestum

In addition to the town of Paestum, we also enjoy the beach of Paestum very much. The desire for adventure fades in the face of the gentle fluctuation of the waves and our exploratory and semi-sporting souls give way to a sedentary soul which loves good living. 

 

And just as this sandy beach, as relaxing as it is rich in stories (from the sirens of the Odyssey, to the succession of ancient populations and finally to the bloody clashes between the Allies and the Germans in '43), so too was our journey. And there is no better place than this to conclude its story.

 

Translated from Italian with https://www.deepl.com/ and adapted

Versione italiana di questo articolo

Looking for my viking origins

There's not much sun in Denmark. Most of the days are grey and cold, also because it is a very windy country. However, there are exceptions: two places are said to be significantly sunnier throughout the year than the rest of the country. One is Bornholm, an island in the south, off the coast of Poland. The other is Skagen, the northernmost tip of Jutland, the Danish mainland which stretches from Germany towards Norway and Sweden. This is the story of how I ventured to this very last tip of Denmark together with 4 other friends, and then continued by sea to Sweden.

The beginning of the journey

In order to get to Skagen from Copenhagen you most likely pass from Århus. Århus is Denmark's eternal second city. In terms of population, university, economy, cultural offer it gets close to Copenhagen, but it doesn’t quite reach it. Since we have only little time, we just drive through it. We only stop in a supermarket and  then continue towards Alborg. 

In Alborg, which is much smaller, we stop to check out the situation. The streets in the centre are old and decorated. There are few buildings and many brick houses of various colors. I’m thinking that it’s a pretty sweet town when we run into the Christmas market. Then it gets REALLY sweet, almost TOO perfect. But we’re all in a very good mood and we gladly enter one of the bars, where we sit at a long table. We drink mulled wine and enjoy the nice atmosphere, with music and lots of people. But mostly we drink mulled wine. In fact when we go back outside I don't feel the cold anymore and I feel quite tipsy. That was really good mulled wine…

Århus

Alborg

Concerning Vikings

One interesting thing about this area is that it was infested with Vikings. Together with Skania (the southern part of Sweden) and with southern Norway, this was the epicentre of their civilization. Now, as you know, the Vikings have never been a unified kingdom or empire. They had in common a religion, the way tobuilt boats (light, agile, shallow boats) and, how to call it... a certain "lifestyle". But they did not have the organicity of an empire. For many centuries each region was on his own and often fought against the neighbors. Sometimes, however, came the right circumstances for collaboration. One where the incursions towards "the lands of the West" (Ireland, Great Britain, France, Baltic countries, etc.). There were occasions, such as for the memorable Sack of Paris, where the Vikings joined forces to sail and torment the coasts of Europe. 

Before reaching Skagen we stumble across the Jelling Stones. Jelling is the place where Harald Bluetooth, the King of the Danish Vikings, had the conversion to Christianity engraved in stone. Legend wantsthat, behind this unexpected decision, there were Christian priests who cured him from a serious illness and convinced him that a failure to convert to Christianity would bring him back to illness and certain death. So Harold converted himself and forced his people to abandon Odin and embrace the new religion. 

What strikes me, however, is that I see no trace of the Vikings around. Beyond some curious grassy, Teletubbies-like hills, where Kings of the time were buried, nothing else remains from them on the landscape. Isee streets, white churches and country side villages but they are all from a later period. If it weren't for these stone graffiti and for ships that, from time to time, are exhumed from the Kattegat Sea, you would almost think that this whole Vikings story might just be a myth. Maybe invented where too much mulled wine was being poured...  

Parked viking boats outside of Roskilde's Viking Ship Museum

Where the Baltic meets the North Sea

In the meanwhile, we reach Skagen. A tongue of sand diving into the water. The light here, and especially the light of the “blue hour” (at dusk) has attracted many artists in the past. In the 19th century, various painters settled here and brought to Denmark the artistic revolution of the French Impressionists. They are the so-called "Skagenmalerne". 

We cross Skagen-city and head straight to the beach. The point of attraction is in fact there. That’swhere the land ends and the two seas meet each other. It's not a vision of strong impact, but it's one of thosesymbolic places. Somewhere there in the sea is also the Danish border. And we would love to swim across the opposing currents, but it's December and it's not the Mediterranean Sea, so we’re also happy to just dip our feet.

Unfortunately, Skagen is also the point where our paths divide. My friends will give a second chance to Århus on the way back, while my route continues towards Sweden. From the port of Frederikshavn you can reach Gothenburg in two hours of ferry. Always remember that you’re entering a country where alcohol is expensive and it’s only sold within the state-run System Bolaget. So you can understand the suitcases filled with beer that Swedes bring home from Denmark.

The last tip of Denmark near Skagen

The viking fellowship, from the left: Laura, Flor, Carina, Me and Callum

It's written "Göteborg", but it's pronounced "iotebori"

My cousin Adam is waiting for me at the dock. He is a second cousin (our Swedish grandmothers are sisters), same age as me and, although we have never seen each other a lot, for me he has always been thecool cousin who lives in Sweden. I will sleep at his place for a few nights and in the daytime I’ll explore the city. However we start from the nightlife: we head for a beer. The people in the pub are chill and dressed between the hypster and the scruffy. I like it. While on the next day I meet also the rest of the family. It's different to meet them in Sweden, in their neighbourhood, while it’s usually them coming to Italy to visit us. This time I let them guide me and tell me the stories of their city.

Gothenburg wasn't here in Viking times. It was built in the 1600s at the behest of the Swedish King. There was a swamp, nothing else where Gothenburg stands now. It was designed by Dutch architects, and at first it was also animated by Dutchmen, merchants who were invited to settle in and start their trade here. As time went by the city grew, especially thanks to its harbour. From here many people left looking for better luck, but once the industrial sector developed many came to stay. Volvo was born here and still has its headquarters in the city. Since the 1960s, Gothenburg became very lively and distinguished by its music scene. 

Gothenburg harbour

Fiskkyrkan is one of Gothenburg's symbols: looks like a church but it's a fish market

The district where we stay is called Majörna. For a long time it was inhabited by fishermen, then by the low working-class. The bourgeoisie didn't want to live there because it's not close enough to the centre, I suppose. Instead, today, it is a popular district, picked by families because of its “lively tranquility”. Still a little bit Soviet-like looking, Majörna lies in between the green of Slottskogen and the social corner of Håga cafés and Järntorget pubs. So you can meet funny people on the old fashion blue tram, and not only when it’s Way Out West time, Sweden's largest music festival!

But be aware, you will remain a little bit disappointed by the city. For Gothenburg is nowhere near as old,nor big, nor elegant as Stockholm. I’ve told you about its recent history, so you know what to expect. Instead of spending too much time in the center, take a VästTrafik ride from Saltholmen to the archipelago. I’m talking about a boat, public transport on water like in Venice. It costs very little and there's a cafeteria inside, where you can have a coffee and enjoy the view as you cruise along the jagged islands around the city. 

The Sailor's Tower located next by the Maritime Museum in Majorna

Somewhere in Gothenburg archipelago

The tragic epilogue of the journey

For this time I'm not staying longer in Gothenburg. I have a train to Uppsala, where I have an appointment to check out an apartment for next year. Yes! Uppsala will be soon my new home, as I’ve chosen to conclude my studies there. It's near the other coast of Sweden (60 km from Stockholm) and it's a student city, a bit like Lund is for the region around Malmö. There would be a beautiful, still running, 70-year-old train (the Blå Taget) which travels regularly between Gothenburg and Stockholm at normal prices. But I don’t know that at the time, so I get on board of a regular SJ. I don't buy a ticket, since my Interrail Pass is still valid from a previous trip.

Soon later, the conductor comes in and asks to see my ticket. He was very fast, I am not prepared.

"Just a second," I tell him. And I start looking for my pass in the backpack pocket and my jacket, but it's not there. After an awkward minute: "I'll come back in five minutes, okay?" he says.
"Okay," I say, but I've already understood: I won’t find it, I definitely left the interrail pass in my room in Copenhagen.  

So when the controller comes back I explain the situation to him. He tells me that either I buy a ticket on board or I have to get off at the next stop. So I try to buy one through my credit card, since I have no Swedish currency on me. The payment is rejected. 

I get off at the next stop which is Alingsås. I don’t know yet, but that is the hometown of my gramma.I intend to continue the journey, and I manage to buy a ticket from a from a machine. It says “from Gothenburg to Stockholm”, but I assume it twill stop here too. So I wait at the bench. Thinking that my young grandmother might have done the same 70 years ago makes me shiver. But I doubt she ever waited for a train which is not stopping there, cause that’s exactly what I’m doing. After a long time I have the confirmation from a man. Damn me! 

I buy another ticket and I go back to Gothenburg, where I try to exchange the unused ticket to Uppsala for a later one, but they won't let me do that. At that point I'm no longer in the mood to continue the journey. I don't want to spend any more money on tickets which would be free, if only I hadn't forgotten the interrail at home. So I decide that I'll end up my journey here and go back to Copenhagen. 

Back than I had no idea, but maybe the bad luck from that day was providential. Six months later I would find online the ad for Villa Varsätra, a beautiful house in Uppsala which would become the "collective" for me and my friends. That communal period changed my life and, who knows, maybe if I wouldn’t have forgotten the Interrail many things would have been completely different!

My gramma's sister Ingrid and I in Alingsås

The Black Taget

Text translated from Italian through www.DeepL.com/ and adapted

No Borders Tour

Versione italiana

We are in the Carnic Alps. Coincidentally we choose a path called "Senza Confini Tour" (No Borders Tour). It is a loop trail that connects Italy to Austria. It starts at the border of the Pramollo Pass (Nassfeld in German) and returns to it after long following the border line and then crossing it so to continue on the other side. Even during COVID 19 times, the trail is not really controlled. It's already a lot if someone waits at the border guard of this remote mountain pass. Since Yasmin, my girlfriend, lives in the Austrian region beyond these mountains (the Kärnten region) and I have moved to Tolmezzo in Friuli... now there are not many kilometres between us. After weeks of quarantine, we decided that it's time to take a nice walk and meet halfway. With the masks on but in person. Or at least that was the plan...

My day starts a little weird. Once I have everything I need, I leave the house with the mask over my mouth. While starting the car I already feel uncomfortable, so you can imagine how I feel when I pass by the police patrol next to the motorway. For me the terrible thing about COVID 19 times is that you're never 100% sure that what you're doing is actually allowed. So it freaks you out to take the car and drive 30 or 40 kilometres away, even though that should be allowed if the purpose is hiking. But nobody stops me and I eventually reach Pontebbe, a small mountain village and second-last exit of the Udine-Tarvisio motorway. 

From Pontebbe starts the mountain road of Passo Pramollo, which I have no difficulty in finding. Only problem: the road is closed at kilometer 5 for maintenance works.

"Bloody maintenance! And it doesn't say anything about it on the internet."

"Ah no, wait a minute... today is Saturday. Bust my ass, it’s open during weekends!" 

The hairpin bends are starting. And the tunnels. Machines encountered: one. When I'm at the top I communicate with Yasmin, who is on the other side of the border, and we set off. Each on his own side. 

Immediately I'm captivated by the landscapes. "It’s actually mountain!" as my mom comments on whatsapp. The fact is that, in the enchantment and the spipulation on the phone, I miss the first of the two huts, the only references I have on the map. You must know that I "built" this map myself, loading the route of the path in gpx format on a website that allows you to create your own map. But maybe I chose toolow of scale and I forgot to put the reference bar for distances. So when I reach the second hut I'm convinced it must be the first one, cause I feel like I’ve walked too little to be there already. So I don't turn left but shoot straight, hoping to find soon a sign for the second hut. Which doesn't come.

The Italian alps. In front, Monte Bruca with its unusual morpholog; in the background, the peak of Jof di Montasio (2753m)

In the meantime the path begins to climb and the vegetation changes. Have I reached the altitude where only shrubs and bushes grow? Or is the aridity of this stony ground the reason why there are no more trees? Suddenly I see some rock pinnacles on the right and, under the scorching midday sun, I feel for a second like I am in a western movie. But at the top I also see the end of the slope, so I breathe deeply and push on my calves. But to my disappointment, when I reach the top, on the other side I see a green plateau with another mountain behind it. This confuses me and makes me doubt a little bit about my position... I scream and it seems to me to hear a distant answer from Yasmin. My phone is ringing, it must be her. No, it's Vodafone. They want to give me a better deal for my phone. I decline and shout again and again, but this time I don't get an answer. What to do? Should I call Yasmin? Noo, let’s walk more. 

Here and below, a trait of the 504 trail passing between Monte Corona and Monte Cerchio

The Plateau before Malga Cerchio

When I’m close to the top of the other mountain, without having yet crossed Yasmin or at least received a shout back, I have more alarming doubts about my real position. The doubts are confirmed by a group of hikers passing by, when I ask them for information. And well the gist is that I’ve walked for two hours in the wrong direction. I communicate this to Yasmin, who has already reached the place of the appointment a while ago and is fortunately a girl with great patience, who will wait for me . 

The problem is that the first hut still corresponds to the second one in my head. So despite my attempts to run and rush back faster, my arrival will be actually delayed even longer! By now I'm also exhausted, my water has run out long time ago, so I'm drinking  water from the streams (which is surprisingly tasty). When in the distance I see a pink thing hanging on the tip of a small tree I get a bit confused. Because between my nearsightedness and my psychophysical state I see a big cow udder instead of Yasmin's shirt, hanging there to attract the attention of her idiot boyfriend. 

Well, it worked. I recognize her not far away, lying on the grass. She sees me too, and she comes towards me laughing, while I feel a bit like the old Ulysses coming back from Penelope after twenty years. Only difference is that one morning was enough for me...

The first hut (which was actually the second one) behind a flourished branch of larch 

I'll save you the rest. Apart from one realization that I have while I'm there with her: being physically together makes me immediately remember why she and I are together, and it's a wonderful feeling. Cause when we are apart everything becomes flat and blurry. Even a little distressing if I may venture. In short, just when I realize how much difference it makes to have your loved ones around... it's already time to go. Yasmin kisses me and heads back to her side of the border, while I go back to mine. 

Then the descent. Completely different than the ascent. Down the empty winding road, now that I know my way (not only the geographical one), I feel a little bit like I own the world and I enjoy it. In the radio a violin from a Slovenian station plays, while the green Friulian landscapes get me again. The only ones not enjoying this symphony of happiness are the Fiat Qubo's brakes.

The Italian border at Passo del Pramollo

The green landscape around Pontebbe

The Fiat Qubo, loyal companion of many trips

Fuel-less in Provence

Versione italiana

It’s a late April Saturday when we meet up at the usual bakery-café in Bazzano for the coffee before the departure. This time it’s Yasmin, Lollo, MadMax, (Uncle) Dema and I. Just a few months before we were in Stockholm, together with many others, for my thesis defense. While MadMax, you will recall, was also part to the adventure in Morocco which was narrated in this blog. But these are other stories, today we are heading towards…..drumrolls…… tumbatatum…… tum…. tum…. tum: Southern France!! Anna, childhood friend and neighbour of mine, is now attending a circus school just a few kilometers from Cannes. What do you think, that we don’t pay a visit?!?! So here it comes the story of a supposedly chilled long-weekend, which actually turned into another small adventure. You'll also find throughout this article: the map of the itinerary we followed, some viewpoint tips in blue and names of tasty recipes in yellow. 

On board of my dad’s Opel Zafira we gladly chat and consume the CNG fuel while on the highway through Emilia-Romagna and Liguria regions. Only once in Savona we recall it would be good to fuel up before leaving Italian territory, as CNG is not so easy to find abroad. We decide to go for the station in Imperia, the last one before the French border. But we get there 5 minutes too late, lunch break has started. Even though the employee is still around he refuses to fuel us up, and self-refill is not allowed. He’s probably already heard hundreds of time the argument: “please, this is the last station before France”. And the fact we are obviously about to start a holiday only seems to make his mood worse than it already is. Before MadMax gets out of the car, we leave again. We start feeling a little bit better only after leaving a horrible comment on Google Reviews. But we’re still optimist to find another CNG station in France, or in the worst case to go with the gasoline tank, which is not as big as the gas one since it's meant to be used for emergencies only.

We reach Montecarlo. We are hungry. While searching for a nice spot where to eat our sandwiches, we end up closer and closer to the sea. Until we’re suddenly at the starting grid of Montecarlo’s Grand Prix. The traffic light is red, MadMax is at the wheel. He turns back towards us, but the answer is obvious: of course we want to make a round of the most famous Formula 1 circuit, with an Opel Zafira! MadMax’s foot automatically can’t hide the joy and as soon as the green comes we’re sprinting forward. Suddenly we’re in a videogame, and the adrenaline kicks in. We pass from the Casino, in front of which there’s a big crowd and more luxurious cars we’ve ever seen. I pray internally that MadMax doesn’t fuck it up, as just a scratch on one of those might compromise all our lives. But everything goes well. We pass from the final tunnel and the harbor with the yachts. Then we’re back where we were, but MadMax is too weak: he HAS to do it again. So we give him a second round of glory. 

Then Dema pulls his first bunny out of the hat. Between him and Lollo we are fully covered in terms of geography-knowledge, we almost wouldn’t need a book guide for this trip. 

“We could eat at Tetê de Chain, the Dog’s Head!”
“What?"
“Tetê de Chain, there’s an incredible viewpoint there”

We trust him and start driving up on the winding, mountain road to Tetê de Chain. Luckily they don’t trust me when I propose to continue walking from a path I see…it would have taken us forever to reach the top. And we might have missed this:

Tetê de Chain (Montecarlo)

The first CNG station in France is out of order. There’s no sign to indicate it but nothing comes out of the pump, doesn’t matter which credit card you put in. So we use gasoline. Cannes is not so far away, anyway. Even though the sea should be close I don’t feel it. What I surely notice is the intense, almost invasive green all along the way. And in a distance, far but endless, the human footprint. Single houses and narrow roads all over the hills in front of us, not a single hectare was spared from these constructions. The weird thing is that houses are so far apart, forming some sort of “diffuse towns” instead of proper urban centers separated by countryside.

We arrive to Anna's circus school, which is located in Grasse. She is specializing in aerial fabrics, but we find her in the middle of a horn-instruments marching orchestra. Kids, youngsters and adults all play and march together, who wants can join them. What a warm welcome, you didn’t have to! Besides Anna, we also find Serena and my cousin Greta. They are video-makers and they just got there to shoot a short documentary. After a brief round of the school and an “exclusive” rehearsal of the students performances, we give each other appointment to the shopping center. We have plans for an evening grill at Anna’s and we need ingredients. 

Anna’s house is supposedly nice, but we’ll never know. We get there when it’s already dark and we are welcomed directly in her backyard. Some of us are sent to gather wood, some others to cut vegetables and cheese. I have the task to start a fire, FAST they tell me. After an hour it’s still not ready for grilling, there’s a lot of smoke and 0 heat. Around eleven someone starts complaining. Luckily there’s a lot to talk about, I think. Eventually we get to eat something. Around us, some of Anna’s housemates are throwing knives against a flipped table. 

“It’s like this every night” Anna says. “All they do is meditate, throwing knives and drinking wine”. Hopefully they didn’t invert the order today! (I think).

In the meanwhile a Costarican dude has gotten Dema, who is too polite to say anything, into a monologue by the fire. In the meanwhile, MadMax has challenged the knife throwers. And despite his crooked technique, he gains some respect.

Next day, all 8 of us are heading towards Nice. It’s quite late, the sun is shining and the spring is in the air. However our stomachs are not so romantic and we decide -under Uncle Dema’s suggestion- for a short lunch-stop in Cagne-sur-mer. Cagne-sur-mer is a town with a cute old city on top of a hill. A free shuttle bus is available from down town. Once up, we find ourselves in front of one of the most well known stereotypes for France: Boules. Which is called Pétanque here and it’s played like this: each team has 8 metallic balls and 2 players, who play one at a time until they're out of balls or they’ve got closest to the little one. I’m surprised to see players of all ages and colors, and often crowds of people watching the matches. But one thing hasn’t changed: Boules is still a men-only sport.

Pétanque players above and below

A street in Cagnes-sur-Mer

The view from Cagnes-sua-Mer

In the afternoon we reach Nice. Guided by Anna, we first make a stop in a bakery which sells Chichi Fregì. Chichi Fregìs are long and fried sweets, covered with sugar. They are similar to the Spanish churros, but tastier! From the website of the cheese Presidènt you can find all the infos about them. As soon as the sugar kicks in, we decide to climb Colline du Château. Of the Savoia’s Family Castle which used to stood there, very little remains today. However the nice view over the city is still there, while the royal garden was turned into a park full of joggers and a cemetery. When we’re ready to go, the exit gates are closed and we find out that there were opening times for the park. So we’re directed to the other side of the hill, where a long stairway leads down to the sea.

That is how we reach Promenade des Anglais, the palmy and pedestrian alley where a terrorist attack happened in 2016. The 31 year old, French-Tunisian Mohamed Lahouaiej-Bouhlel, killed 86 and wounded 302 more by entering the Promenade with a Renault truck during the National Day. Despite this tragic page of history, Nice looks happy today. The sea is shining under the sun, while the other Promenade – Promenade du Paillon- was transformed into a urban botanical garden and playground for children. Nice is an elegant city, bigger than expected. It lives of tourism, as indicated by the number of planes flying in and out on top of our heads. We leave Nice with the feeling of having just spotted the tip of the iceberg, but the time available is what it is and Marseille is already waiting for us!   

Above and below, la Promenade du Paillon (Nice)

View from the Castle Hill, Nice

Anna's circus skills

The next CNG station is as out of order as the previous one. Doesn’t matter. We get to Marseille anyway. My first thought, while crossing a hilly and colourful neighbourhood, is: “Are we back in Italy?”. Then a famous Italian advertising, translated to French, comes out from the radio: “Poltronesofà. Les artisans de la qualitè!”. So far all very familiar then…

We are guests of Abdelfateh. He is an airbnb host and he is VERY concerned to explain to us the instructions for the use of TV in our room. But he also shows to us the apartment, which belongs to a building which is being renovated (by him) but is quite central. The harbour is only 5 minutes away and is the most touristic area. It is protected on both sides by two fortresses and two churches. We pay a visit to all of them, not scared of the cliffs we have to climb in order to reach them. Worth a mention is especially Notre Dame la Garde and the view from its summit.

Looking from above you can see Chateau d’If, the prison of the Count of Montecristo as imagined by Alexandre Dumas. And not so distant, but not really visible, the acclaimed “Calanques” of Marseille. Quite different from the Italian geologic formations with the same name, these ones might remind me more of Irish cliffs diving into the sea. The only difference is that they attract 2 million visitors every year. Not today however, since the Mediterranean has woken up a little bit violent and no boats are leaving the harbour to bring tourists there. It means that we’ll have to skip this part of the plan and be happy with our Emilia-Romagna’s “Calanques”. 

We go instead to the neighbourhood of Panier, which literally translates as “the bread basket”. Historical, all ups and downs and close to the sea; narrow streets with one row of tables outside of the cafés; old looking, colourful, and sometimes filled with graffiti walls. Basically all that you expect from a Mediterranean city. We explore Panier thoroughly, as Lollo is looking for Marseille's soap to bring home together with all kinds of other typical products. It’s actually thanks to Lollo that we get to try the Navettes, ship-shaped biscuits typical of the Provence region. Besides the classic orange flower aroma, you can find all different sorts. I try the lemon ones, which tasted good but are not worth the price they sell them for. It’s true that we probably also pay for the name of the bakery, which claims to own the original recipe. 

Lollo’s passion for typical products almost costs us a dinner. It happens that his personal to-go-list for restaurants (mostly filled thanks to "Truckdrivers at the restaurant" show) eventually ends. They’re all too full, closed or too expensive. But they are definitely far away from each other, so that by 10 pm we have walked several kilometers but haven’t found the famous Bouillabaisse (a special and expensive fish soup). In the square where we have arrived there’s an open creperie. “Don’t enter! It’s food from Bretagne!” you will yell and you’d be right. But you know, hunger makes you do things you would’t imagine…

One of the two old fortresses of Marseille and, behind it, the Palace of the Lighthouse

Notre Dame de la Garde (Marseille)

The French Alps viewed from Notre Dame de la Garde

Marseille's soap

Gorges du Verdon, aka French Grand Canyon. That’s where we are directed after a night in Marseille. But we decide to make another stop first: a few kilometers from Marseilles there's a smaller city, which was the home town of the impressionist painter Paul Cezanne: Aix en Provence. We stop there out of curiosity. It’s market day, which is good because it’s Shopping Day for Taz, the Tasmanian Devil-Lollo. Not only he finds the soap, but also several bottles of wine, cheese and more sweets. So after a stroll around the city center and some shopping, we get back on the road in order to reach the Canyon (and then reach again the coast around Cannes) before it’s night. We meet very few other tourists, also on road trips like ourselves. However the scenery of the Canyon is so cool that I  wish we had tents, bikes or kayaks and, especially, more time to enjoy it fully. But this time we don't.

Once we reach the Cote Azur again, the ring in the map of our journey is then closed. We go for a stroll in Cannes, where Lollo introduces us to another specialty: Pan bagnat, a GREAT sandwich! The bread is round and soft, it’s roasted and dipped into olive oil and vinegar. The filling is with fresh tomatoes, basil, onions, olives, tuna fish and boiled eggs. In the meanwhile the city is busy, the Festival will start in a week and Cannes will become the center of the earth for a few days. Understandably it needs to get pretty now, but we’re so not interested in that. We prefer spending our last day in the nature. So after a very resting night (in a villa we’ll never be able to afford if not through AirBnb), we are fully recharged and we accept another suggestion from Uncle Dema: Le Sentier du Litoral, a walking route along Cap D’Antibes, the small peninsula south of the city of Antibes. The wether is one again mild and sunny, which we enjoy it very much all along the 5 kilometers of the Sentier. We enjoy a little bit less our first and last dip in the sea, which is quite cold and filled with small jelly fish. 

A square in Aix-en-Provence

Here and below is the Gorges du Verdon

The Mediterranean Sea

It’s time to go home. Suitcases and baguettes are loaded… but are we are missing something? Oh shit, the fuel!!! We realize we forgot to refill once we’re already in the highway and we’re approaching Italy, right after Montecarlo. Yasmin is driving and her face turns pale and more serious than usual when she announces us that we’re already half way of the reserve. We knew the tank wasn’t so large, but none of us thought it would be SO small. When the car starts moving intermittently and then stops, our faces turn pale too and our hearts double their speeds. 

What to do? Get out of the car in case someone hits us from the back? Try to reach a fuel station by foot? 

We listen to Lollo, who suggests to try to start the car again. Yasmin tries, and it works. Now the gasoline level is not even so low, even though it's still quite close to 0. We start moving and proceed at 10 kilometers per hour in the right lane. We pass a bridge and a tunnel, a few curves and then we see it: a gas station appears at the end of the road like a miracle. We continue at the same speed until we reach it. We would have payed hundred times more, but the price for our happiness is actually cheap: 1,3€ per liter. So we fill up until it’s full and then we're off again.

Now that we've passed also this last adventure, we know that we’ll sleep well for a while. Satisfied of this journey, happy for the great moments together and grateful for having all this beauty just around the corner. In the end, sometimes, all it takes to be happy is just to hit the road!

A part of the Sentier du Litoral (Cap D'Antibes)

Photograph credits: Lollo and Uncle Dema