Rage against the (cash) machine
Now back in Italy, our plan was to drive up what we thought would be a lovely coastal route, looking at dreamy scenery, all the way to Rimini. Unfortunately that whole section of coastline is nothing like we’d imagined and was, instead, a depressing 120km stretch of tawdry, dilapidated beach resorts and empty hotels all closed up for the winter. It was like repeatedly driving through out-of-season Morecambe, continuously, for two hours. And, just to make it even more unbearable, the roads felt like the tarmac had been applied by some sort of angry primate, using a fork, while having an epileptic fit.
Surely this couldn’t be right. We needed something beautiful to look at, so we headed inland to Urbino, a hilltop town we’d never even heard of until a couple we met told us that it was a bit of a stunner. They weren’t wrong. It’s a fairly small town but within its walls is a treasure trove of impressive buildings, pretty piazzas and Renaissance art. It was a welcome respite from the horror of the coast.
The hilltop town theme continued as we headed into the Republic of San Marino, a wealthy independent enclave where Fiats are suddenly outnumbered by Ferraris. In fact they seem to be obsessed with cars and motor racing (it used to be a regular fixture on the Formula One calendar) and it wasn’t long before we saw evidence of this in the form of some rally cars being worked on by the side of he road. A few minutes later, while searching for our campsite, we noticed that the little road we found ourselves on was lined with bales of hay… and there was some stripy plastic tape emblazoned with some sort of warning… and, hang on, why are there people with clipboards making notes about which way the road bends? I think that was probably the moment it dawned on us that we were actually on the rally course. A steep and challenging rally course not suited to a rattling camper van with squeaky brakes and the power output of a hairdryer.
It turned out that our campsite was about 100 yards from this rally course and that the race would be going on until midnight. With no hope of a peaceful evening, we decided to wander up to the course to see what was going on. The event was called “Rally Legend 2014”, a series of races featuring classic rally cars of the Seventies and Eighties. For the car nerds amongst you, we’re talking Lancia Delta, Audi Quattro, Porsche 911, Lancia Stratos – even a Triumph TR7 – in other words, all the cars I had as toys growing up. Only these were the real things – fast, noisy and exhilarating. It was brilliant. Needless to say they made much shorter work of the twisty hill than we had in our little tin box.
The next day we visited the historical capital of San Marino, an impressively majestic walled city of medieval buildings – and, on the day we were there, host to some of the tackiest weddings we’d ever seen. The other thing we couldn’t help but notice was the very high number of shops selling guns, crossbows, knives and (I’m sure I saw this) hand grenades. It seems to be the ideal place to go for anyone wanting to tool up in preparation for a post-apocalyptic survival situation. Perhaps they’re worried about the Italians invading or crime is very high or maybe there’s an imminent zombie attack forecast. Either way, San Marino will be ready.
We left the next day and headed north via Imola, actual home of the San Marino Grand Prix – the infamous track where Ayrton Senna lost his life. I wanted to drive past just because I’d never been there but as we approached the town we could hear the unmistakable sound of cars racing. As my excitement grew, and Claire’s heart sank, we drove up to a high concrete wall, beyond which the noise seemed to be emanating. A quick clamber up onto an old concrete junction box and we found ourselves with a great view, not just of the track, but of the latest round of the Porsche Carrera Cup. Bargain!
And so to Florence – or Firenze as the Italians insist on calling it – birthplace of the Renaissance, stomping ground of Michelangelo and Donatello (and possibly the other two Ninja Turtles) and, now, home to what I think must be more American students than there are Italians. You cannot move for American students, they even outnumber the pigeons (I’d say conservatively two-to-one) and seem to spend their time endlessly discussing where the best place is to have “just the most awesome” breakfast/coffee/lunch before seeking out and completely overrunning any cafe that offers free Wifi.
Talking of inappropriate behaviour, were there no pants in 15th century Italy? Florence is, of course, renowned for its art but that doesn’t justify the sheer volume of statues featuring bearded men with their genitals exposed. And they are usually committing the most horrific crimes: molesting women, beheading people, beating the crap out of a centaur or just forcing other nude men into compromising positions. They might have a helmet on or sandals or even the medieval equivalent of a pashmina but, to a man, they all go about their sordid business with their little Renaissance willies on show. Maybe that’s why they’re so violent. Maybe they just needed to put some pants on and calm down.
Surely this couldn’t be right. We needed something beautiful to look at, so we headed inland to Urbino, a hilltop town we’d never even heard of until a couple we met told us that it was a bit of a stunner. They weren’t wrong. It’s a fairly small town but within its walls is a treasure trove of impressive buildings, pretty piazzas and Renaissance art. It was a welcome respite from the horror of the coast.
The hilltop town theme continued as we headed into the Republic of San Marino, a wealthy independent enclave where Fiats are suddenly outnumbered by Ferraris. In fact they seem to be obsessed with cars and motor racing (it used to be a regular fixture on the Formula One calendar) and it wasn’t long before we saw evidence of this in the form of some rally cars being worked on by the side of he road. A few minutes later, while searching for our campsite, we noticed that the little road we found ourselves on was lined with bales of hay… and there was some stripy plastic tape emblazoned with some sort of warning… and, hang on, why are there people with clipboards making notes about which way the road bends? I think that was probably the moment it dawned on us that we were actually on the rally course. A steep and challenging rally course not suited to a rattling camper van with squeaky brakes and the power output of a hairdryer.
It turned out that our campsite was about 100 yards from this rally course and that the race would be going on until midnight. With no hope of a peaceful evening, we decided to wander up to the course to see what was going on. The event was called “Rally Legend 2014”, a series of races featuring classic rally cars of the Seventies and Eighties. For the car nerds amongst you, we’re talking Lancia Delta, Audi Quattro, Porsche 911, Lancia Stratos – even a Triumph TR7 – in other words, all the cars I had as toys growing up. Only these were the real things – fast, noisy and exhilarating. It was brilliant. Needless to say they made much shorter work of the twisty hill than we had in our little tin box.
The next day we visited the historical capital of San Marino, an impressively majestic walled city of medieval buildings – and, on the day we were there, host to some of the tackiest weddings we’d ever seen. The other thing we couldn’t help but notice was the very high number of shops selling guns, crossbows, knives and (I’m sure I saw this) hand grenades. It seems to be the ideal place to go for anyone wanting to tool up in preparation for a post-apocalyptic survival situation. Perhaps they’re worried about the Italians invading or crime is very high or maybe there’s an imminent zombie attack forecast. Either way, San Marino will be ready.
We left the next day and headed north via Imola, actual home of the San Marino Grand Prix – the infamous track where Ayrton Senna lost his life. I wanted to drive past just because I’d never been there but as we approached the town we could hear the unmistakable sound of cars racing. As my excitement grew, and Claire’s heart sank, we drove up to a high concrete wall, beyond which the noise seemed to be emanating. A quick clamber up onto an old concrete junction box and we found ourselves with a great view, not just of the track, but of the latest round of the Porsche Carrera Cup. Bargain!
And so to Florence – or Firenze as the Italians insist on calling it – birthplace of the Renaissance, stomping ground of Michelangelo and Donatello (and possibly the other two Ninja Turtles) and, now, home to what I think must be more American students than there are Italians. You cannot move for American students, they even outnumber the pigeons (I’d say conservatively two-to-one) and seem to spend their time endlessly discussing where the best place is to have “just the most awesome” breakfast/coffee/lunch before seeking out and completely overrunning any cafe that offers free Wifi.
And the few Italians that remain are, on the whole, out to get you. They go out of their way to impede a tourist’s enjoyment of their city. If they are not inventing closing times that happen to coincide with the exact moment you want to visit the Duomo, they are conjuring up ingenious ways to extort money from you. Like the two very helpful women in an official Bureau De Change who, because the ATM was broken, very kindly offered – in perfect English – to provide cash on my card. Once I’d entered my PIN however, they presented me with an invoice for 65 euros “service charge” and suddenly their English became a lot worse as they failed to understand why I was so livid and struggled to explain why they couldn’t (or wouldn’t) cancel the transaction. We did eventually manage to get some of our money back but not before Claire was told that if she didn’t stop her one-woman protest outside their shop (she was telling other tourists of the rip-off scam within) the Polizia would be summoned.
Talking of inappropriate behaviour, were there no pants in 15th century Italy? Florence is, of course, renowned for its art but that doesn’t justify the sheer volume of statues featuring bearded men with their genitals exposed. And they are usually committing the most horrific crimes: molesting women, beheading people, beating the crap out of a centaur or just forcing other nude men into compromising positions. They might have a helmet on or sandals or even the medieval equivalent of a pashmina but, to a man, they all go about their sordid business with their little Renaissance willies on show. Maybe that’s why they’re so violent. Maybe they just needed to put some pants on and calm down.
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