Hello. My name is Isaac, 35 years old from Vancouver, Canada. I have set this blog up to document my journey following Mark Knopfler’s 2013 “Privateering” tour, from April 25 (Bucharest, Romania) to July 31 (Calella de Palafrugell, Spain).

Due to Despite the tour’s obnoxious schedule (thanks, Mark), I cannot be entirely sure that I will attend all concerts. That being said, I will try. You are more than welcome to sit back, relax, read, and comment. You can also subscribe to the blog’s RSS feed (see the “Subscribe for Updates” box at the right hand side of the page. For standard RSS readers, select the “Atom” option).

Have fun,

Note: The contents of this blog are also available in hardcover and paperback formats. For more information, click here:

Monday, July 15, 2013

Locarno, Switzerland to Padova and Rome, Italy (July 12–13, 2013)

The first cable car from Cardada down to Orselina departs 8:15am. As I wasn’t quite aware of the cable car’s schedule until I actually arrived in Locarno, I felt lucky as 8:15am departure fitted well with the rest of the schedule for the day: depart Locarno’s central station at 9:03am, arrive Bellinzona 9:26am; depart Bellinzona 10:05am, arrive Milano 11:50am; depart Milano 12:05pm, arrive Padova 2:12pm. Five hours over three trains.

The Albergo Cardada hotel, situated in Cardada, some 1,340m above Locarno, offers breakfast starting 8:00am, so things had to be done quickly. By 7:55am, two hungry travellers were already checked out, luggage set aside and started piling food on plates. Less than 15 minutes later, breakfast was over and done with and the journey to the cable car station—a staggering 10 meters walk from the hotel’s entrance—began.

One last look at the mountains and Lake Maggiore. It was grey and foggy, but you could still see some majesty.

I will miss this, but it’s time to move on.

8:15am sharp, the cable car went on its way down. Each second passed made me realize how lucky I was that everything worked perfect in Locarno, schedule‐wise, with all the funiculars and cable cars along. Last sanity check: do I have everything with me? let’s see. Train pass… here. Passport… here. Laptop… well, my laptop is so heavy that it’s impossible to not notice. Yes, everything’s here: nothing’s left on that mountain.

Arrived at Orselina. A few minutes wait for the funicular down to Locarno… boarded… check. Felt good to be back on the ground again. Not because I preferred Locarno’s city center over the mountains, but because now, on the ground, with 30 minutes or so left to the train’s departure, I knew that I no longer depend on cable cars.

Philipp, Thomas and Barbara were in the station as well, en route to Locarno’s airport, where Philipp had his airplane parked. Imagine how nice it must be: you fly your own airplane, land in an airport, and park it there. You wanna go home? no problem: train to the airport, start your airplane and fly out.

That also allows for an exceptionally good pick up line. “Hey, how about I’ll pick you up at 6 o’clock, we’ll fly somewhere nice.”

Hopped on the S‐20 S‐Bahn en route to Bellinzona. As Philipp is such a nice person, I agreed to lower my standards temporarily, join the “common people” and board the 2nd class cabin for the first few stations. Not that bad. Trains in Switzerland seem to provide very high standard of travel even in 2nd class, and even for S‐Bahn trains, which are usually short‐haul ones.

Arrived in Bellinzona and had some time to kill. I thought I had never been here before, but once I exited the station and crossed the street to a nearby pharmacy, I looked around and the place looked awfully familiar. Yes, I have been here before: here’s the cafe I sat in, exactly three years ago, waiting for my train…

The reason for visiting a pharmacy was to attempt to buy an adhesive tape, so I can attach a few gauze pads together when wrapping those around my wrist under the wrist brace (won’t bore you with the details about why). Of course, not even one living soul in the pharmacy was able to communicate in English, leaving me with the only option of looking around the pharmacy myself, which I did and found nothing.

Hopped on the train, quick two hours ride to Milano Centrale. A short delay, but we still made it to the connecting train which was conveniently located on the other side of the platform.

Looking at the seat reservation for the train from Milano to Padova, we noticed that the seat was a 2nd class seat. That was odd: we wouldn’t book a 2nd class seat for a train ride unless the ride was very short and the price difference was substantial. As EURail and Interrail train passes cover 1st class fares in Italy (but not seat reservations: seat reservations, if required, still have to be paid out of pocket), we assumed that we could just board a 1st class cabin, find two vacant seats and enjoy the ride.

That was a mistake that resulted in one of the most chaotic train rides in the entire tour.

First, it turns out that train rides from Milano to Padova during this seasons were extremely busy. In hindsight, that’s not surprising considering the fact that these trains’ final destination is Venice, which only happens to be one of the most popular tourism destinations in the world. Boarding the 1st class cabin, I thought I was entering hell: I don’t think I have ever seen so many suitcases inside a train before. Loads and loads of tourists—single travellers, couples and families—were all over the cabin, with their suitcases located pretty much everywhere: overhead, between the seats, on the aisle, between the train’s cabins… bloody everywhere. The cabin had air conditioning going on, but apparently not strong enough to battle the heat generated by the bodies of so many tourists scrambling around the cabins to either find a vacant seat, or to find their own seats.

Luckily (or so I thought), two vacant seats, opposing each other, were found; however, the LCD panel above them showed that they were reserved between Milano and Venice. That meant that either the people who reserved these seats are not on this train, or that they are on the train and currently battling to find their way to their seats. We stood by the seats—the train ride had already started, mind you; and it’s a fast train, reaching speed in excess of 200km/h—waiting to see whether the seats’ rightful owners were going to show up or not.

Eventually, they did. Fortunately, they were sympathetic of the situation and weren’t mad or anything. Frustrated, we decided to head back to the 2nd class cabin—a walk of about 3–4 coaches in a moving train. On the way there, I found one vacant seat in 1st class and parked myself there. A minute later, Jeroen appeared and reported that these trains require seat reservations, and if you own a 2nd class seat reservation, then you must be seated there even if you own a train pass (this information was provided by the train’s staff).

Defeated, we marched back to our rightful seats. Total time spent walking back and forth in a moving train: about half an hour, out of a 2 hours train ride.

Chaos didn’t skip the 2nd class cabin, either. So… many… tourists. So… many… families… with… noisy… kids. Where the hell am I? am I on a train or in a damn kindergarten? WILL SOMEONE TURN ON THE AIR CONDITIONING?

All I wanted was for this train ride to pass. Eventually, it did. Was happy to leave the train. Exited Padova’s central railway station and headed to the hotel—Hotel Grand’Italia (no typo; they put the apostrophe in the hotel’s name)—located right across the street from the station.

Even though the tour’s schedule mentions Padova as the city/town where the concert was to take place, this information is incorrect: the “real” location would be Piazzola sul Brenta, and Padova just happens to be the closest sizable city. I knew this, because during the 2010 Get Lucky tour, a concert took place in exactly the same venue.

Still, I have never been to Padova before. In 2010, I was subject to the mercy of two wonderful Italian sisters who live in northern Italy and were going to the concert anyway (by car), so I tagged along with them.

The feeling I got as soon as I exited Padova’s central railway station—even before arriving at the hotel, which was a mere 40 meters away or so—was not good in the slightest. The area looked, felt and smelled like a slum. Typical central railway station scenery in Europe: those who weren’t as fortunate as I am to live capable life—along with those who were probably given a chance or two and blew it—call the area home. Dirt, filth, everywhere. Everything looks dusty, neglected. Questionable individuals leaning against the buildings, some drinking alcohol in broad daylight (you could get arrested for doing so pretty much anywhere in North America).

Shady, dodgy place; the hotel, however, was very pleasant. Checked in, chilled out for a bit and then went out to look for some food.

Before heading out, we asked the receptionist about how we were to go about getting to Piazzola sul Brenta, which is located about 20km away from Padova’s city center. We knew that there was a bus going there, but the problem was about getting back; we presumed that, if no other options exist, we’d simply take a taxi.

So, here’s a tip: while in Italy, you must never presume anything. The receptionist informed us that a taxi back from Piazzola sul Brenta to Padova’s city center is likely to cost about (sit very tight) €140. Mind you, that’s for a 20km ride (I found out the reason later; read on). The Dutchman then said that he does recall reading about taxi cab riding in Italy being a stupidly expensive thing to do.

It’s funny, though, how things end up working out at the end. The hotel’s receptionist mentioned that they have a “private car” service, and that two other guests in the hotel booked it in order to get to the very same concert. She phoned them, and the good news were that they were willing to share the expenses. A “private car” service means that a driver picks you up from the hotel, takes you wherever you want for a duration of a few hours and then gets you back to the hotel—all for a price of about €130. Split four ways, you can’t say it’s a bad deal.

Nothing suitable was found to eat in the immediate vicinity of the central railway station. There was a McDonald’s there, and if you took some time to observe the people who hung around in the area, you’d know why. Searches in TripAdvisor showed nothing useful, so we decided to just walk towards the city center—about one kilometer south. Once you cross the San Gregorio river, the scenery begins to look more like what you’d expect from Italy, and less like what you’d expect from hell.

Of course, this is Italy: a restaurant is to be considered closed unless proven otherwise. Google Local, the online tool I’m using for looking for places to eat whenever TripAdvisor fails, suggested a restaurant by the name of Brek. Arriving there, it turned out that it was going to open 20 minutes or so down the road, so the time was used to wander around the city center and taking pictures. Meanwhile, looked for some other dining alternatives, which turned out to be overpriced tourist traps.


This part of the city is indeed nicer. I would have, perhaps, continued to traverse the old city’s narrow, picturesque streets but time was pressing. 6:30pm and we stormed into that restaurant found earlier. The way it works there is that you’re supposed to walk through multiple “booths” and ask for the items you want, then pay at the end. Problem: it’s all in Italian, but fortunately, there was an exceptionally nice lady working there who explained each and every item in the menu.

Simple, excellent filling dinner for two for about €26. Can’t go wrong. Go there if you’re in town.

Back to the hotel, chilled out for a bit and went downstairs shortly before 8:00pm, as we were supposed to meet the other passengers there. Minutes later, a big (big? huge!) guy with the haircut and the attire of a heavy metal fan stepped out of the elevator escorted by an older woman. Their accent meant either English or Australian; turned out to be Australian, a mother and her son. The son, in his early 30’s, recently quit his job in Australia and decided to spend a few months in Europe following all sorts of music festivals. I asked him whether he’s aware of the fact that Mark Knopfler isn’t quite considered the purveyor of heavy metal music—you know, just to help him set his expectations right; he replied that he knew that, and it’s all good.

Hopped on the private taxi. 25 minutes and an interesting conversation later, the driver dropped us off right at the entrance to the venue, and promised to be there when the concert ends, to pick us all up.

The venue, Anfiteatro Camerini, is located in the area of a huge Italian villa called Villa Contarini. The villa is named after the House of Contarini—a rich and respected Venetian dynasty. The venue hosts a live music festival every year.

A few bars and restaurants are available outside the venue, along the nearby streets and near the adjacent park. I remember, last time I was here in 2010, I went along with the Italian sisters and their family to a nearby cafe—a couple of blocks away from the venue and away from the typical festival noise. Somehow, I managed to find that cafe (actually, “somehow” doesn’t fit well; memory is associative. Being placed in the same venue, three years later, helped resurface hidden memories from the back of my mind).

Interesting concept: you can’t just go inside, say what you want, get it, pay and get out. No, that would be too simple. Instead, you are more than welcome to browse what they have—but then, you have to go outside, where a cashier can be found. You tell the cashier what you want, she types it all in, gives you a receipt and sends you back in to grab your goods.

Inefficient (which, in Italy, means “business as usual”); but what I was really wondering is whether any of you could guess, by this receipt, what it was that we ordered.


For those of you who weren’t able to guess it, we ordered one cappuccino and one small 2‐scoops ice cream. Shame on you, really, for not being able to tell. Now, mind you, this didn’t confuse only you: it also confused the poor lady who had to prepare the order. Eventually, it turns out that what we said we would like to have isn’t exactly what the cashier thought we should be getting. There was a very loose connection between what we asked for and what we ended up paying for. At the end, those missing €0.40 were gladly paid. Perfect cappuccino, thank you very much.

Back at the venue.


Villa Contarini provides for an excellent outdoors concert venue. The beautiful villa located to the right; green all around; lots of space; and the weather was excellent—what else could you ask for? not much. It was a great concert experience with a lot of energy. Well, this is, again, Italy: the audience in Italy is an integral part of the concert. Cheers and applauses are usually very loud, and when you factor in the amount of passion built into the Italian language itself, you should get the idea why attending concerts in Italy is a pleasure.

Ian—perhaps for the first time in this tour—chose to stand up for the opening sequence of Hill Farmer’s Blues. I’m guessing it’s easier hitting all those cymbals that way.


After Speedway to Nazareth, I was expecting the usual Running of the Bulls which, in Italy, might get rather nasty. What happened in reality, though, was far from anything I could have imagined. A group of people from the front couple of rows indeed walked (didn’t run, though. Walk. Puzzling) towards the stage with the intention of staying there until the end of the concert. That, naturally, obstructed the view of people sitting behind. People then started yelling at the bulls—I don’t exactly know what, but it sounded like “sedotti” (maybe an Italian‐speaking reader could comment and explain?). At any rate, I believe what they meant to yell was “sit the !#@# down”. The calls grew louder and louder until the group of people, standing in the front, simply took off and went back to their seats.

Update, July 19, 2013: the correct word is “seduti”. Thanks, Valeria.

After Telegraph Road, however, nobody could stop them. Good encore, show ended and we exited the venue through the main exit.

With every step towards the agreed‐upon meeting place, I was praying that things will turn out well. It was comforting to know, though, that there’s a business association between the private driver and the hotel, and if something goes wrong, I would be raising hell the next morning. To my complete surprise, though, the driver was already at the meeting point, waiting for us outside the car. Now that’s what I call service.

Quite expectedly, the Australian and his mother weren’t there yet. Long minutes passed before they showed up, during which the driver explained, in a nutshell, how taxis work in Italy.

If I understood things correctly, there are two types of taxi cabs in Italy: white ones and yellow ones. The white ones can’t be hailed spontaneously: you must call their respective company in order to get them to your location. Once you call the taxi company, a taxi is dispatched your way and the meter starts running as soon as the driver is dispatched. That is, if the driver happens to be located half an hour away from you, and they are dispatched at your direction, you have to pay for that half an hour.

I don’t think I ever encountered such a standard before. It raises interesting questions. For example, what happens if you call a taxi company, and they have two taxis that can serve you: one is two minutes away from you, and one is half an hour away. Which one will they send over? the one closer to you? not necessarily. While it would cost you less, remember that it’s in the best interest of the taxi company (and the driver) to get as much money out of you as possible.

Yellow cabs, on the other hand, work differently. You may hail them at will but there’s no telling how much you’re going to be charged. According to our driver, the taxi world in Italy is a mess—everybody’s ripping everybody else off.

The Australian family finally showed up, with Alex (the son) holding a cup of beer. Before entering the cab, he remembered that he needed to urinate and voiced his frustration over the inability to simply take his manhood out of his trousers and urinate on a nearby tree. He then had to go back inside the venue, empty his bladder and get back. That’s another 10 minutes.

I didn’t care, though. All I knew was that I’m going to be glued to this driver and I’m going to go anywhere he goes; at the end, I’ll likely end up in my hotel.

Fortunately, that’s how things turned out. Paid the driver, left the car, bid the Australians goodbye and off to bed.

Funny how these things work out.

The next morning started easy. Being in a hotel so close to the central railway station carries the advantage of being able to sleep in, have breakfast at ease and still be certain that you’re OK, travel‐wise.

The plan: leave Padova 9:53am, arrive Rome 1:10pm. One train, around three hours. You’re kidding, right? come on. That’s easy. One train? that’s it?


I was excited to get to Rome. I have been there once before in my life, during the 2010 Get Lucky tour—for one night only, a time period barely enough to do anything in this great city. Also, the early arrival time made it possible to do some sightseeing.

The three hours train ride was divided into two: hell and paradise. Hell took place between Padova and Florence, and was characterized by millions of tourists riding that poor train. Again, so many suitcases…

I moved to Canada a little more than ten years ago. I had to take my entire life with me, for an indefinite length of time, to a country located about 10,000km from where I was born and raised. Everything fit well into two suitcases.

Why people take so much luggage with them when they go on vacation is beyond me. Women tend to pack more than men (see this) for incredibly stupid reasons; but that aside, the way I see it is that the more you pack, the less “true” vacation you’re going to have.

Paradise took place once all said tourists left the train in Florence.

Arrived in Roma Termini on time. The hotel, Hotel Mozart, was located about three metro stops away, near the Piazza di Spagna (the “Spanish Steps”). Metro… now how do you go about doing that? oh, here’s a machine. Good. In Italy, I prefer using such machines over talking to people, if only for the fact that these machines can communicate in English, which too many Italians can’t. In Rome, you can get a day pass for €6, covering the two metro lines and all buses until midnight; a bargain.

There are two metro lines in Rome: Line A and Line B. Line B actually came first: it’s old (dating back to 1955), and the trains running that line are old as well. Line A is more modern and is even air conditioned: not only the trains are air‐conditioned, but also the entire waiting area.

We needed Line A. Good. Mind you, you don’t see many clouds in Rome nowadays as the temperature was approaching 6,000℃.

Three stations to Spagna, and from there it’s a short walk through a sea of people to the hotel, located in a narrow side street. Very good hotel right at the city center—although it does get noisy at times, because… well, because it’s right at the city center.

Checked in and decided to go do some sightseeing. Being in Rome and not going to witness at least some of what this city has to offer in terms of history is insane, and what’s more insane is doing it twice. The itinerary: first, go to see what’s that Vatican thing is all about, then head to the Colosseum. The reason was that the venue—located outside the city center—was closer to the Colosseum than to the Vatican, and we were prepared for the possibility of running out of time and having to head to the venue directly.

Off to the metro, and the Vatican City is a few stops away. Exited the station and started following the crowds.


Five minutes later, and the Vatican City was right there. It looks like a mass of architectural beauty amidst a mass of… well… “regular” old buildings. Entering from the east, the first thing you see is Saint Peter’s Square, a huge square located in front of one of the most famous sites in the Vatican City (and, considering the number of Christians in the world, I’m betting this is one of the most famous buildings in the world)—the Saint Peter’s Basilica.


While the place is indeed beautiful and very impressive, for some reason, I started feeling anxious.

I’m not saying that religion is a bad idea. I’m not saying it’s a good idea, either. “Live and let live” is my motto: as long as you let me live by my own values, and as long as your lifestyle doesn’t violate my rights, I really don’t care how you believe the world was created, or who (or what) God is. Whatever floats your boat, really.

My problem is with religious “authorities”. It appears as if religion is such complex an idea, that people often seek some sort of an “authority” to tell them exactly what they should be thinking or doing. This, however, is a slippery slope: people who take religious authorities too seriously can quickly become controlled by said authorities. If you are used to some authority always preaching to you and telling you what you should and should not do, you are likely to, eventually, lose the ability to question such authority. You then blindly follow whatever someone else says.

And that is where things go awry. Too many crimes against humanity were committed in the name of religion. Religion, by being preached to billions of people, became a tool to differentiate between people rather than uniting them. Competition between different religions (and different groups of people having different interpretation to the same religion!) led to terrible wars and millions over millions dead.

Why? because “some authority” decided that religion is an idea worth killing for.

What I say is simple: the moment you (either directly, or indirectly through some sort of a preacher) decide that someone else’s life is less precious than your own because of religion‐related factors, you don’t belong in my society anymore. For all I care, life is more important than any sort of deity, be it called God, Jehovah, Allah, Buddha or E=mc2.

The moment some else’s life becomes less worthy in your eyes because of your spiritual belief, your spiritual belief is immediately rendered as complete and total garbage: please commit yourself to an asylum and relieve us from your presence, thank you.

That explains, in a nutshell, why I become slightly anxious when I get to think about religious authorities of any sort.

And I won’t even get started with the Catholic Church’s issues with child molestation, their divisive and hate‐mongering approach towards homosexuality, female rights and so forth. There comes a person, delegitimizes people based on his interpretation of the “holy books”, and in the same sentence calls for peace and unity. The only people stupider than such abusive “authority” is those who blindly subject themselves to it.

In the Vatican City, there usually is a long line for visiting Saint Peter’s Basilica. Standing in line for hours is not something I’m capable of doing without losing my mind, let alone on concert day; therefore, after about 10 minutes wandering around Saint Peter’s square, we left the scene and headed back to the metro.

Like many other touristic locations in Europe, many streets in Rome are laden with individuals who sell possibly‐stolen, possibly‐fake, definitely‐illegal fashion goods on the sidewalks. Goods are being placed on some sort of a blanket; upon noticing a police officer, all goods are wrapped into one big bag in a matter of a couple of seconds, and all you get to see are innocent‐looking people walking around with strange big bags hanging off their shoulders. The first time I saw it was in Barcelona in 2010, a few days after the end of the 2010 Get Lucky tour as I stayed an extra few days in Barcelona to unwind.

From the metro, it’s a long ride (including a metro line change) to get to the Colosseum. Now there’s history for you. What a magnificent sight. Seeing it in pictures and in movies really doesn’t do the trick: you need to be there to fully grasp the magnitude of this thing. I took so many photographs trying to capture how amazing this thing is in real life… almost consistently failing.


The place was, of course, filled with tourists. The Colosseum, mind you, is not the only piece of history in the area: Rome’s history dates back about 2,500 years, and, to this day, contains numerous important historical sites. I love places that are rich with history, which is why I often visit the city of Jerusalem whenever I’m home for a visit. I’m not even going to try to cover a fraction of Rome’s history in this blog—there’s simply too much to say. But one thing is for sure: you need to be there to believe it. No still photograph and no video can ever do justice to the immense ancient beauty that Rome has to offer.


(I took the last panoramic one just for that kissing couple.)

Rome, therefore, has been added to my list of places to revisit in the future—not an easy list to get into, as I have been to so many places already and I have to be very picky.

The weather was too hot to bear so decided to go back to the hotel and chill out. I knew it was going to be a long day still: the concert was scheduled to start at 9:00pm, and getting back from the venue to the city center was still a big question mark (we’ll get to that later).

The hotel offers a nice terrace on top, offering fantastic panoramic views.


Back to the room, to get some rest, and then off to the venue.

The venue, Ippodromo Capannelle, is—listen to this—a horse racecourse. There’s a first time for everything, I guess: more than two hundred times watching this band perform, and I never thought I’ll watch a concert in a horse racecourse. I didn’t know it was a racecourse before arriving, though; all I knew was the venue’s name and that Bruce Springsteen performed there a few days earlier.

The problem with the venue, though, was its location: the venue is located about 20km away from Rome’s city center. To get there, you need to take the metro almost all the way east, and then take a bus. An annoyance, but not a huge problem: the problem is getting back to the city center. While the metro in Rome is active until very late at night, buses become less and less frequent. Due to the huge distance involved, walking back to the hotel is not an option: missing the metro and/or the bus would mean having to hail a taxi, which is very hard to do on the spot due to how taxis work in Italy (you have to call them first).

Arrived at the venue, and the first thing done was to ensure we know where the departing bus leaves from. That’s much easier done in daylight than otherwise. Once done, headed to the venue, collected tickets and entered.

Italians love their scooters…


Once inside, before arriving to where the concert was actually going to take place, there were many food and drink stands, plus a few “rooms” dedicated to particular products for the sake of promotion (Samsung, for example, had a “room” there to promote their S4 device). Some band played “music” to the “pleasure” of passer byers. Torture. A couple of minutes walk through this nonsense and arrived at this.


It was then when I realized that the venue is a horse racecourse. ticket purchasers were allowed early entry to the venue, a privilege I was very happy to forfeit. I opted, instead, at watching and listening to the concert from the very back, as the Dutchman held a convenient spot closer to the stage, leaning against one of the drink stands.

How far back did I go? as far as I could possibly go. At the far back, there were a few benches. Laid down on one and listened to a part of the concert looking at the sky. What a relaxing, great experience! sound was not bad at all, too—even fifty meters away or more from the stage.


The concert ended at around 11:30pm and we were the first ones to leave the venue. We were in a hurry to the bus station—in such a hurry, actually, that we left the venue’s area seconds after the band did. The bus was supposed to arrive at around 11:40pm, and nobody wanted to take chances.

Of course, the bus didn’t show up around 11:40pm. As time went by, more and more people arrived at the station, each one wondering where the hell the bus was. A different bus, also headed to the city center, drove by the station without stopping.

The last thing you want happening after a concert is to be stranded 20km away from your hotel. It was slightly comforting, though, to realize that many other people were waiting for the very same bus: it meant that there was a good reason to believe that the bus will arrive eventually, which it did—about half an hour late.

Stormed into the bus as if I was getting out of jail. Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at a metro station, just in time to catch the train back to the city center.

It was late—around 1:00am—when we arrived back at the city center. The next day’s travel schedule was going to be easy, so it was decided to see some of Rome at night. The city’s streets were far from being devoid of humans: it was Saturday night, and Italians don’t seem to believe in sleeping at nights to begin with. Many bars, pubs, clubs were open, and people—old as young—seemed to be having fun.

Not far from the hotel, there’s the Trevi Fountain. What a magnificent sight at night. Being one of the more famous touristic attraction in Rome, there were many tourists and local nearby the fountain, having a good time at the immediate vicinity of this masterpiece.


Tired… headed back to the hotel and crashed into bed.

Signing off this post from Napoli’s airport, waiting to board a flight to Catania.


1 comment:

  1. I am surprised Isaac that the heat of the day made you uncomfortable coming from Tel Aviv as you do. I agree entirely about religion being used to control people. Some religions circumcise young girls at the onset of puberty. The catholic church does not allow contraception. Here in England the church and the state and the monarchy are all locked together. Of course I have a different view totally, the father of Jesus was visitor to our planet. All of the written bible is largely correct in my view. I was brought up with the "live and let live" principal..kibbutz style. But of course power, greed and hubris wins over as many step outside the place of worship. And God is always on the side of those who make war. What a crazy world we live in.