Lake Bracciano – Do as the Romans Do

Where am I? I know where I am, of course, but as we drive on the highway towards Bracciano to find cooling respite by a lake on a hot day, I can’t help but feel a strange sense of displacement. I know I’m in the Lazio region, not even one hour out of Rome but as I watch the scene of dusty yellow pastures, golden hay barrels and distant hilltops pass me by I’m struck by a sense of Déjà vu. I feel like I’ve been here before, but the here that I feel is not Bracciano, it’s country Victoria, Australia. It’s a scene I’ve seen a few times a year ever since I can remember on the drive from Melbourne to Beechworth. It’s hard to associate this setting with Italy, when I’ve only ever known it to be Australia. If it weren’t for the occasional Italian signage sporadically placed alongside the road I might have trouble remembering where I am. Oh and of course the two Italians conversing in the front seat helps too.

Going to the lakes in Lazio is a quintessential Roman activity. Speak to any Roman about how to cool down in the blistering summer heat and you’re likely hear a few disparaging remarks about the local beaches but the lakes? Well that’s a different story. The lakes and mountains of the Lazio region inspire discussions of delicious hearty meals in trattorias, lazy walks through small towns and dips in the crisp and cool depths of the picturesque waters. Whether it’s La Pasquetta, a public holiday, birthday, or maybe the sun just happens to be shining, it seems any excuse will do. And now I understand why.

Before we explore the lakeside Bracciano has to offer we’ll need to lunch in the town first of course. Trying to decide between take away pizza and a plate of pasta is always a challenge, but as we stumble upon a trattoria bustling with patrons and sending perfumes of fresh seafood and pasta wafting out the doorway the decision makes itself. Trattoria Garibaldi is a small establishment but every table is taken and every patron tasting the delicious dishes has a gleeful look in their eye and those still waiting watch enviously as tasty well-laden plates pass them by. The menu board scribbled in red pen shows us that the price is fair too with antipasto, pasta or meat dish and bottled water for €10. We lucked out on this one.

Fresh salumi, cheese and bread makes its way to our table and within moments we’re licking the crumbs from our lips and back to watching the doorway to the kitchen in anticipation of our next plates.

Cacio e pepe pasta is a typical Roman dish. It’s spicy and creamy with its two main ingredients comprising of fresh ground pepper, and a hefty dose of pecorino Romano cheese. This is one of those rare dishes that screams simplicity while simultaneously overflowing with flavour.

With out plates immaculately clean and our bellies guiltily responsible, we make our way down to the lake for some sun (or shade if you’re so inclined) and a siesta. With only a small beach, you’re likely to lay your towel down amongst the grass and wildflowers while you participate in this typical Italian ritual. Children splash in the waters, swans swim along undisturbed (the braver ones take to the land for a hand fed from the little ones), and the rest of us lie down with the canopy of leaves fluttering above us, twinkling in the sunlight. With the musical sound of that wonderful language carrying in the wind, a stomach satisfied with the local fare and the sun sending me into a tranquil afternoon nap, it’s impossible to forget that I’m in Italy.

How To Lose (Yourself and Bike) In Amsterdam Part 2

There’s a certain process that begins when I do something wrong, or make a mistake. It starts with an incomparable sense of shame and guilt and continues with an unstoppable urge to repair or apologise. These two unbearable emotions remain intertwined until the situation is rectified.

No matter how kindly Anouk assured me that it was ok and not to worry, nothing but having that bike grasped firmly in my hands would make me feel right again.

I immediately began scouring the Internet for information about missing bikes that same evening. I was fairly certain that the bike had been taken away rather than stolen seeing as a) I’d been illegally parked and b) there was nothing I was more careful about than locking the two bike locks every time I stopped (if only I’d applied that same care to where I parked the damn thing…) but alas, here we were one bike down and one crushing guilty conscious up and with a desperate desire to rebalance the scales.

Eagerly I read through a website that mentioned that bikes parked illegally were taken to the Fietsdepot in the outer suburbs of Amsterdam. It also mentioned that bikes needed to have an identifying stamp, which our bike didn’t. Chances were slim that we’d be able to collect the bike even if they had it without an identifier, it is Amsterdam after all, and I’d already noticed that there were many green bikes with two wheels and a handle out there. Things were not looking good.

The Topsy Turvy Day that Followed…

The next morning Anouk went out for a special occasion with her boyfriend and I was due to just relax (an impossible thing for me given the situation). I’d given her the information for the Fietsdepot and their phone number and while I was leisurely making breakfast she texted me some great news: They have the bike.

11.20am: Absolute ecstasy. It’s palpable. Relief and peace start to flood through me and I feel the beginnings of resolution kicking in. I’m so darn excited. Eagerly I text back that I’d read that they can deliver the bike to us, straight to our door. Anouk says she’ll call them to check.

11.35am: Oh no. They are fully booked out for deliveries this week. And they’re closed tomorrow. And Monday. And they’re only opened until 12.30pm today. I can’t leave Amsterdam without rectifying the situation and make poor Anouk deal with my mess. I tell Anouk that I’m going to retrieve her bike by myself. I can do this.

11.39am: Anouk tells me that the last train that will get me to the Fietsdepot leave at 11.53am. Okay, right. The train station is a 15 minutes walk from where I am and I need to buy a ticket. I look down at my pyjamas. This is a minor obstacle. I brush the crumbs of toast from my mouth and run upstairs to change. The adrenaline starts kicking in.

11.41am: I throw on some pants, a singlet and jumper, hurriedly squeeze my feet into my shoes, grab my handbag and the keys. With only moments of Wi-Fi remaining I take a look (and screen shot) at the directions Anouk has sent through. I need to take the train at 11.53 to Sloterdijk then hurry to bus 82 and take it to Westpoortweg, cross the road, turn down a street and walk 150 metres until I reach the sign that says “fietsdepot” in big red letters. All before 12.30pm. I send out a short and sweet ‘Leaving now!!!! Bye!!!” to Anouk and run out the door.

11.43am: Oh my god. I think I’m dying. This must be what death feels like. And I’ve been running for not even two minutes. This is actually humiliating. I’d probably be really embarrassed if I hadn’t already left my dignity back at the house. I look like what happens when you slip out of the house to check the mail in the early morning and realise you’ve locked yourself out. I’m devastated because I’m scared I won’t make it on time. I’ve never run so fast in my life and I am not a runner. My heart is thumping in my chest, my breath is fast and erratic and I can feel a stitch forming in my side. The train station is in sight but it’s still a long way off. Why did I always insist that running was not a thing I needed to be able to do?? Why did I always choose the bike and the cross trainer at the gym?? I make a mental note to try to take up running in future so that in the event that I need to hurriedly retrieve a bike from Amsterdam bike jail again/outrun a serial killer, I have a fighting chance. I give myself a 15 second slow down to catch up on my breath. Okay, I’m going to run and I’m not stopping until I reach the train station.

11.45am: Oh god I can’t do this! I stop running and take up a fast walk. A really fast walk. In fact it’s so fast it may be even more impressive than running…May as well just run then. Okay I’ll run. The station is getting closer and closer, the end is in sight. I’ll be there in moments.

11.47am: Nooo! I can’t do this. I’m gasping for breathe and am no longer running or walking. You can’t call this jogging either, it’s more like a fast paced hobble. My legs feel like jelly and just want to collapse underneath me. The train station is like a mirage, I feel like it’s not really real and I’m not getting any closer. But I must be! I can’t give up.

11.51am: I made it! I quickly put my coins in the machine and collect my ticket. I rush through the gateways and head towards the platform which is…right up the stairs. Cruel world.

11.53am: I’m still trying to recollect myself when I step on the train. I actually can’t believe that I made it and I’m reeling from the excitement of it all. I sit down quietly and try to breathe normally so I don’t look as though my lungs might capsize at any moment. Act normal, act normal, act normal. I’m not fooling anyone. I look and sound ridiculous.

12.01pm: I get off the train at Sloterdijk station and run out immediately looking for the bus stop. Anouk said I’d need to be quick to make the bus so I’m starting to panic. Not an unreasonable amount of panic, but the right amount required when you have a limited opportunity to right your wrongs that you’ll never have again. So maybe it’s a slightly elevated amount of panic. I find a sign (thankyou Amsterdam signage) pointing towards the bus ranks, down some stairs. I run down.

12.02pm: How are there so many bus stops are there?!?! Who needs this many buses anyway!? Seriously! I mean, this is just excessive. Unnecessary. You could remove probably half of these, I’m sure nobody uses them anyway. I’ve done a full circuit and I can’t find the stop for bus number 82. I’m starting to panic.

12.03pm: If I didn’t look crazy before I certainly do now, I’m spinning in circles and quickly jerking my head around looking for the stupid number 82 stupid bus. Still no sign of the correct bus stop and there’s hardly anyone here, and no one working, it’s completely deserted.

12.04pm: A tram just pulled up at the tram stop. Maybe I can try asking the driver where the stop is for Bus 82.

12.05pm: Okay she doesn’t know where it is but if I keep looking I’ll find it she says with a smile. Right. Okay, great. I proceed to run around like a mad person again.

12.06pm: Okay, found it, found the correct bus stop, and heading in the right direction might I add. Now I just need the bus to arrive as quick as possible because I have 24 minutes to make it to the Fietsdepot.

12.07pm: Where is the bus?!!? I’m not going to make it!!!

12.07pm: Okay the bus is here. I’m going to make it. I hop on and check with the bus driver that it’s going to the Westpoortweg stop. He says it is. I take a seat and wait patiently. If patiently means shaking my legs, checking the time every 10 seconds and compulsively watching the upcoming stops. My heart skips a beat every time I check because I’m certain I’ve missed it everytime. I re-read through the directions.

12.09pm: Still on the bus. Read through the directions for the hundreths time.

12.09pm: Right, still 12.09pm. Okay, cool. Why is this bus so slow??

12.10pm: Okay I have these directions down, they are very clear, I’ve got this in the bag. “Take Connexxion bus number 82 from Sloterdijk Station in the direction of IJmuiden.” Done. Excellent. “Alight at the Westpoortweg bus stop.” Coming along, slowly but surely. Very slowly. How long is a minute?? Seems much longer than 60 seconds. “Walk back to the zebra crossing. Cross to the other side of the Westpoortweg and walk into the Australiëhavenweg. The SkyNetbuilding will be on your right-hand side. Bornhout is the first street on your right. The depository is 150 metres further on, on your left-hand side.” Coming right up. Assuming this bus makes it there before tomorrow.

12.16pm: Okay, the bus has stopped at Westpoortweg. I can do this, I’ve got 15 minutes. I just need to cross the Zebra crossing, walk along the street until I pass SkyNetbuilding on my right, then I’ll see Bornhout street on my right, and the Fietsdepot will be 150 on my left. I see a young man walking across the crossing ahead of me, maybe he also had some issues parking his bike. I suppose I could just follow him. I mean, this area is full of factories, theres nothing here but big buildings and wide roads. There are no people either. He couldn’t really be going anywhere else. I consider how my previous expedition into stalking went…I’ve got plenty of time, I should probably just try to find this on my own. No need to rush. I mean, I could probably just stroll along leisurely, I’ve got so much time…Better not risk it.

12.17pm: I’ve broken into a run, if you can call it that. My lungs have never been more mad at me and my legs are threatening to strike but I placate them with the promise if they agree to continue functioning I won’t ever do this to them again. They agree, begrudgingly, and I continue to run until I pass the SkyNetbuilding on my right.

12.18pm: I’m running fast and then I see Bornhout. Right, so the directions said I would see Bornhout Street and then go 150 metres. 150 metres down Bornhout? Or keep walking past 150 metres passed Bornhout? I hardly have time to go down both ways. What do I do, what do I do?!?

12.19pm I’m running down Bornhout, I see a street sign that says Fietsdepot! Hurrah! I chose the right way! I am a genius! Okay great and it will be on my left, perfect!

12.21pm: How far 150 metres? I’m doing my running hobble, my chest is about to explode, my breath is coming out in noises that would scare small children and I cannot see that Fietsdepot anywhere! And there’s not a person in sight to ask, just factories and buildings. Does noboday work on Saturdays?!

12.22pm: It’s ok, I still have 8 minutes, I try to placate myself. 8 whole minutes. 480 seconds. So long as I walk through the doors in the next 8 minutes then everything will be fine. I wish I had credit to at least call them so they could know I was on my way! I make more sweet promises to my legs, if they keep moving we’ll get apple pie afterwards, they trod on. My lungs keep mumbling something about speaking to the union over maltreatment. It can’t be that much further.

12.23pm: Okay seriously, how far is 150 metres? I know I’m not particularly good with measurements (or directions, or doing head checks when driving, or 7s and 8s time tables, or speaking slowly, or staying calm…) but I have a bad feeling that I’ve gone well passed 150 metres…

12.24pm: But wait! I see a big building ahead of me! I can’t see a sign, but it’s definitely large! Looks perfect for storing rebel bikes! That must be it. I pick myself back up and run faster towards it.

12.25pm: No!!!!! It’s not it! I let out a rather loud curse, a defeated whimper and turn around madly trying to work out what to do.

12.25pm: What’s the point?! What was it all for!? I’ve come all this way, sans a shower, lungs aching, sweaty from running. Why did I get so close only to fail? Oh god, I think I’m going to cry…

12.25pm: “Hey!!!!!” I yell out loudly. I spot a man across the road standing near a truck behind a fenced in factory area. I run over and he makes his way over to me.

12.26pm: Now, I’m not particularly fond of asking for directions but in my current state with mere minutes remaining I have no option. The man curiously makes his way over to me (I can only imagine what he was thinking, perhaps ‘what on earth is this crazy English speaker wanting and why does she look as though she’s about to reacquaint herself with her breakfast.). Now to be fair, I hadn’t spoken to a single person since this madness began (except to say ‘is this the right (insert bus, bus stop, place etc)?’ and so perhaps I had forgotten a few things, like how to behave like a sane human being rather than a completely irrational one that spills her life story to anyone foolish enough to indulge her with a hello/a quizzical expression.

Me (in a speed that would put Busta Rhymes to shame): “Hi! I’m sorry I don’t speak Dutch! I lost my friends bike, the Fietsdepot have it and I need to find it and the directions said to come here but I can’t see it anywhere and do you know where it is? They close in five minutes don’t they?’

Kind gentleman: “Oh no, the fietsdepot is right at the end of the street. You have to go right to the end and turn right” (indicates to the very beginning of the street where my 150 metre (oh let’s be honest I went way further than 150) sprint (I really shouldn’t offend proper athletes with such a statement) had begun).

*Face drops instantaneously*

Me (panicked voice) “Are you serious?!!?!? Do you think they’re closed already, do they close on time???” (At this stage I obviously was not thinking particularly clearly. Looking back I can see that it was a little presumptuous of me to think that this kind gentlemen knew the operating hours of every factory/business in the area).

Kind (amazingly understanding) gentleman: “I don’t know, but it’s all the way right down the end”

12.27pm: “Thank youuuuuuu” I yell over my shoulder as I run away. I’m running fast, I’m in physical pain now and can feel the cold sweat dripping on my face. I have three minutes. I start those heavy heaves that children do right before a dramatic tantrum of tears and screaming kicks in. I can’t possibly make it on time, it took me 9 minutes to get this far, it’s impossible that I can get all the way back to the beginning in 3 minutes. I start to mentally prepare myself for disappointment and what I’ll do next. I can’t believe I’m not going to take the bike back with me. All of this for nothing.

12.29pm: Omg omg omg omg! I see someone standing in front of a building loading a bike into their car. There’s a sign on the gate…it says something… “Fietsdepot”. Omg I made it! I made it! There’s a bell on the gate to receive assistance. I press it. I’m feeling really nervous, I can’t see any workers around, maybe they’ve closed up already.

12.30pm: No one’s come. I pressed the button again…and again. I look around for someone, a door, a button, something. There’s no one there, no other doors. My head drops and I’m staring at my feet. My breath fastens, my heart is sinking, my chest is heaving, my face is flushing. Here come the tears, no stopping it now. No matter what, in situations such as this, when all seems lost, I revert back to something like a child and immediately feel like sitting on the floor hugging my legs to my chest and sobbing miserably because I’m so disappointed. I resist the urge, in all honesty only because the couple are still there loading the bike into the car and further humiliation at this point would be just too sad.

Kind stranger still loading bike into car: “*Calls out something in Dutch*”

Me: “I’m sorry, what? I don’t speak Dutch”

Kind stranger: “You need to go around!”

Me (Heart pounding so loudly in my ears I’m partially deafened): “What?”

Kind stranger: “This is not the entrance! You need to go around! Right at the end and go right!”

Me: “Really?!?! Thank youuuuuuuuuuuu!”

12.32pm: A sense of hope is ignited in me. I’m running towards the point the gentleman indicated. This unfamiliar running motion has become so repetitive to me that the legs carrying me feel like completely foreign objects, no longer legs but some sort of jumping instrument beneath my upper body. I realise that the Fietsdepot is technically closed but I can’t just give up yet, not until I see a door with a closed sign that is securely locked and imbreachable.

12.33pm: I reach another gateway and a car is driving through. The vehicle stops and the driver winds down his window. He yells out four small words that near send me into a nervous break down:

Stranger: “The Fietsdepot is closed”

Me (Voice shaking and defeated) “Are you serious?”

Absolute devastation. It was well after 12.30pm at this stage, I was aware that it could be closed but hearing it stated, point blank, after my last shred of hope had been reignited. I’m crushed.

Stranger: “They closed at 12.30pm” he said.

Me: “I can’t…oh my…”

There’s absolutely no holding back, I turn away so he won’t see me tearing up. The car starts to pull away and then stops.

Stranger (Sticks head out of window): “Look, maybe if you ask them really really nicely…”

*snap back into focus*

Me: “Where do I go?!”

Stranger: “Keep going round!”

12.34pm: I run through the gates a short few metres. I come upon an intercom. I press the button and received a Dutch reply.

Me (wildly erratic and only vaguely coherent) “I’m sorry! I can’t understand you! I need to get my friends bike! I parked it and it’s here but I just don’t know what to do or where to go and I don’t speak Dutch.” (At this stage I’m just lucky I haven’t been arrested for suspicions of substance abuse.)

Some more Dutch follows my rant and then yet another kind stranger approaches me.

Kind stranger: “The office is around the corner. Right over there”

Me: “Thank youuuuuu” I yell over my shoulder as I race in the direction. This is it I won’t stop until I see a door and people and bikes.

12.35pm: The front door! I see people moving and working, some sitting and waiting. I take a deep breath trying to compose myself, (I’m hoping to give off the pre-tense that I am the calm and sane person that under usual circumstances, I am). I walk inside, take off my jumper now soaked through in a cold sweat and stand patiently (read: impatiently) waiting for a representative to free up so that I can put an end to this nightmare once and for all.

12.36pm: The gentleman behind the bench finalises the transaction with a customer and looks over to me with a quizzical expression on his face (my desire to appear like your Average Joe, patiently waiting was obviously not so good as I was hoping – acting really isn’t my forte’). He motions for me to come over and says a Dutch hello. The flood gates open.

Me (ramblings words together so fast they sound like one big drunken slur of a word): “I’m so sorry I don’t speak Dutch and I know I’m late, I know you’re supposed to be closed but I went the wrong way and I would’ve been on time but the directions seemed like had to go 150 metres that way. So I went down the street and I just got here and it’s my friend’s bike. I have a reference number, it’s “9860005768” her name’s Anouk and I borrowed the bike for one day. I guess I parked it in the wrong spot because it’s here now…and”

My wobbling voice trails off as I realise that I’ve just given this gentleman my life’s story for the past 24-48 hours in 5 seconds or less. He’s quickly typed the numbers I spieled into the computer and looks up at me again with recognition crossing his face.

Fietsdepot gentleman: “You’re the one who called through on the intercom?”

Me (flushing with embarrassment): “Ahh…yes that was me”

*I have a sudden realisation of the full height of my delusional behaviour. I’m still heaving from the run, my face is red and flushed, I’m wearing a singlet while everyone else is layered up in jumpers and jackets and my words are rambling together faster than they have in a long time. The first notes of embarrassment start setting in.*

Fietsdepot gentleman: “Sorry I couldn’t respond through the intercom properly. Don’t worry, we’ll get your bike,” (watching me carefully), “why don’t you have a glass of water and relax” (points to the drink machine behind me).

Me (smile awkwardly and make a more concerted effort to hide the adrenalin (read: crazy) from my voice: “Oh yeh, thank you, that would be good”

12.40pm: I attempt to fill up my glass with water from the machine. The first one comes out scalding hot (who knew ‘heet water’ means hot water?), but with the second one I cool down my body and calm my pounding heart and try to settle down.

12.42pm: A different gentleman approaches. He’s going to take me to my bike.

Me (gushing in gratitude): “You know I’m so glad you guys are helping me out, I really appreciate it. I know you’re supposed to be closed. Would you believe I had this bike for one day? Only one day! I borrowed it from my friend you see, I’ve only been here a few days and I just felt so terrible that I had it impounded.”

Kindly and patiently he listens to my spiel while nodding sympathetically at appropriate intervals and walks me over to my bike. He tells me these things happen and it’s not a problem to get my bike for me even though they are technically closed. He also mentions that they’d had to cut the bike chain when they took it and because he feels sorry for me he’s giving me a new chain.

My gratitude is indescribable for the kindness everyone is showing this emotionally exhausted wretch. When I catch sight of the bike connected to all the other miscreant bikes I feel a flutter of joy in my chest that expresses itself in the most sincere exclamations of ‘thank you’ and smiles that might cause next day cheek cramps should they not stop soon.

??:??pm *Does it even matter anymore?*

I walk the bike back to the office with the gentleman and place it in the bike stand out front. “Don’t forget to lock it up or it will actually be stolen” he warns as I start to walk away (oh yeh… duh Lara). I lock it up, go inside to pay my fine (a measly 10 euros – I’ve paid more for a parking fine where they didn’t even take my car away) and with a heart full of happiness, a new chain for the bike and exuberant smile I pedal that bike out of there.

Huh. I just realise that I don’t know how to get out of this area. I approach the area near the bus stop and ride back the way I came. I spot something beautiful. A big blue sign with an arrow-pointing north ‘Centrum’. Oh I love the Dutch and their signage. I followed the signs cycling in these frigid temperatures in a singlet and jeans with the cold air whipping my face and a feeling of accomplishment tucked safely under my arm.

I stop at the bike traffic lights peacefully aware that for once I’m heading in the right direction and a fellow cyclist pulled up beside me.

Kind stranger (in English): “Are you cold??”

Me (excitably): “Oh no I’m fine! I don’t think I’ll ever be cold again. See, I just went to the Fietsdepot to get my bike and I was running all over the…”

Kind stranger (smiling): “Yes I know, I saw you”

Me: (laughing nervously): “Oh” (realise how truly mad I must’ve appeared)

Kind stranger (concerned): “Are you sure you’re not cold? I have a jumper you can wear,”

I am overwhelmed by this incredible act of kindness. I have given off all the signs of someone you ought to steer clear of and yet this complete stranger is offering me her jumper. So touched by the selfless act of kindness, I’m nearly brought to tears…again.

Me: (genuinely grateful): “No really I’m fine, I have a jumper, but thank you so much”

We rode off in the same direction until eventually we changed paths. I headed onwards to the city centre and felt at ease when the familiar architecture crept up upon me. As I continued to ride I cycled upon a market place opened on the weekend. I parked the bike walked through the market, bought a book and stepped into a nearby café. I sat down at a table, ordered a coffee and a slice of warm apple pie just like I promised those legs (who am I kidding, I’d have bought pie even if my legs had decided to detach and walk off without me) and I let my body rest and appreciate the break after the 30 minutes cycling session from the Fietsdepot.

I can’t help but wonder, does the euphoria you feel after correcting your errors make the errors themselves worthwhile? I honestly couldn’t answer that question the same day. But more than two weeks later and I can say with absolute certainty that it does. I made a mistake, but I’ve learned to trust my instincts and ask questions where necessary, I corrected my mistake and I have an amusing anecdote to share with whoevers wanting to listen. And maybe even some forewarning for anyone considering indulging in a biking jaunt in Amsterdam – Bike impounds exist…who’d have thought…

Overview of the best ways to find your way (in ascending order)

1. Ask for directions (tends to be a winner)
2. Follow the signs (very decent method)
3. Use a map (hmmm)
4. Use your innate sense of direction (questionable)
5. Follow a stranger (Proven unsuccessful)

How To Lose (yourself and bike) In Amsterdam Part 1

There are a few things you can rely on when it comes to The Netherlands:

1. You will inevitably find a great pancake and/or apple pie.
2. Your chances of death by bicycle significantly increase as soon as you set foot in the country.
3. If a sign says ‘don’t park your bike here’, then you probably shouldn’t. If said sign is written in Dutch and you can’t read Dutch, perhaps you should probably just ask someone.
4. If your bicycle has been impounded by the city for parking infringements and after retrieving said bicycle in an adrenalin infused race against time with a wild exhilarated look in your eye and inappropriate attire, the Dutch may well, in an act of extreme kindness, offer you a jacket to cover your bare arms even though you’ve never met.

In all of my travels I’ve never encountered so many selfless acts of kindness from individual people in one place and in such close proximity as I have in The Netherlands. It is truly a testament to the generous and accommodating nature of the Dutch, but they won’t hear of it of course. Modest to boot.

In the harrowing tale of one individual rising up against the odds, the Dutch, in their kind and selfless spirit, aid the heroine in her quest and (spoiler) see her eventual success. I call this story:

‘How I loved, lost and retrieved my friend’s bikes from the Fietsdepot while gallivanting in Amsterdam’

Introduction…

I guess this story beings with tulips. It was after all the reason that I decided to make an impromptu trip to Amsterdam after only a few short days of contemplation. The tulips only bloom for eight weeks a year in the Keukenhof gardens and as a lover of all things pretty I’d been aching to see a garden full of the vibrantly coloured flowers since my first unsuccessful expedition to locate them failed two years ago. Looking back I can see the greatest flaw in that plan was looking for tulips during the summertime. Amateur mistake. I’d since learned that spring was the best (read: only) time to see them and when I realised that my window of opportunity was ever so quickly closing, I decided to slid right under it with some cabin baggage in tow and make my way to the ‘Venice of the North’.

A Great Start…

I was greeted warmly by my Dutch friend Anouk at the airport who (in true Dutch style) was far too forgiving of my innately inaccurate sense of direction that saw her traipse all over the airport looking for me. We spent the first day cycling around the city and indulging in delicious local fare and wine in some cafes and bars that make the Dutch word ‘gezellig’ really ring true.

And so it begins…

After my brief re-acquaintance with cycling I considered myself completely capable of spending the next day riding around the city solo while Anouk slaved away at the office.

10.43 am – It’s a liberating feeling cycling with the fresh morning wind whipping through your hair and little to no concept of where you are, and not really caring either. 
I ride the bike into a park full of joggers and other cyclists with greenery encasing me from all angles. Only the birds early chirping break the sound of bike wheels and pounding feet on the pavement. I can’t help but be impressed with myself for a successful start to the day.

11.13 am – I continue riding right through to the city until I reach some familiar streets. I give myself an undeserving mental clap on the back for finding my way without google maps or even the maps I have tucked in my handbag, even though I know it’s by pure luck that I didn’t end up in a different city/country.

11.23pm – I park the bike, careful to chain it up good and proper as bikes have a tendency to go missing in this country (oh the irony…). I wander along the canals observing the unique rooftop facades of the buildings and looking out for somewhere to get a late breakfast. I have pancakes on the brain.

11.41am – Spotted: The Pancake Bakery. With the self-proclaimed ‘Best Pancakes in Amsterdam’ and a menu that goes on for days I step inside the welcoming den and say the all embarrassing words ‘Yes, a table for one thanks’. I’m taken to a table for six and sit by myself. With more than 75 different types of pancakes I’m overwhelmed with choice…for about a minute. Dutch poffertjes with warm cherries and whipped cream? Don’t mind if I do. A lone English traveller takes up residency at my table. He’s not much of a talker…and he orders eggs. I’m not sure we’d have gotten along too well anyway.

12.24 am – I exit the restaurant and allow my eyes free reign and walk on towards whatever draws their attention with only a vague idea of where I am in the greater sense. 
I drift through a Tulip store selling all things Tulip related. I resist purchasing a mug. A store selling unique whimsical pieces for the home pulls me in. I try to assess whether I can justify 40 euros for a vintage coffee grinder that seems to have been made in the 50s. Then I consider the process of attaching the grinder to a wall, purchasing coffee beans and spinning the gadget by hand to produce ground coffee. Packet coffee is fine.

12.47pm – I slip down some quieter streets and discover some second hand stores. These streets are lined with mouth-watering bakeries producing sweet scents that fill the brisk outdoor air, bustling cafes with locals lunching and one tourist gawking at the sight of it all. Guilty.

1.37pm – The rain starts to fall awakening the sleeping canals and soaking through my winter jacket. I take refuge in a nearby cafe’. I let the heat of my coffee cup warm my hands and the tasty liquid reinvigorate my body while I take some time to dry and plan my next move.

1.52pm – Seems like museum weather. With Amsterdam’s plentiful art collections capable of making any art lovers heart a flutter I decide I’ll head in that direction. In a minute.

2.34pm – I have a quick look at a map in the café. But I’ve done fairly well so far on my own. I decide to ride off in the general direction and work it out as I go along. It’s only about a five-minute trip and it’s only drizzling. It seems like a simple enough concept.

2.46pm – I unchain the bike, hop on and start pedaling.

3.05pm – Thoroughly soaked through and after several mental repetitions of ‘I swear I rode passed that building already…’ I’m still sans the sight of stunning artworks. I’m starting to recognise that my earlier successful endeavours were purely strokes of luck, consecutive strokes, but luck nonetheless. I question myself of how I can consistently forget that I have a reliably unreliable sense of direction.

3.09pm – I look up and see a sign. Not a metaphorical sign but an actual physical sign with names of places and accompanying arrows and a far better reputation for getting people headed in the right direction than I can boast. Amsterdam actually has excellent signage. I figure if I follow the signs that say ‘museum centrum’ (which my brilliant mind carefully deduces might mean ‘museum centre) then I may actually find the museums.

3.12pm – Amazing. I stand before the glorious ‘IAMSTERDAM’ sign protruding from the ground directly in front of the Rijksmuseum. Nothing has ever seemed so beautiful nor so inviting.

3.15pm – I decide to try to enter the Van Gogh Museum with Anouk’s roommates museum card. The museumkaart gives you free entry to all the museums in Amsterdam. Oh and there’s a separate line for museumkaarts! Bonus! I can skip the queue.

3.16pm – The attendant inspects the card and tells me I need to fill in my date of birth before I can enter. Sure…I’ll be right back.

3.22pm – I line up to enter the Rijksmuseum. The attendant scans my card and I gleefully enter and proceed towards some spectacular works of art.

4.20pm – I walk slowly through the museum observing the artworks. I slip in with the crowd touring the museum in front of Rembrandts “The Watchmen” and try to catch some of the information. The tour group is Dutch. Damn.

4.45pm – The museum starts to close so I make my way out taking with me some mental pictures (and physical ones) and a substantial amount of envy brewing over my inability to draw even the simplest of sketches.

5.00pm – I step into the gift shop while I consider my next move. It’s still raining and I need to meet Anouk for dinner in the evening but she’s still working and not due to reach the centre for a few more hours. With my sporadic wifi and earlier minor directional challenge I decide it’s a good idea to look up where exactly where I am so that I can eventually head to the central station.

5.09pm – I look at the map.

5.11pm – The map seems to indicate that I ought to ride off in one direction when I thought I would’ve needed to head in another. But hey, maps don’t lie.

5.23pm – Perhaps I misread the map. I think maybe I was still floating on the high caused only by the happy accident of my stumbling upon a sign that led me to my destination before and just assumed it would all work out again. Whatever the reason, I’ve been, unknowingly, riding in the opposite direction for at least 10 minutes.

5.26pm – The rain is now falling hard and I can barely feel my fingers wrapped around the handle bar of the bike. I attempt to follow another cyclist in the hope that he is also heading to the central station (it’s hard to explain where this logic came from).

5.30pm – I accept that I am lost. My clothes are soaked right through, I am freezing, sore and in desperate need of a map and a red wine.

5.35pm – I find a pub and feel the comforting warmth hit me on my way in. I sit down and order my wine while I hook into the wifi and load up google maps.

6.30pm- My jacket is still wet and so is my jumper. I’m starting to think that maybe I should’ve just asked for directions earlier. But no, I remind myself, this is all part of the experience and every experience is a worthy one. No regrets, none, not one…

I am so cold.

6.34pm – I looked at a map again and study it carefully (well…).

6.39pm – I wipe the seat of the bike with some napkins I took from the bar and I set off again.

6.42pm – I’m fairly certain that I’m going in the right direction but previous experience has taught me that this is not an assumption someone like myself, with a faulty internal compass, should trust. I swallow my pride and ask a fellow cyclist for confirmation. She assures me that I am in fact heading in the right direction and advises me to keep riding straight until I can ride no longer.

6.52pm – Incredible. It’s funny how quickly you can arrive at your destination when you don’t take the scenic route. The site of Central Station and the countless bikes parked around it appear before me. It is such a welcome view. I stand facing it waiting for the bike lights to change so I can cross. I’m dripping wet and smiling ecstatically. I can’t be sure whether it’s rain or tears of joy streaking down my cheeks but either way I brush the water from my eyes and eagerly take the bike over to join its brothers and sisters parked nearby.

7pm – Now this is quite a dilemma. There seems to be a proper parking lot for bikes. It’s almost full but there are a few spaces free. It looks so official I question whether you need a special permit to park there (even writing those words I can feel my own stupidity slapping me in the face). I spot some biked chained up to the railing around the bridge. (I’d like to make clear at this point that I was still very cold, exhausted, hungry and desperate to find somewhere dry and warm to rest my wretched body before Anouk arrived from the train. It’s entirely likely that delusion had set in and therefore I can hardly be held accountable for my following actions).

7.04pm – I chain the bike to the bridge railing. I have a slight niggling feeling about it (okay, maybe I can be held accountable). But I quickly shove that to the back of my mind with the mantra that ‘everybody else is doing it, surely it’s fine’. (*Important lesson to note* Just because everybody else is doing it, does not mean that it’s fine. It certainly does not mean that there will be no repercussions for your potential law breaking antics)

7.20 pm – I find a hotel bar near the station and I wait for Anouk with another coffee.

8.15pm – I meet Anouk at the tram and we take it to her friends apartment.

8.30pm – I’m warmly welcomed with wine and a homemade feast. In an effort to accommodate me, English becomes the primary language of the evening.

10.35pm – Tiredness is setting in for us both. We decide to train home and retrieve the bike the following evening.

Before We Knew…The Next Day

1pm – I spend the day in The Hague. While Anouk works, I wander around the streets and look at artworks at the Gemeentemuseum.

6pm – It’s raining heavily again. We decide to go to the beach and eat tapas and drink wine at one of the beachside restaurants with a tabletop fire reheating our wet clothes. Afterwards we’ll go to some bars for a beers.

12.30am – We take a train and head back towards Amsterdam Central Station. We intend to pick up the bike and ride home.

1.04am – We arrive at Amsterdam Central. I walk us over to where I had parked the bike. The conversation follows as such:

Anouk: “Where did you park the bike?”

Me: “Ummm…it was right here. Look I even took a picture! (shows picture of bike parked in exact spot that it no longer is). It was right here, I swear!”

Anouk: “But Lara, that sign says you’re not allowed to park the bike on the bridge (points to sign written in Dutch)”

Me: “Anouk, I can’t read Dutch”

Anouk: “…So…you parked it there?”

Me: “…Yes…”

*Silence*

Me (panicking): “There were so many other bikes here before! (Looks around. No other bikes are on the bridge). Okay, okay. I am so sorry about this but don’t even worry, I am going to fix this. I will find your bike, or buy you a new one but you will have a bike! I promise”

Bike Last Seen Chained to Bridge

500 Flavours of Italy

I had my very own ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ moment. No, it wasn’t a moment of absolute clarity while getting in touch with my spiritual side in an Ashram in India and unfortunately it was not falling for a suave and sexy Javier Bardem type while exploring exotic landscapes in Bali. No, my moment quite scarily reflects that of writer Elizabeth Gilbert after spending some time in Italy indulging in the local cuisine. My jeans barely fit. It became most evident to me that something was amiss after attending a barbecue with some new friends in Rome.

We’d eaten an outdoor feast the likes of which I had never seen before starting with freshly toasted bruschetta, a tasty cold pasta dish, sausages, skewers, and an ingenious dessert that consisted of small fried dough balls covered in nutella.

Lying in the grass under the gleaming sunlight I felt comfortably satisfied with the days intake, but as I went to sit up I found that my jeans and my upper body seemed incapable of forming a 90-degree angle without some significant discomfort.

It’s true that every tasty morsel that’s crossed my lips has been entirely of my own accord but I can’t help but maybe spread some of the blame for my new fuller figure upon Italian cuisine as a whole. It’s a challenging task to resist food when it tastes as good as it does here in Italy especially when your introduced to the concept of dessert for breakfast which is amongst some of the new food theories I’ve discovered during my time in this flavorsome country. I find myself faced with the dilemma of healthy eating, in a place where healthy eating ends up with whipped cream on your gelato. However, being a new resident in this fine country I feel that it’s the least I can do to try to assimilate by eating and experiencing the local produce, and so I have. Probably more so than necessary if the indentation around my hips left by the band of my jeans is anything to go by.

Sweet delicious desserts:

Sweets are supposed to be occasional entrant in the configuration of a person diet right? As the cookie monster so aptly put it “cookies are a sometime food”, correct? Well, maybe not. A typical breakfast for Italian champions consists of a coffee, with sugar of course, and a croissant that come in a variety of fillings including, but not limited to, nutella, jam, custard and cream. Those who have less extravagant breakfast tastes may choose to simply have their coffee with a few biscuits. Everyday. Don’t even get me started on gelato.

Or do, because there’s only one thing I love more than eating gelato and that’s talking about gelato and the gelato culture in Rome that never ceases to amaze me. Come rain, hail or shine you’re likely to find an Italian with a gelato in tow. And me right behind them.

War on Carbs:

In recent years it’s been drummed into many of us that the sweet and sultry carbohydrate, while appealing in all its many diverse and lovely forms with its ‘come hither’ eyes, is in fact evil in it’s very core. However, carbohydrates are and have always been a welcome guest at the Italian dinner table and I must say I think it’s the tastier for it. My previous high protein health conscious diet in Melbourne has been turned on its head. Tuna has been replaced with pasta, steaks with pizza, and chili con carne with risotto. The carbohydrate has taken back its rightful place as king of my diet and kicked the feisty protein competitor to the curb in the magnificent and delicious battle for flavour.

It’s recently occurred to me that while my waist line is expanding I don’t see the same happening to any of my Italian comrades and the thought crosses my mind that perhaps it’s not what I’m eating but how much. But that thought leaves my mind as soon as the next Gelataria passes my vision (about every 2 meters) and all I’m left to ponder is the answer to a very important question: “Con panna oppure senza?” Who am I kidding? With cream, of course.

 

For The Prettiest Flower

 

A flower for every soul taken too soon and one more for each person left behind to feel the confusion and sadness they left in their wake. But the biggest and most beautiful flower for the one who left behind a budding rose to grow without her shelter. She could never know how many lives she touched, how far and wide her presence reached. Her life moved so many, and the void that remains will do the same. All that is left is the hope that the love that emanates from each and every soul who was privileged to have known her reaches her now however it can. Love and peace Danielle.

Did Somebody Say Gelato?

One girl’s hearty attempt to live the italian life one gelato at a time.

Completing the Puzzle

‘Treviso is like a little Venice’ my cousin Francesco said to me as we drove from the train station through town while my eyes hungrily took in the sites whirling passed me. It’s a strange thing to find yourself in a place that you’ve never seen before but where you feel an immediate connection, like you’ve found another piece to a puzzle you thought you had already completed. Treviso, and specifically Nervesa della Battaglia, was another piece of my puzzle screaming to be uncovered.

I am second generation Australian raised with Italian heritage. I am a hybrid brought up speaking English with the aroma of freshly brewed espresso hanging in the air and my grandfather shouting greetings of ‘buongiorno’ as he’d step from his backyard to mine through the adjoining back fence. Shockingly and ashamedly I’ve never known the Italian language with any degree of fluency but the food, the culture, the passion, it has been deep set in my bones since youth.

It’s a bizarre notion to live in Australia and not feel completely Australian and then to visit Italy and not feel completely Italian. However, with each time that I’ve visited this engaging country I’ve seen new places, and revisited others and I’ve gladly immersed myself in the quasi-familiar culture unknowingly trying to find the place where I feel at home. With each visit I’ve located a new piece.

I’ve visited Italy four times in the last six years. The first trip was in my final year of high school with my Italian classmates; it lasted two weeks and covered the biggest cities of Italy and some smaller Tuscan towns in a fast paced, exhausting and thrilling delve into discovery. This was my first taste that left me hungry for more.

The second trip was entirely different and consisted of four weeks visiting my family living in the South of Italy on the stunning island of Lipari. In that place, despite the language barrier that persists due to my limited understanding of Italian and their native Sicilian dialect, I sensed the comfort and familiarity of my youth. I could finally view in full 360 degrees of vision the place where my grandfather had grown up, I could physically stand in the place where he stood in those old photographs. I met his family – my family – ate with them, laughed with them, communicated with them (Italian hand gestures are a godsend) and felt like I was finding part of myself, where I come from, where I’ll always belong.

On my third trip, one year later, which was part of an exhilarating three month backpacking expedition through Europe and the US, again I made the voyage to the South of Italy, to my home away from home, in Lipari. This visit for me truly felt like coming home, seeing my family, walking down those familiar cobble streets, buying a cannoli from the best place in town hidden down an obscure footpath barely distinguishable from the surrounding apartment blocks. I felt as though I’d found all of the missing puzzle pieces.

But the roots of my family tree run deep and wide and while I’d found a comfortable resting place down one direction I was yet to explore the other sides.  There are four corners to this girls Italian heritage with each grandparent originating from a different region or town and that is something I had long since forgotten. Lipari was just one piece. It was in visiting Treviso and Nervesa della Battaglia, that I found another. The place when my father’s mother grew up.

I ate dinner that first night with some wonderful and welcoming relatives I’d never met before and slept in a house that had been in the family for many generations. I visited my grandmother’s sister in her home surrounded by fields of kiwi and grape vines and in the small amount of time I spent there I met cousin upon cousin who entered the home with broad smiles and welcoming greetings.

Some I had met before over the years in their visits to Australia, and others not, but all knew who I was or knew of me and who my father is. I held in my hands a bottle of prosecco, a product of their own creation, of their own grapes. And on that white and aluminium label gleaming up at me I saw my own surname in the title.

It struck me that I’d neglected this part of my heritage for far too long. It was too rich and vibrant a history to have been left in the shadows but now that it had come to light it was shining down on me, absorbing deeply into my skin, warming my bones.

The next day I walked through the streets of Treviso with my cousin, wandering alongside the glistening canals reflecting the pastels of the buildings, blending perfectly with the greenery growing all around. It really is a stunning site. If one could imagine Venice sans the gondolas and countless tourists, with wider canals and footpaths but with that same enchanting feel, then that is Treviso. 

I spent only a few short days in this place and exploring others nearby but in that time something took a hold of me. This town is a part of me, a part of my culture. Not only is it a place filled with relations that I was missing, but it’s also laced with a rich history that I had been entirely unaware of until now. My vision has been widened and I’m now vividly aware of how much bigger my puzzle really is. I know now that there is so much more to be learned and uncovered about my family history and where I come from and I’m determined to piece it together.

Spritz – Traditional Veneto Aperitif

A Beautiful Place – A Town Called Treviso

Reconnecting with an old love

I have a love. It’s a strong and pure kind of love, of the life-long variety. When we are together I feel absolute bliss even if everything else in life feels in complete disarray. It’s one of those relationships that can survive time and distance. Sometimes circumstances intervene to keep us apart, but when we’re together again, it’s as though we never left one another in the first place.

Having said that, being apart is one of the hardest things I’ve ever experienced. Six months was tough, a year, torturous. At that point I wanted desperately to be together again, right then and there, but life kept us apart. Now it had been two years since we really reunited. The longing had become too intense and this time there was nothing strong enough to keep me away. Our reunions had always felt so short and sweet but this time I knew that we would need to stay together for a much longer time – a brief rendezvous was unthinkable.

So I made a decision, took a trip to the travel agent and I bought my ticket. Travel and me would be kept apart no longer – for travel is my one true love. The one that never ceases to surprise and inspire me, excite and entertain me, teach me knew things, reveal untold truths and help me to understand myself better.

I went to the Italian consulate in Melbourne, arranged my visa and within four weeks I was on my way to my next big adventure. I left my job, my family, friends and all of the familiar comforts of home in my wake to go in search of new experiences in a foreign country with only a very basic understanding of the local language.

Passing through those ominous one-way doors at Melbourne airport gave me jitters of excitement, fastening my seat belt when the signal lit up plastered a lasting smile across my face and collecting my luggage on the other end, well I was so ecstatic I lifted that 15kg backpack as if it were nothing more than a slight inconvenience to my not-so-athletic frame.

It’s been a month since I set foot in the lovely Rome and started to set my roots into this fine and historic soil and I’ve experienced many new challenges, difficulties and anxieties along the way. And I’ve never been happier. My intended return to the homeland is far off in the distance, a good eight months away at the very least. I’ll be settled in Rome but hopping around the globe snapping up beautiful sites and scribbling down the thoughts that cross my open mind.

I don’t know what I will do when I come back, I don’t know where I’ll work and I have my doubts as to whether I’ll trek any euros home with me. All I know inside out and upside down is that travel is a thing that I love. So is writing. They are two things that I love dearly. When I’m apart from either for too long I feel a physical discomfort. Even though the rest of my life may feel like disconnected lego blocks, when I look at my surroundings, where I am and the places I intend to go still, well I feel pretty darn excited. Nothing can bring me down. Because I have my love with me again.

The Villa Borghese

Villa Doria Pamphili

Trying to learn new skills

PARTY CENTRAL IN KRAKOW

Seven euros. It can buy three slices of pizza on the street in Rome. It can buy three macaroons from a bakery in Paris. It can buy soup and a schnitzel from a student pub in Vienna. In Krakow it can buy ten shots of vodka, entry to a brewery, a 5 litre pipe of beer, entry to a popular nightclub, a shot of vodka on arrival and an evening full of fun memories you’ll vaguely remember. There are places known for party, Ibiza, Greece, Croatia just to name a few. But Poland? Before I’d set off on my travels I hadn’t really anticipated finding the party scene in Poland. I expected delicious food, culture, history but not necessarily party. I’ve since learned not to make presumptions. Having travelled through and rested my head (barely) in Krakow, I found that this city is just as full of nightlife and evening entertainment as any other city can boast. In every aspect that a city can flaunt, Krakow has it all. Awe inspiring sites like salt mines that tunnel thousands of kilometres underground from the salt mining days gone by, Wawel Castle and the many relics the museums display, delicious, hearty meat and dumpling dishes at unbelievably low prices, friendly locals and a very active nightlife.

 

Greg and Tom Juniors Hostel in Krakow is world-renowned for excellence, in fact in 2007 it was ranked the most secure and best small hostel worldwide by hostelworld. This is where my most inexpensive and extravagant night out travelling began. The hostel staff organise this wild night out once a week with willing hostel goers who required very little convincing. We met in the common room with each participant sitting in the lounge chairs facing one another as the shots of vodka made their rounds.  They came in all the flavours of the rainbow – mint, hazelnut, orange, apple, raspberry…the list goes on if I could recall it. From my own experience of drinking vodka straight up, an uncontrollable gag reflex always kicks in. Not this time. This vodka was like lightly flavoured water that warms your body as it makes it’s way down your throat. It didn’t burn and it didn’t elicit looks of discomfort from the willing recipients. No coughs, no gags, only smiles, cheers and hollering for more. It was in all certainty some of the smoothest, most flavoursome vodka I had ever tasted and bare in mind I was not yet completely inebriated so these memories are probably some of the most valid from the entire evening. After ten shots of vodka (and a few extras for some the more adventurous participants) the nightlife hostel leaders took the loud, obnoxious and noticeably less sober tourists to the C.K Browar brewery.

Long, tall bar tables lined the walls each with a 5 litre pipe and tap set up ready to go full of local brew. We served ourselves, made messes, laughed and spoke loudly as we got to know tourists from all corners of the world brought together in a small local pub in Krakow. I’m not much of a beer drinker personally, but back then as a traveller I felt as though tasting local varietals was an obligatory way of getting to know a place and its culture. I cannot say whether it was ‘good’ beer or not, I couldn’t stand the taste of any beer myself, but in that place, with those people and all the laughter, beer actually tasted good.

 

Our tour then stumbled its way down the cobbled streets of Krakow to the ‘most happening’ club in town, which we found full to the brim with young and excitable locals and tourists alike. Upon arrival, a tray of vodka shots offered by club staff lined the entry, yet another inclusion of our 7 euro night out. I turned mine down. I’d like to think that this act showed a great deal of self control, but I’m sure it more accurately lends itself to my tendency towards self preservation – the quantities of alcohol consumed throughout the entire night were beyond healthy. The only purchases I made during the entire evening was for one bottle of water and it was well worth the few pennies it cost. The party continued well into the night, long after the hostel staff had departed us. Eventually, amazingly, everyone found their way back to the hostel for a much needed rest after the huge gulp we’d taken of Krakow nightlife. I’m not sure how everyone else felt in the morning, but I woke up with a thirst for even more of what Krakow had to offer.