All Hail the Mighty Tuna
I arrived at the airport in plenty of time to pick up the world class athlete – like all celebrities, she was fashionably late. Having just arrived from a week on Ibiza, she was most impractically clothed for the Irish climate and I feared she may be stricken down with a debilitating case of the shivers on exit from the airport. But she makes it to the car without needing a wheelchair, and I put the heater on to stop pneumonia setting in. We drove through the Irish country-side from Shannon to Doolin in Henry, my trusty new Toyota Starlet, and Gen was given the royal tour of the hostel, and my magnificent and mobile lodgings, where she would be lucky enough to reside for the coming night. So exclusive is the accommodation , that none have ever been deemed special enough to stay there before. But here was a world class athlete…
On Wednesday, after some hasty packing, we headed back to the airport again, stopping on the way at the Cliffs of Moher so I could do my duty as Irish tour guide. We walked along the cliffs, and Gen did her best to pretend that she was tired so that I’d feel much fitter than I actually am. Back in the car then several hours, one plane trip and one bus trip later, we were in Venice, Italy. Having had all hope of any summer beaten out of me by the Irish weather, I found I was most impractically clothed for the Italian climate, and I feared my delicate constitution may not hold up to the heat, even at 11pm at night. But I steadied myself and soldiered on, for the sake of my sister.
I assumed my renowned sense of direction and terrific memory would serve me on arrival in Venice, having been here twice already I should really know where I’m going, or at least how to enter the floating city. I followed some other people and pretended I knew where I was, (poor Gen would never know how close we came to being completely and utterly lost in a dark, foreign, sinking city where one wrong step in the dark could lead to a fatal canal drowning, or at least a shoeful of dog shit) and luckily they knew where they were going and we eventually hit the main street. I bought a tiny bottle of water for two euro from an Italian woman who didn’t acknowledge me at all except to hand over the bottle and take my money. Ah yes, I was back in Venice. Where water costs more than wine, and tourists are walking talking irritating money machines. Hurrah.
We arose the next morning and I dragged us through the streets of Venice to check if my favourite hostel had two beds, this time pretending to get lost so as to give Gen an authentic Venetian experience. The hostel did in fact have two beds left, but unfortunately only two beds for two females. Once the receptionist realized we actually were two females (as apparently Gen is a unique breed of female new to Italy, the rare and elusive ‘Sportswoman’ species of female who wears sneakers, running shorts and a cap…), we booked in, then spent another 20 minutes finding our way back to our first hostel to pick up our bags, then another 20 minutes bringing them back to our new hostel. Gen did her ‘pretend I’m tired’ trick again and I felt much better.
Finally settled, we headed towards San Marco square for a little pigeon watching and I spent some time daydreaming with my imaginary pellet gun. Apparently it is actually illegal to feed the pigeons as this encourages them to poop and their acidic poop is contributing to the deterioration of Venice’s historical buildings. But it’s far more important to have your photo taken with a bird standing on your head than it is to protect boring old buildings. Gen wanted me to take a photo of her with a pigeon on her head but I, being the sensible one, thought it mightn’t be a good idea in-case the pigeon got stuck in her hair and customs wouldn’t let her back through without her shaving her head first.
Later that afternoon, we spent some time shopping at the stalls along the Rialto Bridge. Actually, Gen spent some time shopping, whilst I spent most of my time restraining myself from abusing people who kept getting in my way. I really think it should be illegal to stop walking in Venice without due cause. And taking a photo of a pigeon is not due cause. Weakness from heat, thirst or starvation I will accept. Stopping to enter a Gelateria I will also accept.
On Friday I took off to see the Venice Biennale – after all, I was actually here in part to see the art and not just to eat the gelati – God, I’d be in my element if they ever decided to have a ‘gelato art’ exhibition. Gen followed for a while, such a well-rounded individual she is, but soon succumbed to the shopping instinct and went off by herself for a while. Little did I know that while I was studiously contemplating the state of the universe through works of art, Gen was off carrying out secret quality control tests on the city’s many gelati vendors.
In the afternoon we took a vaporetto over to Murano island and perused the wares of the renowned glass makers of Venice, before a thunder storm chased us back to San Marco square where we hunkered down under the balconies of the Grand Palace with the rest of Venice’s bedraggled tourists. After a soggy walk back and a quick pizza stop, we settled down for our last night. The next bright and sunny morning we walked back through the bustling fruit markets and along the main street of Venice to the train station, stopping only to conduct one last gelati quality test, before catching a train to the Roman Empire.
Once settled in our Roman hostel, we took a brief evening stroll down to the Pope‘s house. We sat in front of the Vatican for a while, waiting for him to come invite us to tea, but he must have been inside watching TV or something. On Sunday we went to visit the Colosseum along with every other person in Rome. Apparently in the first two weeks of August the city is empty of Romans as they travel away for their summer holidays. The gap they leave is easily filled by hoards of tourists. The Colosseum was as impressive and crowded the second time round as it was the first time I saw it. Kirk Cameron from Growing Pains was there, or maybe it was his celebrity double, explaining with much gesticulation and exaggeration about how the Colosseum was originally a large basin intended for re-enactments of naval battles (that’s boat battles not belly button battles). So these Roman Emperors they’d fill it up with water and play with their boats just like a giant bathtub. That’s before they got interested in all that ‘killing and maiming for fun’ stuff.
After the Colosseum, it was a short but swelteringly arduous wander down the road to the Roman Forum. Unfortunately, due to the extreme heat I fear we didn’t give the historical site the appreciation it deserved, preferring to assess the value of a ruin by how much shade it offered rather than what amazing piece of architecture it may have once been.
In the afternoon we took to the shopping streets. Luckily, as it was Sunday, the Versace, Gucci, D&B stores were closed otherwise Gen would be pawning her return ticket. In fact, her addiction to fashion was so great that I had to restrain her from purchasing an illegally produced designer bag from the side of the road, least she be arrested by the policeman hiding in a nearby rubbish bin and thrown into an Italian prison.
After a last meal of pizza and gelato in Piazza del Spagna (for you see, Rome was also in dire need of some quality control testing), we took the metro back to the hostel. The next day, Monday, would be spent in transit, from the metro, to the train station for more shopping, to Ciampino airport, then to Treviso airport where at 9pm we finally began the trip from Italy back to Ireland.
On the last plane and feeling hungry after a day of travel, I ask for a vegetarian sandwich. ‘Um we have tuna. I mean, it’s not a vegetable but….’ the intellegent non gender specific flight attendant person said. ‘Yeah okay’ I replied, thinking as I did so that perhaps a good food ethic for a semi-vegetarian as myself might be ‘I shall not eat anything that could not kick, claw, maim or kill me had it the chance to do so’. I mean if a cow knew that eventually I was going to eat it, surely it could and would trample me to death, or likewise a chicken peck me to death with its sharp little beak. Although, maybe the fact that cows and chickens don’t have the intelligence to attack while they can, means they deserve what they get. Hmmmm, but that’s very easy to say when there’s no-one around to farm us humans with the intention of sautéing, baking, roasting or grilling our own prime flesh. Well, this is all getting a bit deep and ethical isn’t it? The point I’m trying to make in my eternal guilt ridden state of denial and justification, is that a shellfish is defenceless. Oysters and pipis were made without legs and claws and teeth and probably brains, and a cockle, it couldn’t kill me if I gave it the chance (hmmm, at least I don’t think it could.…could it?) It’s as non-lethal as a vegetable, therefore I shall eat it. That’s my new semi-vegetarian policy. And I would say the same goes for a tuna – and we are talking about just one tuna here, not a bunch of them because yes, I do realize that en-masse a few angry families of tuna could kill me with their forces combined, but not one tuna. And especially not on land. Dumb tunas. And so I eat the tuna sandwich.
Eventually we land in cold dark Ireland, worlds away from the heat and life of Italy. At least it’s not raining. After an hours gloomy drive, we reach Doolin by 1am and both fall into bed. I’m feeling fine. Or at least I was. Until Titan, or Ariel or whoever the God of the sea is these days decides that that innocent defenceless tuna shall be purged from my body, and I punished for my sins against seafood. Six times that night the spirit of that damn tuna would attempt escape. And as I hung doubled over, retching in the garden, I did confess my sins and swear never to eat seafood again. Or at least never to travel with Ryan Air and eat a packaged tuna sandwich almost past its use-by date again. Although travelling with Ryan Air doesn’t really have anything to do with the innocence of fish and I don’t think Titan would mind if I decide to take advantage of their can’t be beaten prices….just as long as I stop mocking the fish.
Tags: About Me, Rome, Travel, Travel, Venice
Em
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