I returned to Rome after a long pilgrimage in Northern Europe. For work, so to speak. Embarked on a Titanic-style cruise Pallosa apparently, but basically fun, full of things to see: human light years away from me (geographically, linguistically and age talking about), wonderful places on the border with the unreal. Much to see, troppo da raccontare. Come tutti i viaggi, questo necessita una cernita profonda del "che cosa" portare a casa. Che poi quello che intimamente porto a casa è che sono riuscita a sopravvivere da sola in mezzo al mar Baltico per cinque giorni. Ma il "da sola" in questione è un po' tutto relativo.
Piccola blogcronaca del viaggio:
28 maggio
Marta parte. Copenhagen
Ore quattro del mattino, aeroporto di Linate. Riesco a stento a tenere gli occhi aperti per controllare che il mio volo SAS diretto a Copenhagen non venga imbarcato mentre io sto dormendo davanti al gate. Around me, manager Milan rampant absolutely annoying. Absolutely doped. Jacket and tie the knot too large, handheld on (but who want me to call you at this hour?), Scent standardized (= it seems that everyone has the same), laughing and joking loudly. Probably sniffing all day because my sleeping brain captures some of their input with incredulous puzzlement.
Arrival in Copenhagen. I went down, I change money (the euro is so universally comfortable, of course!), I try to understand what it's worth a Danish krone against the euro but I can not. I see a Starbucks and inwardly rejoice: I take my beloved tall cappuccino and sit looking at the map: how the hell arrival at the port? Cheap solution, the train. Wrong track but I notice it in time. I get on the train that breaks down but not defeated, I can also change trains and get to the port. Where to ride about 15 minutes to find the ship. I get on and I board: while I climb the stairs, an old American with the crutches coming down hard. Following thought: we're good! This ship is definitely a kindergarten!
Tour in Copenhagen where everyone is irrefutably Stradella: 0-30 years, all blond, tall, thin and blue eyes. I eat a bagel with salmon and I understand that I can not live without. After a hot bath full of bubbles (soap and champagne), down dinner where the attraction of the evening, I order "shrimp martini" without knowing which are shrimp (delicious) served in a martini glass. In summary, try to cut you.
May 29
Warnemünde, Germany.
The sun smiled on this small Noantri Cabot Cove. There is the euro. There is a huge white sandy beach where I understand that in Germany do not use umbrellas but a kind of giant chairs with canopy. The water is crystal clear. Cold, but crystal clear. I fall of the German sea. I take the train to visit Rostock, a town without shame nor praise twenty minutes away. I decide that I need to look at the map. And, in fact, I get lost. Spending the afternoon lying on the beach, realizing that maybe today I can relax. Ah, I forgot: I have a personal assistant. The small Lorife, Philippines. A monster of kindness which, however, I do not know what to ask because in the end that I will never have problems?
May 30
Bornholm, Denmark.
It 's the most beautiful and surreal place I've ever seen. Because there is nothing. Today, thanks to the legendary shipping company that gives me slack (which I will mention because if not appearing on Google) and I choose the bike. From which it is hoped to be excluded in favor of old crutches with young people who have yet to meet. The choice rewards me with two American couples: Nancy and Bob, set with fifty California wine valley (where, of course, live), and Dominic Casey, Cincinnati tretacinquenni: he is a hypersport with the earring in the nose (and not is bad), she is the woman with the biggest ass I've ever seen. The island is made of colored houses, green lawns and quiet, bicycle lanes and "windmills" for wind energy. The Anglo-American group can make me eat smoked herring at 11 am. I forgot the most interesting character the picnic: Carrie, sprightly septuagenarian with super bun fintissimo (or so it seems) on his head. Ride like a desperate and invites me to dinner for the evening gala.
The gala dinner seems like a Death on the Nile by Agatha Christie. Me with my little black dress is not the only eye-catching sequins and jewels. Arriving late for cocktails with the captain (who was not there) and, down the stairs, losing a shoe. Twelve staff members (all in line outside the dining room) are quick to retrieve it. I would sink into the carpet color powder. Dinner (with old) drinking sherry, it comes to elections, and of course Italy. But just to make a courtesy to me. I come out dead, or so it seems. We hope that tonight does not kill anyone.
May 31
Stockholm, Sweden
A good day starts in the morning: the staff informs me that breakfast was named the most beautiful ship. And you believe. But it seems that they were trying to decide between me and an old Portland. In the morning I take the blissfully sun by the pool, because we are still sailing. Once in Stockholm forklift pockets the lineup and I mingling with the crowd. There is a marathon, Stockholm is the Venice of the North (or perhaps er in Bruges that?) And a series of islands which are not connected between them. My planning for the visit goes up in smoke: do not get to see tutto.Quindi I go to Moderna Museet, a triumph of modern art itself. I dwell on madness and Paul Mc Carthy on an installation that includes a boy lying in the flesh to watch the video. Poor guy. But it is interesting. We also eat an ice cream flavor I do not know what, because there was no English translation. And then meeting my Canadian friends (who I forgot to mention the bike) very nice. Have dinner with them and I enjoy it a lot: we speak of evil and good Berlusconi in Rome. And they tell me of Canada.
June 1
Back
the morning I leave my luggage at the train station and I go around the last half a day in Stockholm. The city is sunny and deserted are half past nine. I head to the famous Vasa Museet, that the vessel sank in 1628. Fantastic. I run into a party of Bergamo and I am ashamed to be Italian because they make comments at random with their terrible accent. And do not understand anything of English. The Vasa is too good, but I have to go back. The airport is waiting for me. After forty minutes by bus sitting next to a gay Iranian directly to Istanbul for a month as the guest of her aunt, with a landing at the airport where the spirits lead me from Swedish in Italy because in their opinion, I can not import alcohol in the EU territory. I pull out of the Schengen treaty, but the people behind me very irritated and decide to return home with hands (almost) empty. Zurich airport where we arrived at half past seven, as I've never been hungry way at speeds unheard of in the area looking for a transfer bar. And I find Gucci, Montblanc, Prada. Zurich Airport is the dude I've ever seen: that sucks, I want a sandwich dell'autogrill! I see a store that seems to sell something that has to do with food .... the angle of the caviar. I leave sad shopping area and head to board. Where is planet sandwich, but only sandwiches with Swiss cheese (the one with holes). That makes me sick. But these days I mistakenly ordered things I hate (sweet peppers and peas), so who cares and I eat the sandwich. Zurich-Milan, ten people on board. Including the manager of Milan's return. He is a serious man of business, strategic filthy rich ones: fifty handsome, wears no socks in timberland, light trousers, white shirt and rayban. I hate it. Back from somewhere (I assume U.S.) accompanied by his colleague a poor loser, a Neapolitan, who just landed forty unmarried mother calls to reassure her. He is the manager of Milan school of life for the thirty-five minute flight and ten minutes by bus. His pearls of wisdom? He always goes around with a passport, identity card DOES NOT HAVE. And you know why? Why do so any time may declare a different residence, since the passport is not written. They sit behind me, obviously. So a bit 'of aphorisms I have internalized too.
