Archive for vagrant
But first a request from a hot and tired traveler forced to walk 6 km with a heavy manpack and suitcase. Please Mr change the screeching tone on the biglietterie. As I sit in front of the four windows with sweat dripping from my brow, onto the floor, running down my back, and, more worringly, down my legs. Harassed by a wife who wants a lesson on how to work Word on the tablet
Windows 2,3, and 4 are unexplainably closed although all waiting passengers can see them chatting in the back room.
287 – 1
288 – 2
A collective sigh of relief but ticket counter one suddenly shuts up shop. And that bloody screeching tone just goes on and on.
The bus trip from Bologna to Venice is very interesting. Farmers leave corn in the ground well after the cobs have ripened. They call this process denting. The dent corn is used for stock feed, makes plastic, fuel, starches and adhesives. Who would have thought? Lots of empty houses just waiting for a foreigner to come along and renovate. Wonder what the law is. Well the law is non existent. Anyone can buy property. And you can get a liveable 2 or 3 storied villa for under $nz1 million. In fact an old run down farmhouse in the middle of nowhere could be quite cheap. Mind you it snows here in winter and temperatures look to be equivalent to Dunedin. I will look into this when we travel south.
So, back to the trip. Alison has booked us into a bloody monastery. CENTRO CUTTARACLE DON ORIONE ANTIGINELLI is near the Peggy Guggenheim museum and is for weary travelers of all denominations to rest in a peaceful, tranquil, meditative environment free from noise and wordily distractions. Read – no phone, no pool, no pets – in the immortal words of Roger Miller. It also means, no tv, no fridge, no amenities, damask linen, a tranquility garden (where I am writing from now). Also no food in the room, no booze, no fun. I am going to fucking MAD. Already I have had a cross look from a other tranquility garden user l20 metres away as the tapping of the keys must be destroying his karma.
Polynesian men line the early morning wharf. A perfect photo opportunity. Intense winters sun highlighting the silver sheen of their lines. A school of kahawai has entered the harbour and are being pulled out for their stupidity. A few wise old souls have bled them, to remove the toughness.
I wander further along the waterfront and find the left over trail of blood from an early morning stabbing. To add toughness.
He sits at the rear of the public toilets. Tall, thin and bearded he is probably three-quarters Maori. His clothes and grooming alerts you that he is a man of the street. He sucks on his can of Lion Red, at 10.45 am. He carries out a three way conversation which sometimes spills over into four or five-way as new hallucination manifest themselves. They, the hallucinations, must be vivid as each character has distinct mannerisms. Overt sweeping hands suddenly jerk into the clasped hands of the introvert. Next he is an effeminate man, then the Maori elder. His visions push and pull each other; one strikes him on the head. His finger goes to his lip in an elaborate shush.
In another time or place he might be seen as a gifted artisan. Here, he is a harmless madman.