Aagh moments in Arles

I set off bright and early today, having shifted rooms to a larger room with its own bathroom so no more trips to the grotty toilet outside during the night. Mind you, I'm glad not to be sharing this room as when you sit on the pedestal you can't actually get the sliding door shut to preserve any modesty.

I caught a train to Arles, which is less than 20 minutes from here, and found my way easily into the town centre via the lovely amphitheatre,

and subsequently to the Office de Tourisme. It's all very pretty, still a bit sleepy at 10am, and the young woman at Tourism was really helpful in talking me through the self-guided Van Gogh walk where allegedly you can walk yourself around Arles and take in a number of spots where VVG took inspiration for his masterpieces. I was delighted to find that this was something I could do without following around a well-meaning guide with a raised umbrella or a scarf tied to a pole.

There are supposed to be 8 of these sights - I found 2. The map she gave me bore little relation to the one I already had of the town, and either they weren't there or had been moved or something. Several times I followed the yellow arrows, only to find that they started pointing back the way I'd come. Or there were no arrows at all, or they just stopped. Those were the aagh moments, and I have to confess that I gave up. I'd seen plenty of VVG in Amsterdam plus a bonus couple in Genoa.

The VVG Foundation however, was a joy. I had no inkling that when I turned up to see the one VVG actually held there,

that one of the two featured sympatico artists exhibited was our very own and very magnificent David Hockney. A number of his iPad pictures were featured, reminding me of the fantastic show at the Royal Academy a couple of years back.

Also showcased were his own VVG homages

I also loved watching a 1998 film (50 minutes that just whizzed by) where he talks about perspective and colour, and shows how he built up his photo collages of California, one of which I have at home (a copy of course!) - it was great to understand why he does what he does and how. He's funny and engaging too, and his California home is a beautiful riot of colour.

The other work in the gallery by Raphael Hefti wasn't quite my thing, apart from the amazing roof sculpture which was a series of coloured glass panels that cast beautiful light everywhere.

The roof terrace at the gallery took my breath away -

apart from the Hefti sculpture, the views over the city were wonderful and I had a moment of feeling quite overwhelmed at the vivid colour I was seeing all around me - just like VVG had seen those colours and that incredible, iridescent quality of light. I was also blessed with an amazingly blue sky - I felt quite tearful for a few seconds, and was glad to be alone with all that beauty as I caught my breath. (Again, photos to come)

After lunch in the pretty Place du Forum (when again I had an encounter with a miniature toilet where anyone over 5'8" in height would not have been able to sit down without doing something inventive with their legs - I think it even beat Ghent where I had to open the door in order to be able to turn around and flush) and an abortive search for the VVG sights, I found myself circling the town at least twice and getting frustrated and footsore - the aagh moments - so I gave up and went to an interesting and varied exhibition of pictures by local photographers.

Back to Avignon, and I went to buy gloves - gloves, really. I have a Nellie full of sleeveless tops and one sweater. I was right chilly this morning up until around 11am and I knew that a cheapo pair would do the job in case I need them over the next two weeks. After a fraught phone call to EE who appeared to have cut off my internet data, I literally just popped across the road to a posh trendy and very beautiful restaurant called 83 Vernet for dinner, which was very good and actually quite competitive with London prices.

When I got in for some reason I decided to switch on the TV - the first time in 6 weeks - and got sucked into watching part of a junior French version of The Voice. It was, predictably, ghastly, with pubescent girls channelling their inner Whitney and young boys whose voices have not yet broken and so are destined for very short careers. And their was a blind girl with teeth braces who of course had a voice like an angel who will probably deservedly win.

Tomorrow I catch a train for one of my shortest journeys, to go and stay with Nick and Chrissy in the Aude region - I can't remember the name of their village! I'm also looking forward to meeting their friend Jane again, and to a very sociable weekend after 10 days of my own company.

Sur le pont

Today was a much more orderly day than yesterday. The only really unexpected thing was the cold snap and it forced me down Rue de la Republique (the local high street) to pick up a couple of extra thin layers from H&M, who do seem to be everywhere I go in Europe.

Shopping urge over, I set off for the river as le pont of course had to be done. I bought a joint ticket for the pont and the Palais des Papes, and was blessed with glorious sunny weather and blue skies for my snaps of the Rhone and this ancient bridge that kind of fell apart following floods and was declared unsafe as far back as the end of the 17th century - so it now pokes out somewhat sadly, having once been a stunning 900m long with 22 arches instead of now four. The views are real purty though, and the story of the restoration, with its 3D video showing the medieval bridge, is interesting.

Intending to visit La Palais des Papes next, I was waylaid by the rickety little "train" (more of an extended milk float) that goes around the old town on a tour. Can't say it was the most comfortable 40 minutes I've ever spent, and you do feel a bit of a tourist prat in full view of everyone, but it's still a good way to orientate yourself and soak up a bit of history.

After that I went into the Palais - it's a well-restored castle, designed and built by three successive popes who opted to stay in France rather than reign from Rome in the 14th century - all very complicated. I especially like the chambres of the Pope and his head honcho, with beautiful glazed ceramic floor tiles in loads of different designs, and painted walls with floral and pastoral scenes. Turns out the popes were so paranoid about being assassinated that only they and their head chamberlain were allowed to use knives, even at mealtimes.

Une omelette aux fromages et champignons et un verre de vin blanc later, and I walked in circles through the little streets of this well-heeled and rather charming town. It's pretty good for shopping and I was able to extend the two retro table mats I bought in Carcassone last year to a more rounded four. After that, I went to the Collection Lambert contemporary art gallery.

Much of what I saw had been curated from the collection of the famous (here at least) and late French actor and director Patrice Chereau and was an eclectic selection of personal art works, memorabilia, film clips of his performances and I guess stuff he just admired. Had I known who he was, it may have been more memorable but of course as I didn't, it failed to hang together for me for the most part. I wasn't hugely drawn to much of the permanent collection either, apart from the work of Douglas Gordon, a Scottish artist (that's me inside Charlotte Rampling's head that is)

but never let it be said that I'm not pushing the boundaries of my understanding and experience of art on this trip. I liked the simplicity of these twirly shiny things outside too

I headed back towards the Palais so that I could take a walk along the Promenade des Papes and the Rocher des Doms before evening fell - the views are amazing

Le pont encore

Golden girl on top of the cathedral

After a swift Aperol spritz to help me finish off this great book I've been reading (The First Bad Man, by Miranda July), I popped back to the hotel and spoke to the very glamorous madame who runs it (she's not in the first flush of youth, but at petit dejeuner this morning was already dressed in black chiffon) about moving my stuff to another room tomorrow as previously arranged. She speaks no English and let's just say my French is quite experimental so I swear she thinks I'm bonkers as I gesticulate wildly and misconjugate my verbs all over the shop.

Dinner tonight was a slightly weird concoction of lemon chicken and ravioli (it turned out to be compulsory to choose more than one dish, despite my protestations that just chicken would be fine), and it's another earlyish night for me (though actually I've found it's not very tempting to stay out late when you're travelling solo) as I'm hopping on a train to Arles tomorrow in search of VVG.

Tardy Italian trains

Tardy Italian trains

Well what a pleasure it is to be drafting this on board a supremely clean, comfortable and so far punctual TGV train from Nice bound for Avignon, with the Med to my right on a beautifully sunny blue-skied evening. As some of you may have seen from my FB post this morning (sorry, sometimes I get bored) I was held up big time in Genoa and managed to eventually reach Nice via Ventimiglia 2 hours late. I had to miss connections sometime, and it could’ve been worse as it was easy to change my seat reservation as I got to Nice in plenty of time for the next train.

I had some very nice company for part of the way with a charming French businessman who spoke great English (don’t get excited girlfriends, I didn’t fancy him so it ain’t goin’ nowhere) and best of all helped me with Nellie, despite the fact that I think I may have been bigger than him (and that’s one of the reasons, girlfriends). The hotel manager knows I’m going to be late, so, so far so good and all being well I’ll still get dinner somewhere as I’m pretty central.

Having left Italy behind, I was considering some of my observations about that beautiful country and its citizens. There’s a marked difference between the places I’ve stayed that isn’t just about geography - I’m sure that comes as no news to most of you who’ve travelled there - and Billy the friendly Frenchman is a bit of a globetrotter on business, and he concurred. Apparently the Mafia is alive and well in Rome, where business is done under the table though the mayor gets sacked when it’s discovered he spend 20,000 euros on a meal using the company credit card.

I found Sicilians quite relaxed and laid back but I also have to remember that Taormina is a really tiny part and very tourist-oriented. Similar in Positano, with the exception of the nasty bitch in the T-shirt shop, and very keen to please.

I’m fairly sure that whilst Rome has to thrive on its tourism, I think that just like Londoners many Romans resent it too because the infrastructure is pretty inadequate - plus some of the tourist groups are so massive, especially from the Far East, and it can make it really difficult for Romans to go about their business. As a solo traveller moving around at my own pace, I would cross the road or take a detour rather than get stuck behind one of the slow-moving herds. And in Rome, I’ve already whinged about the challenges of being a pedestrian - it was definitely the worst, with the exception of trying to cross the road in Naples from the bus terminal to a licensed taxi rank, the only time I’ve felt really vulnerable with Nellie in tow.

I saw many more white  licensed taxi cabs sitting idle in Rome than I think I’ve ever seen black cabs in London, but I can’t begin to imagine how congested it must be in the height of the tourist season; when I go back, which I will, I’m sure as hell going in March or April. With the exception of EXPO, Milan seemed better able to handle tourists, but admittedly it was much much quieter. The Milanese seem to me to be less emotional and calmer than Romans, and there is a smartness and elegance about the placer, though I still found them pretty friendly.

I can only speak for the old town in Genoa as I only saw the new from the upper deck of that open top bus I mentioned yesterday. It’s definitley grungier, and bustles with a very cosmopolitan population all doing their bit to get by with lots and lots of tiny businesses. They’re much more decent about stopping at “zebra” crossings than anywhere else, and I found them friendly. But I don’t understand why so many sets of steps I walked up and down in Genoa, including the ones at the B&B, were so worn and uneven, far more so that any where else!

But Genoa’s melting pot also brought home to me the desperation of the lives led by the immigrant African and Asian “traders” on every street corner, trying to sell you an umbrella or (less so in Genoa) a selfie stick, or a handbag or a rose or some jewellery. Last night I sat outside under a canopy to eat (making the most of feeling wam enough to do so) and was approached by an African woman carrying all her wares in a massive bundle on her head. I’m sorry that I didn’t want anything she was trying to sell me - that’s one hell of a way to make a living, and I bet she could teach me a thing or two about posture.

And of course every time I said no I had a glimpse of the haunted look of someone whose existence is probably miserable, or maybe not as miserable as if they’d stayed where they came from, but nonetheless offering nothing but the necessity to walk the streets every day trying to sell comparatively rich people trinkets they don’t need or want, and more than likely to return when all those rich people have gone home to rest, eat and bathe in conditions you and I would consider beneath our dignity.

Everywhere too, of course, beggars - hands held out in supplication, even by people whose standards of dress wouldn’t mark them out  immediately as destitute; in some places, people walking towards you in the street as though just another passer by, and (I hope my limited Italian understood correctly) asking you for some change as if on the off chance, just as they might ask the time or for a light or directions. And of course I’m a bleeding heart liberal, and almost every time, when I could see the crippled spines and the lost limbs, I wanted to give in - but of course I never did. I don’t know if that makes me normal or a heartless bitch.

I’ve said before in this blog how lucky I consider myself to be (with just the one big exception of a special person to share my life with), and this trip just underlines that every single day, no matter how many missed train connections I have to endure. And I’m going to do my damnedest to be grateful for the quality of my current existence every single day, even when this trip is over, because when I recall the desperate people I’ve seen and ignored,  I have no business to feel any other way.

Now completing this online, cream crackered having arrived in Avignon 2 hours late and to temps of 7 degrees, which is at least half of that I've been experiencing up to now. So the jumper made its first outing - but as long as it's not raining, all will be well tomorrow though I fear Nellie may have done for my back in an awkward manoeuvre at Avignon TGV station. Had a nice supper round the corner with Picpoul, probably my favourite white wine. Slightly perturbed that the first sight to greet me in my little attic room was a can of insect repellant. And the toilet next door is only fractionally short of nasty, but my bed is wider than a single (yay!) and I think I will sleep like a person who's just spent 10+ hours travelling should sleep.

Giddy heights in Genoa

Today has been largely a good day - I ate fruit and more vegetables and it stopped raining! I am still feeling very self-conscious as I wander round (and, if I'm honest, glowing in ladylike fashion ever-so-slightly) without a coat as for me it still feels pretty warm, so I stand out a mile as an English tourist. And of course as a woman of a certain age who has to keep random leaflets in easy reach for fanning purposes. (A woman in a gallery in Rome came up to me and proudly showed me the silent personal fan she'd bought off Amazon which she wore like a necklace/scarf. I have to say I'm tempted. Put it on my Christmas list, someone.)

This morning I turned the other way out of the pension from the usual and found a street I'd walked through yesterday without realising I was within spitting distance of "home". Still, it's an entertaining street with lots of interesting shops and general local buzz, and I enjoyed meandering my way to the Palazza Ducale where I went to see not one but two fantastic exhibitions. One was excellent and influential late 19th and early 20th century art collection from Detroit, including a great mix of works by Vincent Van, Matisse, Modigliani, Renoir, Picasso and many more. The other was quite simply one of the best photographic exhibitions I've ever seen - 'For the love of Paris', featuring the work of Brassai. Find out more here http://www.atgetphotography.com/The-Photographers/BRASSAI.html

Unfortunately taking photos wasn't allowed, but they wouldn't have been much cop as all the work was under glass. I was lucky because there were only a handful of others there, so I had an uninterrupted view of Paris by night, Paris nightlife, toffs at Longchamps races, society Parisians and the Kennedys at Maxim's. There were enchanting photos of children, beautiful erotic photos, and he even managed to make the seedier side of the city look glamorous. I very rarely buy exhibition catalogues and of course this time the added weight for Nellie meant this was no exception, but I'm going to look up more of his work when I get home - I just walked around the whole show with a big smile on my face, and am now really looking forward to my final weekend in gay Paree with Carol and Gill at the end of the month.

After that my inner geek took over and I went up and down the hills from the old town in Genoa in the lifts and the funicular railway - such fun, and a fantastic panoramic view from Spionatta di Castellato. The lift that follow on from the funicular is a very dull metal box, so not recommended, and as you can see nothing escapes graffiti vandals here, even this beautiful old panelled lift. (I'm not calling them artists. There's a difference between proper street art and ugly egocentric tagging.)

After minestrone at the charmingly-named Dad & Son cafe just up the road from Al Basilisco, I went to Palazza Reale for a bit of Baroque. Well, a lot of Baroque. In fact so much Baroque, I gave up taking pics as there are only so many ceilings and gilt stuccoes one wants in one's photo gallery. (Have to confess to a few selfies in mirrored surafaces though). It was a very fine place - the exterior maybe a little neglected - but was once the home of major Genovese families and Sardinian royalty until it became one of the Genovese palazzos (along with Bianco, Rosso, and 3 others) that came under World Heritage UNESCO protection in 2006.

Yup, spot the selfie

Bigfoot

There are that many palazzos in Genoa, especially in Via Garibaldi just up the road from me, that you'd be hard-pressed to shake a stick - evidence of Genoa's wealthy mercantile past. And gorgeous they are too, though all with limited access as they're used for other purposes (such as banks, of course) as well as places of public interest and museums for tourists like me.

A brisk walk and a piccolo gelato later (white choc and praline, if you're asking - and of course cheaper than Rome or Milan), I decided to make the most of a discount and hop on a City Sightseeing bus (the discount was even more because the guide undercharged me - but I'm afraid I declined to point out her error as I didn't think this one was great value). My feet were aching a bit and I wanted to see new as well as old Genoa, and was sure I wouldn't get very far under my own steam.

I was enjoying the wind in my hair on top of the bus as the sun came out, but that was when the shitty thing happened and the bus got diverted along with all the others doing 3-point turns in front of it on the Via XX Septembre. Some poor soul (I can only presume a jumper) had committed suicide at the top of the street, so yet again my (this time short) journey was disrupted by someone who couldn't take it any more. I felt sick and sorry that I was feeling happy at their moment of despair. I just hope this is something that doesn't come in threes.

Determined to cheer myself up, I found the quirky little cinema museum I'd passed on Monday and paid my 5 euros (got a written receipt, it's just some retired guys with a hobby I think) to see their mad collection of movie models and memorabilia for popular blockbusters - see my FB post for more

On return to the B&B, I popped into the Chiesa San Siro next door to it - from a very plain exterior, the inside just blew me away. I've seen a lot of churches on this trip, but this was amazing with a frescoed ceiling and beautifully lit. Sorry no pics - I always feel awkward doing them in churches - but should you ever be fortunate enough to visit Genoa, nip in and take a look.

I splurged on a jolly nice (if a little overpriced - restaurant with style over substance, really should've taken the opportunity to go rustic) dinner of fettucine, white wine and a very very bad for me dessert, and now I'm finishing off the latest blog before packing up for my 7-hour trip to Avignon tomorrow, from where I hope to renew my acquaintance with Vincent Van and Cezanne.

Arrivederci Italy - I think I'll be back as soon as I can manage it, to pick up on all the things I missed this time around in Sicily, Rome, Milan and Genoa; the latter two, I reckon, can form one weekend as it only takes about 90 minutes on the train between them.

EXPOnentially Milano

It's not long after 8pm here in Genoa, and it's chucking it down, so after yesterday it's an early night for me as I don't feel inclined to go traipsing around trying to find a nice place for a nightcap. I just had a really good Minestrone Genovese for supper - vegetables!!!

Arrived here mid-afternoon after a short train journey from Milan. Have learned that Fresccobianca trains aren't as posh as Frescorossa in that you don't get any extras in first class - sigh.....but the extra legroom is very welcome anyway.

Yesterday in Milan saw me clocking up a new record number of steps on the app - about 34000 - I had a very long day. After breakfast I went straight to Fondazione Prada, a modern art gallery founded by Miuccia Prada - a real case of style over substance I'm afraid. The environment itself was lovely

The building on the left has golden walls

 - it wasn't so much that I didn't like what was on show, I was just annoyed by the presentation. I really loved the Damien Hirst (yes real and beautiful tropical fish, not swimming in formaldehyde) and David Hockney pieces

Lost love

Giant pyramid

and there were other pieces I liked, I didn't like the uninformative teeny tiny descriptors, with the credits supplied on non eco-friendly leaflets rather than the vulgarity of a large board that everyone could read. Two of the exhibition spaces had nothing to see, but the admission price wasn't amended, and one of the exhibits that you had to sign up for wasn't available to me for 2.5 hours after entry - there just wasn't that much to see. A big disappointment.

I took a stroll in the canal district (much of it closed on a Sunday - maybe high season finished earlier in Milan) and had lunch, and on my host's recommendation headed north to the Hangar Biccoca, a new modern gallery in an old factory in the university district. I saw some work by Mexican artist Damian Ortega

and then the biggest sculptures I've ever seen outside Nelson's column, called Seven Kingdoms of Heaven - really powerful, post-apocalyptic stuff.

Yes, that's a person at the base...

Back into the city for a wander round and my daily ice cream (and a very reasonable Aperol a bit later), then I had a post-7pm ticket for the Expo in the north of the city. It was a case of sensory overload - I couldn't quite get my head around all the noise and stuff going on, and to be honest after 30 minutes I was on the point of leaving, but stuck with it. (And I felt a bit self-conscious - I was wearing cropped trousers, a sleeveless top and shrug and Birkenstocks. Everyone else was in padded jackets, jeans and trainers or ankle boots, as in Italy evidently this is autumn whereas for an Englisher like me it felt positively tropical.)

Lots of countries have pavilions which are fabulous from the outside, but just like Prada lack content on the inside. The theme for this year's Expo is about feeding the world, and it seems a lot of countries just use it as an opportunity to sell their cuisine. The UK focused on bees - it was low-key and cute and has apparently won an award - whereas Spain concentrated on its cooking, and it was fun. I listened to a lovely live piano recital on a high-tech piano in Hungary's pavilion, and really not sure what I was supposed to see in Germany's as their storyboards weren't terribly visible in the dark. 

Tree of life in the distance

Spanish plates on the wall, under the floor...

The hive in the UK pavilion

Korean light forest

Kazakhstan's light show

The perspex forest of light-changing trees in Korea were the only thing to keep you occupied while you waited, and I then decided I couldn't be arsed to wait on my own for at least 40 minutes. It's the sort of thing that really is best experienced in company - so I left around 9.30pm and wended my weary way back to Elsa's place. Still not really sure what it's for or whether it's a huge hype and a bit like a sports competition without the sport, to see who's biggest and best.

This morning it was very difficult to get my legs to work, but I had to get packed and wanted to spend a couple of hours seeing some sights I'd missed before my train to Genoa at lunchtime. I gave the Duomo a miss as there was a big queue and I didn't want to pay for a quick visit and see the museum - so I did more wandering, especially along Via Garibaldi and Corso Como to Porta Nuevo - was kicking myself for not exploring the area earlier, where some of the innovative architecture is as well as some lovely restaurants and the fantastic food and cooking shop, Eataly

Missed out on the Panorama on the left - next time. The building behind is "living" with loads of trees growing on it

Selfie!

I managed to get myself lost again and dashed back to Elsa's in the squeak of time to grab Nellie (well, as far as you can grab her) and trundle off to the nearby Central station.

Arrived via taxi to Al Basilisco B&B here in the old town. It's a lovely old building and room, but had I known there was no lift I'd never have opted for it. I was very lucky that the nice young man who manages the place was willing to cart her up 6 flights for me. I had a good old wander round the old town - you can't move for palazzos nearby, and there are lots of buildings with glorious trompe l'oeil the outside if they're being refurbed

No, not real on the left

San Lorenzo church

Daz Aldridge on a pirate ship in the Porto Antico

but eventually got fed up of being damp and followed my nose back to dry off before nipping out for dinner. So here's hoping for better weather tomorrow - but there are indoor things to do too, not least a very promising exhibition from Impressionists to Picasso at the Palazzo Ducale.