SGI: Appendix

I've mentioned the food a few times in this post. But what I haven't yet explained is the dining experience. Is complicated, see. Never mind the sneaky multi-course menus; first you have to figure out what sort of establishment you're after. And where to sit. It's just not as straightforward as you might think.

Let's start with the easy ones: the bars, cafes and pasticcerie. You might not think that "bar" and "pastries" belong in the same category, but you'd be wrong; a lot of the pasticcerie actually double as bars. You can pop in for a quick snifter, or to grab a slice of something tasty, but what you can't do is sit down and enjoy a cake and coffee. (Pasticcerie very likely don't even serve coffee.) For that you need a cafe; but you do know that there's a tiered pricing system? The Italian way is to down your caffeine fix* standing at the bar, but of course you can enjoy it at a table if you prefer. For a price. Check the menu; you might see two or even three different prices — tavolo is the table price, terrazza is the most expensive: outside seating. And you'll be clearly marked as a tourist; but hey - they already know that from the Americano you're drinking.*

The whole consume-at-the-bar thing works well for dinner, too; it seems particularly popular in Venice. (Though Florence comes into its own for the traveller on a budget, since many of its bars seem to offer free snacks! A whole happy-hour** buffet! Hot and cold! And, like, really, really tasty! AND — here's the amazing bit — free wireless! God I love Florence.) Tapas-style snacks called cichette can be found at most bars, or at osterie. And here we come to the subtle and mysterious divisions among sitting-down eateries.

You might go for dinner at a pizzeria, a ristorante, a trattoria or an osteria (not counting the bars and cafes, of course). Pizzeria, that one's easy. Ristorante too. A notch down the formality scale is a trattoria; but what's the difference between that and an osteria? Not much; except that at an osteria you can also eat at the bar. I hope that's all clear. All that remains are wine bars (quite popular and usually serving meals) and gelaterie. Not that they require much explanation, but...



They understand the art of presentation, those Florentines.

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* "Coffee" to an Italian has to be espresso. Cappuccino is for breakfast only; regular coffee is for tourists, which is why they call it Americano. But you already knew that.
** Which is about 3 hours long.

SGI: What to do and when to go

The title of our two city guidebooks was Art Shop Eat. And while I have a problem with the apparent use of "art" as a verb, I have to admit they've pretty much covered the point of a city break to Venice or Florence — or, no doubt, many other places. You go to these places because you want to see the art (and architecture); this being Italy, eating is a big attraction also; and although I'm not a great shopper, it's hard to resist the urge to bring back something beautiful.*

The trick is in knowing how to do these things.

The first thing you must remember is that it is absolutely not done to tell everyone that Florentine museums are crowded, expensive, disorganised and overrated. You will be immediately exposed as a Bad Art Lover. Florence is famous for having the most and the best art in the world; ergo, if you fail to absolutely love it, it must be you who are at fault. With this in mind —

Don't say:
"Ugh, the Uffizi? We were out of there in under two hours, and what a relief."
Do say:
"It's just so overwhelming — you can't do it justice in an afternoon."
Don't say:
"Eh, you see one chubby wall-eyed nude, you've seen 'em all."
Do say:
"The paintings are so sensual!"
Don't say:
"Did all of Italy just stop painting after 1650?"***
Do say:
"It really gives you an appreciation of the roots of the Western art tradition."
Don't say:
"Why queue for three hours and pay 10 euro to get into the Accademia — which has practically nothing in it — when there's an exact marble copy of David in the Loggia della Monumente, for free, with a better view?"
Do say:
"There's nothing like seeing the original, is there?"
Don't say:
"But his hands are huge! They're kinda creeping me out!"
Do say:
"It's amazing how cleverly he worked perspective into the figure.**** Did you notice he's got a squint, too? It's a classic Michelangelo trick."

Having done your cultural duty in the museums, you're free to indulge in consumerist delights. You can buy some art, of course — in Venice in particular we found lots of little galleries that had rather gorgeous things, including very affordable etchings as well as prints. I liked the camp angels by this guy, but we didn't buy any. (Mostly because when we went looking for the gallery again, we couldn't find it. Damn those little Venetian alleys!)

Otherwise, the things to shop for are, in Venice, silk and handmade paper. (Oh all right, lace and glasswork and masks, if you must. But bear in mind that until you've gone window shopping over the Rialto bridge, you have very little idea of what kitsch is. Truly. You have much, much to learn.) And in Florence, leather goods and antiques. There are some marvellous antiques markets - including a small one up in Fiesole - and the markets around San Lorenzo and other areas are full of stalls selling leather jackets, bags and gloves, among other things. (Astonishingly, they all seem to offering one-day specials of 60% or even 70% off! Every day!) Of course some of those colourful gloves are made in China, rather than being the authentic Italian artisanal goods you're hoping for... but hey, who's checking?

If you're getting out of the cities, there are plenty of other activities to consider. Skiing, in winter. Or hiking, or cycling, or wine tasting, or just hanging out experimenting with the fine art of the siesta.***** What you want to do will of course affect when you choose to go; apart from the obvious (skiing is pretty hard to do in August, for instance), I suggest that midwinter is a good time for a serious art pilgrimage, because you'll avoid most of the tourists. Conversely, if you're mostly there to soak up the vibe and don't mind skipping the major sights, go in summer; though by all accounts Venice gets pretty stinky in the heat, so maybe try May or September.

Whatever you do, don't go in March. At least, don't go to Venice or Florence in March. The weather is crap, but the high season kicks off on the 15th and it's packed. And expensive. It's the worst of both worlds.

Dammit.

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* Preferably not an actual person. Yes, Italian women** are gorgeous, but they might complain if you tried to squeeze them in your suitcase.
** Italian men are fine too. But they wear an awful lot of bling.
*** Apparently, yes. The Italian artistic spirit goes into fashion these days. As evidenced by the fact that in the Uffizi, right next to the museum shop (selling mugs with cherubs on them, the usual) is a designer accessories boutique.
**** I've looked at David from all angles and distances, and his hands just always look massive. And veiny.
***** I have my next Italian holiday all planned.

SGI: Easter digression

Easter, for me, means a very particular kind of Easter egg. They come in boxes of six, just like regular eggs, and they are white and egg-sized, and look very much as though you could scramble them, except as any fule kno they are of course simply milk chocolate eggs with a lovely hard white sugar coating. Well, as any South African fule kno, because you just don't get them in the UK; and since for any right thinking person they are the only proper Easter eggs there are, well, I've been in some distress every spring.

So naturally, when I saw, while strolling through Fiesole - a scenic and historic site in the hills above Florence - a basket of colourful eggs in the window of a confectioner's, I recognised that this must be the pastel-coloured equivalent of our lovely white eggs, and insisted that we had to buy a couple immediately. (Despite the absolutely shocking price of 2 euro apiece. Two! Euro! Apiece!) And so we strolled on, sucking assiduously. (Childish sucking is the only possible way of getting through the sugar shell without cracking a tooth. It's messy and inelegant and quite marvellous.)

"Mmmm," we said to each other. "This sugar coating definitely tastes right."
We sucked some more.
"Hmmm," we said to each other. "This sugar coating seems to be rather harder to crack than usual."
We sucked some more.
"Mmmm," we said to each other. "This dark chocolate is unusual. But very good. But why can't we bite through it yet?"
We sucked some more, increasing frequency of experimental biting attempts.

"Oh!" we said.



South African sugar eggs generally do not contain mini plastic eggs inside 'em. Also, the chocolate layer is a lot thinner.

The plastic eggs had something in 'em too.



The duckies liked the view from Fiesole. (So did we.)

SGI: Art and architecture

Art is pretty much what Florence does. It's what Florence is for. Florence's entire persona, as it were, is based on being the spiritual home of the best art the Western world has had to offer since around 1500 (and quite a lot of classical sculptures from long before that). The tourist map of Florence, the one they hand out at hotels, has a list of "major museums and monuments" that's about 100 strong. It's rather intimidating. Similarly, Venice is positively crammed with Tintorettos and Titians, only they're mostly (but not entirely) in churches, rather than museums. That doesn't mean they're free, though, the churches do charge entrance fees.*

So these two cities between them house a positively ridiculous proportion of the Great Art of the world. Great Art that covers the full spectrum of subject and style, from gilded madonna to naked nymph. Mind you, if you happen to think that the full spectrum of art might extend beyond limpid feminine eyes to - say - sunflowers; or that style might conceivably move beyond baroque to - say - impressionism, or expressionism, or anything after around 1800 (at a very great push), you're liable to be disappointed.** Of course, if you're a Renaissance buff, or just happen to have a thing for rather camp dancing boys, you're in for the time of your life.




In any case, who cares if the range is rather limited? You can't fail to be impressed by the sheer muchness of it all. And the architecture is a delight. Florence is, frankly, rather scary; it's full of huge blocky buildings built on a scale designed to remind all the peasants on the streets of just how powerful and important the people who lived in them - the Medicis and their ilk - really were. Nowadays most of these palazzos are museums of one kind or another. Behind their monstrously large, studded wooden doors are monstrously large stone stairways and monstrously large marble halls, filled with... tourists. Lots and lots and lots of tourists. If you're lucky, and taller than them, you might get to see some art. Or you could content yourself with gawping at Santa Maria del Fiore (better known as the Duomo, though since every city in Italy seems to have at least one Duomo, that could get very confusing): the delirious pink, green and white marble facade (now with added mosaics!!!) is an object lesson in why not to allow an architect with an indecision problem loose on your cathedral.***

Venice is completely different, and not just because of all that water. (The water is fun, though.) Venice is, frankly, ludicrous. It's a beautiful,**** colourful toy town, constructed in a crazy labyrinth of canals and alleyways. (There's hardly anything that can be dignified with the name of "street".) And of course, every so often the alley simply ends, very matter-of-factly, in water.



But the true nuttiness of Venice is found in some of its many, many churches. Venetian builders clearly had Ideas about the scale and style that was appropriate for the house of god. They had seen classical temples, and they figured that what was good enough for Zeus wasn't nearly good enough for Jesus. (Not to mention, they'd gone and put up the Basilica de San Marco - that huge monument to their stolen saint***** - which gave them something to live up to.) So they stuck up these wonderful, epic buildings, with elaborate facades and trompe l'oeil decoration and suchlike, the kind of thing that needs to be viewed from a good 50 metres or more back or you can't see anything.

But there isn't any 50 metres back. There isn't even 5 metres back. There's about 2 metres if you're lucky, because Venice is tiny, and crowded, and all the buildings are really close together. Still... a builder's gotta dream, right?

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* Not during services, of course. But during service times they're very sensibly not open to tourists. You could try to sneak in, but I think they might notice if you were angling for a better view of the diptychs instead of muttering along to the Creed, in Italian. And if you don't mind pissing off the devout Italian mammas, you're braver than I.
** With the very noble exception of the Peggy Guggenheim museum in Venice, which has a wonderful collection of modern art, including all the usual suspects and some surprises.
*** Okay, okay, I love it. But I'm sure a truly dignified city shouldn't let this sort of thing happen.
**** Albeit somewhat decrepit. Shabby chic is the Venetian style. It's somehow impossible to imagine the city as ever having been fresh and new; and any building that dared to get a fresh lick of paint would no doubt be thoroughly snubbed by its neighbours. Proper Venetian houses would never stoop to anything so tacky as a facelift.
***** True. They pinched the remains of St Mark from the Alexandrians, then ran home and built this big damn multi-domed extravaganza, thoroughly drenched in gilt mosaics, to basically say: "NER ner ner NER ner!" Very devout, the Venetians.

SGI: Culture and cuisine

The Italian people have a long and noble past. First there was that whole empire thing.* Then, after a thousand years or so, there was the Renaissance.**** As previously suggested, most of the Renaissance took place in Florence (at least if you believe the Florentines), and they're so damn proud of it, it's sometimes hard to tell if anything's happened since then. But of course, plenty has; opera, for instance. Also, the Mafia. And Fascism.***** And fashion; in design of all kinds, as in murder, Italy is absolutely on the cutting edge.***** *

Still, in some ways Italy remains quite old-fashioned. The country remains firmly Catholic, and by and large retains a firmly Catholic attitude to womanhood (if not necessarily individual women). In dating, the men are expected to do the chasing, and the paying. (Woe betide the man who lets his date pay in an Italian restaurant. Mockery will ensue. You can try to explain that it's his birthday, but it just won't do.) The women are expected to give the men something to look at. (Watch a group of Italian men as an attractive woman walks past. The ass-checking head turns appears to be completely obligatory and unquestioned.) Well, you can see why; Italian women are gorgeous, and so well turned out. Think Monica Bellucci. Think Sofia Loren.

Sofia, of course, once said: 'Everything you see I owe to pasta.' Which is not only a great reason to show two fingers to the Atkins diet, but also leads us very neatly to the second part of this chapter.

Italian food.

Now, Italian menus are generally divided into:
Antipasti ('before the pasta')
Primi (first course, comprising pasta)
Secondi (second course)
Dolci (desserts).
And the guidebooks would have you believe that a full Italian meal actually comprises all four of these courses, plus vegetables, which are not normally included in the Secondi, and salads, to 'cleanse the palate' (ha! Not if it's a gorgonzola salad) before dessert. However, after careful observation and experimentation, I have concluded that this is an elaborate hoax perpetuated on tourists. Its purpose is clear: (1) get the forruners to spend more money, and (2) keep them out of the restaurants where they're not wanted, by claiming 'we only serve full meals'.
Because it is physically impossible to actually eat all four courses, and I have never seen an Italian do it, either. Sure, the quantity of spaghetti on your plate may (or may not) be a bit less than you'd normally expect from a non-nouvelle restaurant portion, but it's probably as much as you'd eat at home, in a full meal, without starters or sweets. So, they're having you on. Don't fall for it. Pick your course - primi or secondi - and don't let them flummox you. After all, you want to leave room for tiramisu.

Now that you know how to plan your meal, it's time to consider what you'll actually order. Italian food, like the language, has strong regional inflections. When in Naples, eat pizza;***** ** when in Sicily, eat gelato.***** *** Florence is the place for Tuscan specialities, which frequently involve beans. (But don't let that put you off.) Venice is all about the seafood: in snack form, it might come as frittura mista (mixed fried things - you won't be able to identify all of it, but it'll taste pretty damn good); in primi, a classic Venetian speciality is spaghetti or risotto nero - in squid ink sauce. It's actually worth a try. Black, fishy tasting. And you'll go home able to brag about your squid ink dining experience, which sounds satisfyingly gross, without actually being so. (Unlike, say, mopani worms, which really are gross.)

Something you'll hear a lot is how crap Venetian restaurants are - because there are so many tourists, well, they just don't need to be any good to survive. Having read too many guidebooks, I was suffused with fear and trembling at the very thought of stepping into any establishment not given the Rough Guide (or similar) stamp of approval. This was, of course, entirely unnecessary; in fact we enjoyed our impulse choices more than the sought-out, recommended eateries. But I formed a new rule of thumb, which is, interestingly, the exact reverse of my London rule of thumb,***** **** viz: if it looks really attractive and stylish, give it a bash. In Venice, that is. In London, the more stylish, the less likely to be any good. The (possibly not wholly reliable) logic is that, while in London there is an obsession with Style that leads people to (a) make their venues really ugly and uncomfortable and (b) neglect the food, in Venice, the bad food seems to come in places that are geared to simply snaring hungry tourists in the most convenient locations. So if they've gone to the effort to make it look great, they probably care about actually having good food, also. (Okay. I should point out that the entire proposition is based on the assumption that you're not going to eat in the main tourist trap locales. You're not, are you? Because that would be just horrible.)

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* Wolves, Trojan runaways,** gods and art "borrowed" from the Greeks, conquests, roads, aqueducts, orgies, corruption, murders, lead in the water (those damn aqueducts), madness, decline and fall. It's all terribly exciting.***
** Actually, those two might be the other way around. I'm a bit vague.
*** You can tell my classical education is being put to good use.
**** Art and knowledge "borrowed" from the ancient Greeks and Romans, Medicis, the sudden and dramatic realisation that pictures can be about something other than religion, which opens up new and intriguing possibilities for depicting naked breasts. Enter the modern age.
***** It occurs to me that one might imagine I don't actually like Italy and its past very much. Au contraire, I love it. Like all the best places, it's completely insane.
***** * Insert 'dress to kill' joke here.
***** ** But not only pizza, and not only in Naples, obv.
***** *** As above, with rather less emphasis on the first part and rather more on the second.
***** **** People like to claim that London restaurants are the best in the world. This is a dirty stinking lie. In London, you generally have to pay an awful lot of money to eat well, and even then it's a crapshoot. It seems that in London, you can get at best two out of the three criteria: ambience, food and service. And frequently not even that. Even for quite a lot of Poondz. Anybody who disagrees with me is invited to spend a few nights eating out in randomly selected venues in Cape Town or Johannesburg, and then claim with a straight face that London restos are, in fact, not that bad.

SGI: Geography and climate

Italy, famously, is shaped like a boot. This is suspiciously handy, considering the fame of Italy's shoe and bootmaking industry. (A conspiracy of cartographers?)* It is also famously "Mediterranean" — which, it could be argued, is as much information as anyone reasonably needs re: Italian geography and climate.

But what the hell.

It's got mountains, it's got lakes, it's got flat bits. It's got an awful lot of coastline, and a bunch of islands, whose names conjure up strong associations all their own. (Capri. Sicily. Corsica. See what I mean?) Its neighbours range from France, Austria and Switzerland to Greece and Slovenia; arguably, it shares most of its heritage and personality with the only one of those with which it shares no land border. (It's possible there's an interesting point in there somewhere, but frankly, I doubt it.)

The only thing you really need to understand is that the further south you go, the more Italian it gets. Sunnier. Slower. Crazier. Think about the big cities. In the north? Milan: smart, stylish, obsessed with fashion — a concept that is all about change for change's sake, and pretty quickly, please. In the south? Naples. Which is famous for pizza. And... no, just pizza. And being Italian. No doubt the Swiss have been exerting themselves over the centuries to civilise the northern Italians as much as possible, so that at least the trains run (mostly) on time; otherwise, how would they ever get to the sea?

Venice and Florence, of course, are both in the north. But Venice has one further geographical point going for it: it's a port city, with a long and proud history as a centre of international trade. So in addition to Italian crazy, more than a little bit of Byzantine crazy has rubbed off. It's a marvellous place.

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* No, you don't get a cookie, but you do get my respect and appreciation.

SGI: Language

Italian is one of the most recognisable languages around. This is partly because so many words end in -i, -o or -a*, partly because we all absorb a few Italian phrases from films, music and restaurant menus over the years, but mostly because even if you're deaf and the speaker has his or her back to you, you can still see them gesturing extravagantly. Hands are as much a speech organ as the tongue or throat, to an Italian. Use generously.

Not to repeat myself**, but you know as much Italian as I do. However, may I present a few notes on usage?

Greetings
Formally, one approaches strangers (shop assistants and such) with "buon giorno" before noon and "buona sera" thereafter. "Buona notte" does for "good night and goodbye". "Ciao", the books will assure you, is only for good friends (and if you need a phrasebook to figure out how to address this person, that's not you).
Careful observation, however, reveals that "buon giorno" is in practice used right up until evening, when it is replaced with "ciao" or "sera". Never "buona sera". Maybe the Italians wish to reserve judgment on whether it's actually a good evening until they've seen how you hold your liquor.

Politeness
The most indispensable word in the language seems to be "prego". Not a Portuguese steak roll,*** but a whole arsenal of manners rolled into one. Excuse me?**** "Prego." You're welcome? "Prego." Step this way? "Prego." Right here, sir? "Prego."

Seeing how useful it is, I have been assiduously practising my delivery (it's not so much about the pronunciation as about a certain modest tilt to the head); but I fear if I were ever to use it for anything other than a response to "mille grazie", I might inadvertently cause some kind of cross-cultural Incident. Words with meanings as context-dependent as this, I suspect, should be used only by the thoroughly acclimatised.

Essentials
Usage aside, there are a few words that it is simply very handy to know. Memorise the following.

For directions:
"Dritto", "destra" and "sinistra" are straight ahead, right and left, respectively; but who are we kidding? Just follow the hand movements.

For shopping:
"Questo?" is "how much?" and "e caro" is "it's expensive". But again, who are we kidding? You won't be able to understand the answer anyway, until they either tell you in English or point to the price-tag. Why weren't you looking at the tag in the first place? Stoopid tourist.

For restaurants:
"Acqua frizzante e mezzo litre vino rosso, per favore" will cover your drinks requirements. "Acqua normale" is tap water. "Fritte" is fried, and you better believe it's deep fried and (except patate) covered in batter. "Il conto" is the bill, and it'll probably include "coperto", a small cover charge. Everything else on the menu you'll recognise, more or less. When in doubt just point to a random item and hope. Go on, it's fun! This is Italian food... how bad can it be?*****

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* Which is why the Petrarchan sonnet has a more demanding rhyme scheme than the Elizabethan sonnet: because it can. See, it's little snippets like this that make these Scroobious guides worth the price of admission.
** Much.
*** Actual Portuguese Portuguese probably wouldn't understand this, but Saffers will.
**** Although if you're trying to pass someone on the street, it's "permesso". Say it loudly. And listen out for others using it behind you. When they're on the move, they're on the move, these Italians.
***** More in a later chapter.

The Scroobious Guide to Italy (bits of)

Everybody knows Italy already — even if you've never been anywhere further than your neighbourhood pizzeria. You know about Italian food (garlicky). You know about Italian sunshine (hot), Italian fashion (sexy), Italian art (plentiful) and music (operatic). You know Italian history — at least the bits about Mussolini (dangerously nuts), and Nero (ditto). You even know a bit of the language: maybe enough to read music, enough to cheer the soprano in gender-correct terms, or enough to order from a pasta menu.

I don't know any more than you. But I just spent 10 days in Venice and Florence, and damned if I'm going to pass up this opportunity for another Scroobious Guide.

Venice and Florence, of course, are hardly Italy. In fact, the books tell me "Italy" was only formed in the 19th century; before that it was just a bunch of city-states and duchies and such. Venezia and Firenze are simply two of its cities, and the two least representative of the modern country, at that. Both are simultaneously crippled and kept alive by the weight of tourism. Both are Unesco World Heritage Sites — note, they don't contain heritage sites, they are heritage sites. It's like visiting Warwick Castle and thinking you know England.

But then, writing a proper guide to Italy would probably require conducting a proper tour, all the way up and down and over the islands, into the cities and out in the countryside; and while I can't say I have any objections to this notion, at all, and if there should suddenly be a terrible journalistic crisis that created a severe market shortage in travel writers, I would have no hesitation in nobly volunteering for the job — well, that crisis shows no sign of materialising* and my own budget, and schedule, don't really support this plan.**

So, the Scroobious Guide to Venice and Florence it is.

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* Dammit.
** See above.

Further adventures among the mountain people

Day 7. I have made great strides in my integration among these people. Today they invited me to undergo initiation in one of their most sacred cults. This religious practice, which combines mortification of the flesh and spirit, is undertaken in the most remote and inhospitable locations, at the very top of icy mountain peaks.

Setting off early, we travelled for two hours to reach the nearest sacred place. I then had to be dressed in the appropriate garb - layer upon layer of thick, padded, colourful clothing, functioning both as protection against the biting cold and as clownish costume, drawing attention to my status as initiation candidate - and prepared for the challenge ahead.

The point of the initiation itself is for the candidate to demonstrate his or her bravery, and hence worthiness, as well as to transcend fleshly limits through extremes of emotion - terror and exhilaration. The process is quite hair raising. One has long, unwieldy planks strapped to one's feet, and is equipped with a pair of sticks to aid in navigation. Through an ingenious pulley system, the participants (new initiates as well as elders) are brought to the top of a snowy slope, and must descend - battling the disadvantages conferred by these "skis", which not only create hair-raising speed if they are unwisely pointed downhill at any point, but which also of course tend to get tangled together, to trip up their wearer, and of course to impede attempts to stand up if one has once toppled over. The affront to one's dignity is an essential part of the spiritual development this rite promotes.

As it was explained to me, initiates devote many hours to this rigorous physical exercise in their desire to ascend through the levels of enlightenment. These levels are described by colour - rising from blue through red to the black of total ego annihilation - and correspond with greater levels of difficulty in the slopes descended. As one masters the higher levels, one also climbs higher and higher on the physical plane, so that the black "pistes" lead down from the very tallest and steepest peaks; thus the initiates aim ever closer to heaven. I find the close relation between physical and spiritual aspects of this rite quite striking.

One last element worth noting: as in many sacred cults, there is a sacred, mildly narcotic substance to be ingested as an aid to achieving the transcendent state of mind. The twist is that this "rumpunsch" is served in mountain huts that must be reached by ski. Thus, the rumpunsch is both a lure and reward for the derring do needed to attain it, and an aid to further courage - much needed, I can assure you, for the remaining descent.

Christmas among the mountain people: a Scroobious Study

Day 1. After a taxing journey, lengthened significantly by inclement weather, we make it to the village. Our hosts welcome us with smiles and offer us a simple supper (some sort of mushroom stew). I do my best to convey my thanks, and we retire early.

Day 2. The weather continues poor. There is a heavy mist, and the trees are white with frost, but no snow. I gather that the mountain people are preparing for a midwinter festival, much like our Christmas; the menfolk spend the morning on a hunting expedition to gather provisions for the upcoming feast. Later, we are taken to visit a branch of the clan in another village. This seems to be part of the seasonal bonding patterns. We are given a fizzy drink called "sekt".

After the evening meal, our hosts guide us on a walk around the village, pointing out the community's quaint seasonal decorations with pride: almost every hut is bedecked with white lights. Outside one hut, a tree sports blue lights; this seems to attract the disapprobation of our hosts. I think I hear the word "Englisch" muttered with scorn.

Encouraged, however, by this familiar sight, I resolve to share some of our own Christmas traditions, and give them a large box of mince pies. The reaction is ambiguous. They nod and smile, my translator tells me they think it good, but nobody takes a second one.

Day 3. Festive preparations are gathering pace. From quite early in the day, the cooking areas are full of bustle. I am curious to see what traditional midwinter feasts are eaten here, but it is hard to say; all I can see are small pots of different kinds of sauces, and some breads. No doubt there will a roast pig or some such brought out on the day itself. In the afternoon, I am invited to help with another familiar ritual: decorating the tree. I suspect my translator of contaminating the purity of my research by telling them about English traditions, for surely if they had their own tree tradition, it would have been decorated long before now? But he of course denies this, claiming that the tree is always put up on this day. A likely story. One other great difference: these people have no fear of fire! Their tree is bedecked with real candles.

In the evening, the clan gathers in the chieftain's hut and more sekt is drunk. In their strange, gutteral language, everyone exchanges greetings of "Frohe Wiihnacht" - my translator tells me today is Christmas itself; not, as by my English calendar, only Christmas Eve. My mince pies are handed round, but I think they are eaten with more politeness than zeal. We sit down to a meal, which to my very great surprise, is what they call a "fondue chinoise"; we each cook our own scraps of meat in shared pots of broth, adding sauces from the pots I saw earlier. I cannot deny that this is a sociable affair, but in such a cold climate as this, I expected something more robust. Afterwards we enjoy an "apfelstrudel" and gifts are exchanged. My translator and I congratulate ourselves on our choice of gifts: we brought a selection of puzzle games, designed to challenge and develop their primitive minds. I am touched by the gift I receive from the chieftain: a cunningly worked sack, with a map of the village attached. So truly thoughtful a gift for a traveller.

We end the evening with a noisy game of chance. My translator tells me it is called "Scheisse", but I find this hard to believe, since I have already worked out the common use of the word.

Day 4. It seems the feasting is not over. When we rise, we find a lavish repast of breads, cheeses, cold meat and fruit, with all kinds of preserves. Having eaten, we are invited to join our hosts for a walk around a nearby lake. This is very refreshing, as is the "weisse gluhwein" we are given along the way.

I am starting, however, to suspect my translator's skills. According to him, these people are constantly commenting on how warm it is. There must be some language error, however, since the swimming hole back at the village is entirely frozen over.

Although most of the mince pies remain untouched, I offer our hosts a Christmas pudding. They look slightly suspicious, but agree to let me have the use of the cooking area. After dinner I bring out the flaming pudding and they seem impressed - it seems fire helps to make an impact with these people. They taste the pudding and their faces soon show their enthusiasm. An animated discussion ensues; my translator tells me they are discussing how they might get hold of more of this pudding next year. I promise to send them one every Christmas, when to my delight I find that the chieftain's wife, at least, has learnt some of my language. She points to me and says: "Bring! You bring!"

It seems my future welcome in these parts is assured.

SGScot: Appendix

My first Scroobious Guide* came naturally. Switzerland is a bizarre and beautiful place that I've come to know moderately well (parts of it, anyway), but I still feel alienated enough to poke fun at it. The second was much harder, because I know South Africa too well and love it too much to be funny on the subject. This one was also terribly difficult, for the opposite reason: I hardly know it at all, and I know that many of my readers** do.

So what to put in the Appendix? What cute and mildly crazy thing can I possibly highlight to wind up this patchy little virtual tour? What can I say about an entirely delightful, unpretentious country — of which I have seen only a tiny slice — that justly takes pride in its charming, even award-winning, attractions?



Oh. Yes.

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* Actually, the first one was Hamburg, but that was really short and unstructured. Doesn't count.
** For a given value of "many", considering that I don't have "many" readers.

SGScot: Travel tips

When to go:

Not in August.

I cannot emphasise this enough. By all accounts, September is delightful, and the autumn colours are fabulous later on, and winter is cosy and marvellous - plus there's skiing - and spring is beautiful, and July can be quite lovely. But August sucks. Summer's over (all five weeks of it) and all you have is rain. Torrents of rain. And wind. So stay away in August.

Although even if you do go in August, you're sure to have a lovely time. How could you not? It's a marvellous place. But you will wish you had experienced it under slightly better conditions.

What to bring:

Well, that rather depends on when you go, but I think it's safe to say that at any time of year, a good waterproof jacket and some solid boots will be required. Your little strappy sandals can probably stay at home. If you're travelling in July, and you're lucky, your swimsuit might get an outing; but don't count on it, and don't forget your warm woollens.

Cameras good. Midge repellent very good. Thermal underwear excellent.

Knitting essential.

SGScot: Activities

My idea of a holiday has a strong focus on a horizontal experience (on a beach, under a duvet, I’m not fussy) and food. Beloved’s is rather more energetic. (Practically anything would be.) From what I’ve seen so far, Scotland can happily accommodate both types of visitor; but I wouldn’t count on too much lounging under the sun. And it would be a waste to stay in bed when there’s so much pretty to be enjoyed.

How to be a tourist in Scotland (select suggestions):

Take a distillery tour. Most of the whisky distilleries offer free tours and tastings, which depending on your point of view is either a great way to get a free dram, an educational experience that enriches your appreciation of the water of life, or a cunning ploy to convince visitors that your whisky is the very best in all the land and soften them up with a little free alcohol, just before letting them loose in the shop.

Go monster hunting. There are plenty of Loch Ness cruises to choose from; the shorter ones will get you out on the lake, waffle sonorously about “these mysterious depths” and point at the pretty ruined castle.



The longer ones might include a cruise down the Caledonian canal and a tour of the castle, or a trip right down the full length of the lake (it’s definitely on the large side) with optional stops. I liked the idea of going halfway, taking a bike ride** down to the southern tip, and going back up by boat again; but time was not on our side. Anyway, you won’t be able to avoid the squillions of Nessie artefacts around the place, so you might as well go through the motions of looking for her. Plus, it’s a pretty lake, and boats are fun, no?

Visit castles. Mostly that’ll be ruined castles, thanks to those pesky English, but there’s also Balmoral (when Her Britannic Majesty isn’t in residence) and, um, some other places. Whatever. Castles. Meh.

Explore the mountain wilderness. Ah yes, now we come to the primary motivation for our trip, and to the primary problem with same. Learn from our mistake, readers: Bring Waterproofs. And thermal underwear. And midge repellent. (Naturally, since we had that part covered, that was the part we didn’t need so much. On account of the midges all being drowned or blown out to sea, presumably.)

Explore the mountain wilderness on skis. Exciting! Well, so I imagine. Never having been on skis myself, I can’t say how Scottish skiing compares with Gstaad, or Zermatt, or Aspen. But I’m happy to undertake some research. All funding offers for Comparative Skiing Studies will receive serious consideration.

Go wildlife hunting. Not actual hunting, please, that would be mean. Shoot only with the cameras, yes? This can be done from the comfort of your car, or on another little boat trip (for the marine wildlife, that is; not so much the reindeer), and the list of native wildlife includes:

Reindeer
Eagles
Minke whales
Dolphin
Porpoise
Seals
etc etc.

What we actually saw:

One reindeer
Bunch of red deer
One roe deer***
Three seals
Three dolphins
Some of these****



And an awful lot of pheasant and rabbits on the road.

Literally ON the road.

I comforted myself with the inane thought that this vast amount of roadkill clearly indicated the vast amount of wildlife happily roaming through Scotland’s fields and forests, rather than large-scale destruction caused by encroaching civilisation.

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* Not that I’m knocking this. I have long ago made peace with my inner tourist, and am happy to go Tour the Sights on occasion. But generally it’s much more fun to steer clear of anywhere that involves queues, cash registers, and T-shirts with the name of the place you’re at done in the font of a corporate logo, don’t you think?
** No, really. Once you get me out of bed, I’m perfectly happy to do the active stuff. As long as it doesn’t cut into good cake time.
*** Red and roe deer identified purely by what we were told was likely to be spotted in those parts. I don’t know one from another, myself. Pretty. Bambi-like.
**** Not technically wildlife, maybe, but as cows***** go these look pretty damn wild. Dontcha think?
***** Or bulls, even.

SGScot: Culture and cuisine

It’s not all blue Mel Gibson and sword-waving Christopher Lambert, you know. Nor is it all men in skirts. Or a good walk spoiled. Nor it is all about whisky.

Okay, maybe it is quite a lot about whisky.

Once again, though, I’m forced to confess that we weren’t on a cultural trip. We were on an active trip. (Supposedly.) So I can gently suggest that you might want to go to the pub for a bit of jolly dancing, or taste the glories of the Edinburgh Festival, or investigate the country’s Viking history by visiting some of the many museums. Or even help Patroclus with her Pictish project. But I can’t really TELL you about any of those things.

Sorry.

The food, though, the food were lovely. Admittedly, after a series of UK breaks where our enthusiasm for the trip was gradually (or not so gradually) worn down by a series of horrible meals,* my standards weren't that high. Still, I think you'll find Scotland can offer some properly Good Eatin'. Best for carnivores, I reckon. Meal choices tend to run to the dead-flesh-and-two-veg side of things, but it is such tasty dead flesh. Often smothered in whisky cream. Mmmmm.

And of course there's the infamous Chieftain o' the Pudding Race: haggis. No. No, I didn't. No, I don't plan to. Just as I see no reason to ever try mopane worms. Some things are just wrong. When it comes to traditional Scottish foodstuffs, I'll stick to shortcake, thank you. Lots of shortcake. Piles of it. Mmmmmm.

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* Worst offender: Wales. Don't believe anything they tell you about marvellous fresh Welsh produce, lovely farm cooking, etc. It were nasty. Very nasty.

SGScot: Art and architecture

I have no idea. We studiously avoided anything like a museum in favour of the Great Outdoors. Which, thanks to the climate, turned into more of the Great Indoors – of the car; the B&B’s lovely hot bath; the tea rooms…

As for architecture: meh. Some houses. Some ruins. Some peculiar looking castles. Next.

SGScot: Geography and climate

Scotland is divided into the Highlands, Lowlands, Speyside and Islay.

No, wait, that’s just the whisky.

Okay, try this: Scotland is divided into Highlands (north), Lowlands (south), west and east coast (you can probably interpret that yourself), and a bunch of islands. Not so much divided, really, but those are the regions people tend to refer to. We toured much of the Highlands, sticking to the east coast and a bit of the north. The main cities are Edinburgh (south; kultcha!), Glasgow (west coast; shopping!), Aberdeen and Inverness (east coast; um… Scottish!). By all accounts Edinburgh is terribly pretty and Glasgow a bit rough. But I’m sure that’s just nasty talk.

As for climate, I was warned darkly “you’re on the same latitude as Alaska”. So: brrrr! Summer, apparently, lasts from the beginning to the end of July. Although it won’t necessarily be anything South Africans might recognise as summer. Then the rains come. And believe me, they come. More things I should have found out before I chose to visit in August: September and October are actually better weather, in the sense that they are drier. And you get lovely autumn foliage later on. Winter is of course proper winter, with snow and stuff. Again: brrrr!

But before you complain about the cold, consider: without this urgent imperative to warm up, would we have Scotch whisky?

SGScot: Language*

Many street signs in Scottish cities are delightfully Tolkein-esque, with the English name followed by Gaelic – in lovely Celtic font. But if you can’t understand a word your waitress is saying, don’t ask her to speak English. She already is.

Cultural note:

Remember that the Scots – while British, and speaking mostly English - are not English. It’s all very complicated. Look, the United Kingdom (sometimes called “Britain) includes England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. Great Britain is just the island containing the first three. Wales is sometimes called “the principality” and Northern Ireland “the province”, but I’ve no idea what Scotland might be called.

It’s definitely not part of England though. They have their own parliament and everything. And they haven’t really forgiven the English for beating them up all those centuries, and blowing up all their castles. (I believe there are no intact castles in Scotland dating back more than a couple of hundred years, and that’s why.) So consider yourself in a foreign country, of sorts, and be grateful that they’re talking a language you can understand.

Yes, you really can understand. Try a little harder.

(I would like to state for the record that I had no problem with the Scottish accent. No, really. Beloved, on the other hand…)

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* No, I hadn't forgotten. Honest. Just a little distracted. Back now.

SGSA: Appendix

As mentioned in the introduction, we've had some colourful characters, has South Africa. You don't need me to tell you about Nelson Mandela, or Gandhi (whose passive resistance movement started here). Only slightly less well known are the intriguing figures of Cecil John Rhodes (ridiculously wealthy and ridiculously British), and Jan Smuts (one of our early statesmen, who incidentally coined the word "holistic").

But I'm not interested in them. I'm interested in the nutters.

"The tapeworm made me do it"

SA's favourite nutter is Dimitrios Tsafendas. John F Kennedy had Lee Harvey Oswald (and a legion of conspiracy theories); Hendrik Verwoerd, the designer of apartheid, had this guy, following orders from his tapeworm. Tsafendas was of mixed race, but not officially "coloured"; when he fell in love with a coloured woman (an illegal union, under apartheid), he tried to be reclassified coloured, but failed because "nobody ever reclassifies that way". Under the mores of the time, that attempt was probably enough to prove his insanity, but nowadays it's used to suggest that he was more politically motivated than schizo. Funny how things turn out, eh? There's been two plays about him, that I know of.

A boy forever

Dr James Barry — not to be confused with JM Barrie, the author of Peter Pan — was a surgeon in the British Army, and was posted to Cape Town for some years in the early 19th century. Not really South African, then, but we like to claim him as one of our own, because he was a she. And s/he got into a fight with Florence Nightingale. Pretty cool. There's been a play about him too.

All the world's a stage

Josephine Dale Lace was very rich, very beautiful and very theatrical (well, she did start out in life as an actress). She claimed to have borne King Edward VII's child, and to have turned down a proposal from Rhodes. Her preferred mode of transport was a carriage drawn by four zebra; when she left the house, she had a servant blow a bugle to announce her entrance to the world. (Because the zebra wouldn't be enough to get anyone's attention, I guess.) Naturally, she still haunts her house (a Herbert Baker mansion in Johannesburg's best location). There's been a book about her.

Ma-brrrr!

Slightly more up to date, we have Brenda Fassie — the "Madonna of the townships". Pint-sized (famous people always are, aren't they?), bisexual, drug-addled and completely publicity crazed, she overdosed and died a couple of years ago in hospital, with her dealer by her side. We love her because she said things like, "He knows about my lesbianism and my drugs and all the other good things I've done," and because she wasn't shy to rock up at the City Press offices (the townships' Sunday newspaper; I was working there on this particular occasion) and demand that they put her on the front page. Not that she'd done anything newsworthy. She just wanted some attention. (As I recall, she made it to page 3.) No play, that I know of, but it's surely just a matter of time. (A David Kramer/Taliep Peterson musical, perhaps?)

"I married an alien"

Elizabeth Klarer didn't wait for anyone else to tell her story — she wrote her own memoir. All about her lifelong contact with aliens, her visit to another planet (she was missing for four Earth months; apparently that's nine years on Meton), and of course, her alien love child. Exciting stuff! Can't wait for the movie.

"I looked into his blowtorch eyes"

And moving on to a different ET affair... Jani Allen was a Sunday Times journalist who became suddenly notorious around 1990 because the silly bint sued one of the London tabloids — might have been the Mirror — for reporting that she'd had an affair with Eugene Terreblanche, a fat, bearded white supremacist. The tabloid of course used the "but it's true!" defence, resulting in screeds of column inches as the newspaper hauled in all the deliciously detailed evidence it could find (the whole nation now knows that ET wore green Y-fronts, with a hole in them) and Jani argued that the lurid details in her private journals were fantasy, not fact. Which is what earns her a place in my nutters' list. I mean, shagging ET would be weird enough. But fantasising about him? Imagining that that is a remotely plausible claim? Bonkers. Quite bonkers.

Right, that's all I can think of right now. Nominations for great nutters I have missed in the comments box, please.

SGSA: Travel tips

What to do in SA? Go wildlife spotting, go snorkelling, climb a mountain, ride an ostrich, visit bushman caves, visit Nelson Mandela’s prison cell, eat, drink, be merry. Come on, you don't really need to be told, do you?

There is one thing, though. Not so much an amusement in itself, but a kind of road game. Look at the roads while you're driving around — at the actual tarmac. Every now and then you'll see an odd trail; it looks like a tin of paint fell over in the back of a truck and dripped out for the rest of the journey. (I saw one on this trip that looked like a veritable paint explosion had occurred.) The weird thing is, you will see this all over. Now, I have no explanation. I remember when I first started noticing these trails; about eight or ten years ago, I think. And since then, they've become ubiquitous. I've never seen them in Europe, only in SA. So the challenge is: figure out what the hell is going on. And then tell me. Please.

What to bring? Mosquito repellent. Industrial-strength sunblock (there is no ozone layer! None! It’s just you and searing solar rays, duking it out on the beach!) and a wide-brimmed hat. Preferably one with a ribbon to tie under your chin – remember the wind? Sandals and walking shoes. Cape Town style is very casual (not so in Joburg, but you're not going to Joburg, remember?) and the roads are often steep, so as in Switzerland, heels are a bit of a waste of suitcase space. Try to have a jacket or pullover on hand at all times — the weather can change rapidly, or be very different from one side of the mountain to the next.

To stay on good terms with the locals, keep a handful of change in your pocket for informal parking attendants* and the like. And be sure not to say any of the following:

"What's up with that mountain thing? Why haven't they put some nice houses all over it?"
Dude. We take the mountain very seriously indeed. It's, like, a deeply spiritual place, dude. You can feel the magic through the soles of your feet. Fully. So do not diss The Mountain.

"So, Nelson Mandela will probably die soon, hey?"
Nonono. We're not ready to hear this. Madiba** is like everyone's granddad, plus the messiah, all in one. He is going to live forever. Old? Pshah! He is immortal! He has to be! We need him!

"Man, this water's cold. I hear the ocean's much warmer in Durban."
Philistine! Bugger off to Durban then. Go on. Get. Honestly. Some people...

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* CT used to be full of beggars. Then they all started offering to "watch your car". These days, the streets seem to be pretty cleaned up (how? where did they go?) and the parking attendants are actually a lot more formal. Anyhoo, they need tips.
** His clan name.

SGSA: Culture and cuisine

Well, since culture comes from history, let's start there. SA history is, in a word: complicated. I can’t possibly do it justice here*, but let’s just give you the 60-second synopsis:

Cradle of humankind — pristine wilderness** — route to India — weird European politics — Portuguese explorers — Dutch settlers — persecuted French Protestants — English colonisation — Great Trek — bloody skirmishes with “the natives” — bloody Anglo-Boer skirmishes — Republic — apartheid — resistance — Nelson Mandela — 1994 elections — Rainbow Nation.

There. Are we all caught up now?

Our culture is as complicated as our history. But I'm too lazy to go into all that. To generalise, then: South Africans are friendly, outdoorsy and sporty. (Not me, though. Obviously.) Capetonians will tell you Joburgers are aggressive, money-obsessed yuppies who can’t drive; Joburgers will tell you Capetonians are sleepy, cliquey snobs who can’t drive.

There’s something of a class divide between the (more urban) English and (more rural) Afrikaans. There is, obviously, a class divide between white and black (and, for that matter, coloured*** – not the same as black, in SA – and Indian); there is also a class divide between the new black elite and the masses still struggling to stay alive and well in the townships, or the rural backwaters. It’s a very, very complicated country.

But you will notice one thing: almost everyone you see has a big smile. True. To my cynical friends back home: if you disagree, try leave the country for a few months, then go back. You will notice it. It’s amazing. Despite everything we’ve been through, SA is a happy country. (Where else would a dance serve as political protest?)

It's also a country that eats remarkably well. There is an Afrikaans word: “lekkerbek”. You might translate this as glutton, or epicure, depending on personal prejudice. But who wouldn’t be a lekkerbek with all that to enjoy?

In Cape Town or Joburg, you can pretty much pop into any random place you see on the street and enjoy a good meal (barring extreme bad luck). There isn’t, ostensibly, a strongly defined South African cuisine — we have the usual profusion of Italian, Thai, Japanese, Chinese, Indian, Lebanese, French, fusion, etc etc, but there are certain characteristic menu items: Malay curry, smoked snoek (a strongly flavoured fish), malva pudding, Cape brandy tart, Dom Pedro (essentially a whisky milkshake, or made with other liqueurs).

More deliberately South African fare includes ostrich steak (ostrich tastes much like lean, extra flavoursome beef; the chocolate-chilli sauce it comes with at Madame Zingara’s in CT is already legendary) and boerewors (a coarse textured, spicy, herby sausage). If you eat at The Ritz in Sea Point — a proper, cheesy, overpriced revolving restaurant, but with rather fabulous food, and you really can't complain about the view — you can sample crocodile carpaccio and Namibian gemsbok fillet. Afrikaans cuisine borrows from Malay and other traditions (with bobotie, for instance: a sort of crustless mince pie involving raisins, with egg on top) and is big on stodge and sugar. Even the vegetables are cooked with sugar, and koeksusters (essentially braided dough soaked in syrup) are toothachingly sweet. (I love them, obviously.)

Traditional African kos (food) revolves around a staple diet of mielie pap (maize porridge) and spicy sauce, with as much meat as can be found. Once upon a time mopani worms were eaten for survival when meat was hard to come by; now they're just a crunchy snack.

Biltong (smoked meat, anything from beef to springbok) is the number one bar snack and of course in Cape Town, there is an abundance of seafood (I especially recommend the calamari).

And don’t forget to visit the wine farms, the cheese makers, the pick-your-own orchards…

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* Plus, being a victim of Christian Nationalist education, I’m embarrassingly ignorant and am just now reading up to improve my knowledge.

** That is, it was bloody hard to get to.

*** An apartheid word for those of mixed race. The PC term these days is “formerly known as coloured” or something of that ilk, although generally “black” is preferred for all categories known, under apartheid, as “non-white”. Complicated, huh?