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

Balkan Road Trip - Part 2. "Hunt for the Turbofolk in Serbia, Romania and Ungaria"

The border between Bosnia and Serbia consists of a bridge over the vast Drina river. On the two sides of the bridge are the customs. I remember the strange feeling of driving through it, through the border itself. Theoretically a "no-man’s-land". Since the beginning I'm a little bit uneasy in front of the countryside and the Serbian towns. It's because of their regularity and endless flatness. We notice few people along the way, with a darker skin colour and harsher features. As far as I remember.

After Slovenia, Croatia and Bosnia (read about it here), we have now entered the fourth country of our road trip: Serbia. This time weldon't stop, we drive all the way until Belgrade's gates. Except for a toilet-stop in a Serbian countryside village, where we already start admiring a certain Transilvanic style in the interior design of the only guesthouse. The sun is fading down and the arrival is far less traumatic than the previous morning in Sarajevo. Streets -just like rivers, houses and any other thing- are broader and less crowded. We park the car in a convenient spot aside of the street leading to our hostel, which occupies the third or fourth floor of one of the countless palaces Belgrad is filled with. Judging by heart, and with no experience of Russia, the first word that comes up to my mind to descrive the city is "sovietic". 

I, N, Vacca and our two adventure mates

Belgrade

Since we heard that Belgrad made a name for itself as city of night fun and we do not want to miss out on anything, me and Francesco (nicknamed "Vacca") set off to the dark and empty streets of the capital. Enne (N) prefers to stay in the hostel and relax. We are heading towards the riverside, where much of the nightlife of Belgrad is. While we cross the big steel bridge, I feel for the first time the instinct to hold tight my Swiss knife in my pocket. The only people we meet are taxi drivers and kebab sellers, a bunch of not reassuring big guys and gypsies at the sides of te street. Then a lady stops us to ask us in English: "Which is the way to Bulgaria? I would like to catch a ride". We have no idea about the right direction, but we do know that the Bulgarian border es at least 300 km away and that it's night. We would like to invite her to resist, but she has already understood we're not helpful to her needs and she's gone.

Once we reach the other side go the river, we find boats rearranged as clubs (little, loud, floating clubs). Though it's only Tuesday or Wednesday, the queue to get in one of those boats is quite long. So we choose one and wait, but when it comes our moment we are told it’s necessary to be in a list to get in. We give another go to a place without queue, only to receive the same answer from the bodyguards. I don’t know whether it was just to keep an appaerence or because us, being Italians, deserve some credit here, but after some weak protest we are let in by a security guy who recgnizes our accent. He changes his mind and says: "Go in, just because you’re Italian". Inside it's almost empty, maybe the night is yet to take off. So we get a drink and then we get out, so to look for a place where they play Turbofolk, the musical genre which has led us all the way there. 

We find the Turbofolk in the nearest place to the bridge, one we istinctively skipped when we passed next to it. The scene is appalling. What we see is a karaoke duet between a man and a woman, singing heavily-remixed Balkan melodies from a stage. The crowd seems hypnotised by the karaoke, and they sing their hearts out, but without dancing. Men and women stand together next to their tables, each of them staring at the stage and holding a glass in their hands. They know the words by heart and behave a bit trashy a bit pickled. We enjoy it for a while from a corner table and, after having paid two or three times the price of Rakja to an old and shrewd waitress, we shove off. 

One of the riverside clubs, picture from Inspirock.com

Under the sunlight and strolling around the most important part of the city - historically and politically- Belgrade seems less ugly than the previous day. It's Sunday morning and we walk through a pedestrian street leading to the fortress. A 9 or 10 years old girl fills up the street with the notes of a violin. A crowd of tourists surrounds the few souvenir shops, where T-shirts with Nicolas Tesla's face are being sold. While two men (two!) have only shoe strings on their old stand: classic or colourful ones, long and short ones. Shoe strings. In fact, poverty is a bit everywhere around the city: from the ubiquitous old cars to the coffe shops with the cracked windows. 

We make a detour so to enter the Church of Saint Sava, among the biggest orthodox churches in the world. In the square in front of the Temple (that's how it's most well known) some children are playing football and some old people are sitting in the benches. The external facade is bizantine and super symmetrical. So far so good, then. But it's inside that we start noticing some odd details. A red carpet covers the floor of the main room environment. Large religious paintings are laying on top small tables all along the walls. And people are queuing before them, so to be able to kiss the figures when it's their turn. While the back of the Temple is not accessible, as renovation works are being done and we only get to see a lot of protective plastic and a big van which was surprisingly parked in the middle. 

And finally we approach the Park of the Fortress, which has been destroyed and reconstructed countless times starting from the Romans until few decades ago (after which they were tired of rebuilding it and left it the way it was, as it seems). Cannons and weapons of different types, together with dinosaur statues, are positioned a little bit everywhere in the park. While on top there's a guy who convinces us to pay him something so to shoot a few arrows from his bow. But more importantly, from the top you can see the river Slava flowing into the Donau. With this majestic scene in our eyes we leave Serbia soon after, and we get ready to enter Romania. 

The river seen from Belgrade's fortress

A random street in Belgrade

Orthodox "Iconodulia" 

The patriotism, the prophane and the sacred met during a walk around Belgrade

And suddenly we are in Romania. The border we pass through basically doesn’t exist. It’s signalled by a sign, while a boy, not in uniform, is the only person who controls it. Actually, he just looks at us and let us go. In the late evening, we arrive in Sibiu, a nice town in the Transilvania region. I mean it, it's not a ironic adjective, Sibiu is quite a beautiful city. Europan Capital of Culture in 2007 and historical university, Sibiu has a small architectural gem of central square, on which our hostel overlooks: coloured three-floor houses and institutional buildings form a large oval shaped belt, not paved but cobbled, filled at the margins with tables from the taverns and in the middle with a big scenic stage, from which classical music is being played. Other parts of the city are maybe less elegant but full of colours. 

The square of Plata Mare in Sibiu, picture from blogromania.com

A Transilvanian pub

Next day we get ready to drive through the "Transfăgărășan", a foolish mountain road wanted by Ceausescu. It was built at the beginning of the '70s for military purposes and is normally closed to traffic between October and June due to extreme weather conditions. A classic of the Romanian cycling Tour and a destination for bikers of all sorts, we leave the honour of driving there to N. It's the twistiest route I’ve ever experienced. Two guys met at the hostel, Srikanth (from India) and Aryudha (from Indonesia), are also with us and they seem also impressed by it. Before reaching the top, we stop to see one of the fortresses of Vlad the 3rd, aka "The Impaler", aka Count Dracula.

Right, Dracula. Obviously not Count Dracula as we know it (the vampire), which never existed...being a literary invention. But the character Bram Stoker took inspiration from: Vlad III, bloody and heroic ruler of Wallachia Principality, as well as protector of Christianity during the 1400s, when the Ottoman Empire had conquered most of the Balkans and was aiming to expand north. The legend says that Vlad refused to pay the tribute and send 500 hundred of his best soldiers as request by the Sultan of the Empire in exchange of peace. The result was necessarily the beginning of a new war.

Eventually Vlad became a thorn in the backside for the Sultan, whose army had to struggle for some time due to a series of massacres and ambushes guided by The Impaler. Vlad also temporarily became a hope for the Christian world of the time, which was following the events with anxiety. As in all the best stories, the only way to defeat the Count was to rely on a betrayal from his brother, who was also a valuable soldier and was boiling with jealousy. S the brother defeated Vlad and took his place, blinking an eye to the Sultan. While Vlad had to run away and seek shelter abroad, only to be betrayed for a second time and get killed. It is said that that his head was sent to Constantinople as trophy. 

Today the Poenari Fortress itself is no big deal, since not much of it is left from the moment it was abandoned after Vlad's death in 1477. However it's quite an experience to walk through it while knowing that one of the most bloody characters in history used to hide there. The climb up is quite steep and crosses the local vegetation (mostly coniferous trees). Luckily, I hear onlywhile writing this article that the area hosts a fast growing population of bears. In the end, some gruesome bleeding mannequins at the top of the uphill (as in the picture below) welcome us to the fortress, just the way Vlad preferred to treat his enemies.

Back in the car, we continue to follow the Transfăgărășan, which gradually gets more and more extreme. The combination of this and the falling rain triggers us, and the Scatman CD we put on the stereo creates the deadly cocktail. We get to the highest point, park and make our way through the thick fog, under a now even heavier rain. Judging from the map, there would be a lake to see, but we can’t find it, as we struggle to even see each other (useless to describe our attempt to get back to the car). But once we do find again our car, our craziness has only worsened and as a matter fact it gets to Srikanth and Aryudha as well: it is just pure Transilvanian madness for a while, with Vacca's head outside of the car "screaming and waving at the rain" and our bodies only responding to Scatman vibes.

The night in Sibiu reaches the same heights, thanks to a Swedish metal band playing in the cellar of a pub in the city centre. The Indian and the Indonesian are now part of the group and they are introduced to the art of "pogo" (precursor of moshing), which we definitely contribute to extend to the Romanian audience. Cheap beers and lousy people would definitely worth spending even more of the night in the pub, but more destinations are waiting for us and so we go back relatively "early".

The way up the Transfagarajan and a video memory digged out from my phone

So the next morning we give ourselves the chance for a last round in Sibiu's city centre and then we head towards the Turda's Salt Mine. Salt source for as much as 2000 years, then occasionally used as cheese seasoning room and as ari-raid shelter during WWII, since the '90s this mine was transformed in a touristic attraction and futuristic space for concerts and events. A part of it has been filled with water, where it's possible to sail with small boats, and another wing is now equipped with a carousel, some ping pong and foosball tables and stage. However, the coolest thing is still to lean from the top handrail and look down.

In the evening we reach Cluj Napoca (for the cools: "Cluj"), a student city in the centre-north of Romania. We are staying in a room we found on Airbnb. We cook something and we inflict ourselves pure pain with the young Di Caprio in the embarrassing and trash movie "The Beach". The next day we see a bit of the centre of Cluj, which unfortunately is quite empty, as the university is closed. The area around the the old fortress is nice, but what I appreciate the most is Cimiterul Centrale, a green and "anarchic" cemetery (reminds me of Pere Lachaise cemetery in Paris), where we also bump into a funeral procession. Not too far off there is a beautiful church and a nice little area, where we get a kebab before hitting the road again. 

The countryside we pass through, spaced by the typical conical sheaves of this area, reminds me of a book I read before leaving for this journey. It’s called "The Enchanted Way", and it’s the tale of the real story of a young English traveller and his special relationship he develops with the land of Maramures, his enchanted way. Enchantment created by intact agricultural practices and traditions, coming from ancient times and unspoiled despite the mingling of Romanians-Gypsies-Saxons, but not in front of globalization.

The salt mine of Turda, picture from rollingstone.it

Modern art in a square of Cluj Napoca, picture from Monitorul de Cluj

The countryside in the Maramures region of Romania, picture from gmgalasso61.wordpress.com

We drive for the whole afternoon as we want to get close to Budapest, where the Sziget festival is taking place. We have 3 tickets in our pockets, valid for the next day. We sleep in some sort of Magyar court, near the border with Hungary. The furniture, the landlady and the atmosphere of that place are some of the most traditional things we see during our short balcanic trip. We are completely out of any touristic route and we really needed a deviation of that kind. 

And then we leave Romania and enter Hungary. We stop by at a service station, where we enjoy a typical hungarian breakfast: fried eggs, sausage and spicy salami. So we enter Budapest around lunchtime and we head directly to Obùda island, also known as "the island of freedom". We expect a big mess around the island, but everything seems quiet and we can even find a free parking spot close by. We wonder where the drill is, but there is none!

We reach the entrance of the festival, where we fail in our attempt to sneak in some alcohol (masked as ice tea). But we are lucky enough to meet three girls from our own high school. Later on, we’ll also unexpectedly meet other friends. On the other hand Sziget has become a meeting point for the so called "Erasmus generation". Thanks the central location and its impressive lineups, this festival is a just a great magnet.

Sketch and description of the Obuda island in Budapest from BUDAPEST - WordPress.com 

The red thread of the Sziget Festival, not only musically speaking but for all activities proposed, is: fun. At first it was born to celebrate freedom, a Woodstock 2.0 so to say, and then it necessarily turned into a commercial event. On the other hand a strong organisation and a financial solidity is required to satisfy the needs of 500 000 people and implement a musical programme with stars from all around the world, if you don't want to end up like this. 

And all in all, we do have fun even if we don’t see our favourite bands playing and we are left a bit dizzy by the chaos we swooped in (as time passes and we move to the hotspot of the festival we realise the place is not quiet at all). Around 3 or 4 in the morning, knackered, we give up on our self-devastating plan to go back to Italy without getting some sleep. 

We settle down in a garden next to the car and we take home a few precious hours of sleep. We take the road again after trying out another Hungarian breakfast, more sober than the previous one. It’s a Sunday and it's August but the streets we drive through in Hungary, Slovenia and Italy are traffic-free. We start reading familiar names of places. We get to Modena Sud after eight hours of travelling, on time to grant N some rest before he turns up for work the following morning.

The bridge and the entrance gate to the Sziget festival, picture from ilovedunakanyar.hu and, in video, one of the most memorable moments of our Sziget

 From this trip, we are left with: a cardboard filled with names of people met along the way and names of unpronounceable cities; a pile of coins with different currencies; some confused memories, as smoky as the air in Sarajevo's Kino or as the fog on the top of the Transfăgărășan. 

I’ll never forget: the inside of Enne’s car, each of us with his favourite seat (the one in the back for me, together with crumbles and dirty t-shirts but with enough space to lay); the Croatian wind, followed by a sunset able to warm up our goose bumps on the skin; the vibrations inside a Suzuki at full speed while playing ACDC under pouring rain; the street-stands, the bullet holes and the white graves of Sarajevo; the adrenaline of a wild dance at the sound of a trumpet players orchestra;

What I would change is: the rhythm. And maybe even the vehicle. Because it would have been cool to explore these places slowly.   But you don't always have a month of free time. So for this time it was good like that, with a skeleton of plans and a working car. But I promise myself to return to the balkans and go around without a vehicle, or maybe a bicycle.

I carry with me an atmosphere -a bit crazy, a bit filthy, a bit trashy and funny, surely fascinating- in a word: balkan- which characterised the places we visited, the people we met and even the food we ate. I think about that time and I can't help it but smile, and there's also some bitterness in it...as I'm also carrying a pinch of longing inside me. 

And finally special thanks to my travel mates: to Vacca (for planning a good part of this trip) and to N (for sharing with us his Suzuki shuttle and for shooting the majority of the pictures you've seen in this article

Translation from the Italian version: Giovanni De Maria and I