Peru-sing South America's most unexpected gem...

With the poverty and scenery of Bolivia behind me, I was anticipating good times and great experiences to be had in Peru, South America's 3rd largest country by area. I was flying from La Paz to Cusco, the traditional jumping-off point for people going to the world-famous Machu Picchu. This may not sound remarkable in itself, but on my flight there, I was accompanied by only 14 other people on the plane (an Airbus A319 painted to look like a crocodile - a plane that can supposedly carry around 134 passengers). This made me feel especially guilty about my carbon footprint, which is more of a 'carbon trench' being carved out in South America's lovely landscape.




This wasn't the only air travel-related incident of note. On arrival in Cusco 'International' Airport, all 15 passengers were forced to wait while the immigration official ambled slowly to his desk from goodness knows where. When he had finally arrived, he had a look on his face as though the passengers had asked him to wipe their arses one by one.



Once I had finally made it into Peru, the patriotism was almost tangible. Every single Peruvian with whom I came in contact informed me of the great joys of Peru and how much of a wondrous place it is. A typical line was "Peruvian women are fantastic". This turned out to be mostly codswallop. Despite their false promises, I was made to feel very welcome in Peru. One incident that springs to mind is my first lunch in Lima, when a local chap, having spotted my map of Lima, shook my hand and said "welcome to Peru, amigo". I was touched. But my sexual assault case is a story for another day, Peruvians were simply incredibly welcoming.



I must say, I wouldn't remain quite so friendly if my home had been overrun by 'gringos' (a South American term for backpackers). Cusco was full of them. And this was the low season allegedly. This in itself wasn't a major issue for me, it was more the general ignorance of all of these gringos. Whilst sitting in a café (named Inka-fé - geddit?) enjoying a cup of maté, a group of 4 English gap year girls sat on the table next to me. When they ordered, not once did they attempt a word in Spanish. Surely everyone knows at least the words 'gracias' or 'por favor'? Alas, no. The English had managed to embarrass a whole nation once again just through sheer ignorance and laziness.



So from Cusco, off I went to arguably South America's best-known tourist attraction. Machu Picchu. For those ignoramuses (ignoramus of course being derived from a latin verb form, not a noun, thus rendering the pluralisation 'ignorami' ironically incorrect. But I digress.) who don't know, Machu Picchu is basically a city of ruins high up in the Peruvian mountains. I must say, the whole day was a pleasure, right down to the transportation to and from the site. Getting there involved a train. Not any old train though: this was train travel as it should be. The carriages were large and spacious with plenty of light and just before departure, the whole platform was a chaotic scene of passengers, conductors and catering staff. It was the most enjoyable chaos I've seen in a while. When we finally got under way, there was a trolley service with delicious and thoughtful meals provided. I was indeed a happy bunny.

Waiting for the Machu Piccu Express.

When I had finally reached the site itself, my first thought (other than 'wow' of course) was "why the Dickens did someone decide to build a town here?". To put this in perspective, it took us 25 minutes in a bus to get up the mountain. That was in modern times, how did they manage it in the 15th century? Either way, the journey was worth it. Despite being riddled with tourists and the driving rain, I had a thoroughly interesting time at Machu Picchu, and would recommend it to anyone.

Machu Picchu doesn't have a bad angle.

Back to Cusco. A fairly unremarkable colonial town with a pleasant central plaza and some nice architecture. The city itself has more-or-less 400,000 inhabitants, which puts it on a par with Liverpool. "This all sounds wonderful" you may be saying, "but why the hell should I care?". I'll tell you why: every night at 10 p.m., the city of Cusco turns off the water supply. No running water. At all. Until 5 a.m. In a city the size of Liverpool. Insane.



So I left Cusco (smelling terrible) and headed to the capital, Lima. A city of some 9 million people and one of the former capitals of the Spanish South American Empire. Yet sadly, Lima seems to be omitted from most people's itineraries. I must say I was surprised by Lima: many people had warned me I'd be bored and that there was nothing to do there. With this in mind, I turned up with low expectations.



I was staying in 'Gringo Central', an area of the city called Miraflores. This just so happened to be the wealthiest part of the city, and thus was filled with shops, pleasant parks and fewer homeless people than elsewhere in Lima. In fact, Miraflores was the richest place I had been to on my trip so far. I saw people driving around in Hummers, Mercedeseseseseses, BMWs and a host of other luxury cars. All of which seemed rather pointless. I'm not going to criticise the capitalist system at this point, merely point out how Limeños are the worst drivers I have ever seen. They made Romans look like careful, considerate motorists. Lanes were painted on the roads, but the local government may as well have painted pictures of frogs spinning plates whilst playing billiards with a seahorse. This probably would have made more sense than trying to persuade Limeños to stay in their respective lanes.



And for those of you wondering if the standards of the women had improved since Bolivia, they certainly had in Miraflores. This was Peruvian rah central. I hadn't seen so many Ugg boots since my time at Durham. This was truly a beautiful place filled with beautiful people.



The city centre was a different proposition, however. On my one day (it'll become clear why I didn't go back) in the town centre exploring the sights, I was accosted by a German. Now, being British and a bit of a Germanophone, I was too polite to simply ignore the man, so I humoured him and engaged him in conversation. He fed me some cock-and-bull story about how he was attacked and mugged, and how the German Embassy had told him he needed to travel to another one of their consulates to get hold of a new passport. At first I refused because I clearly didn't believe his story, but in order just to get him away from me, I offered to give him 2 Soles (about 50 Pence). As I was rummaging around in the coin section of my wallet, he somehow managed to take a 100 Soles note out without me noticing at the time. He left me alone, seemingly content with the 2 Soles and I was happy to escape. Only later did I discover the missing monies and curse myself for my naiveté. I felt like the Allies in 1939: completely betrayed by the Germans following various unkept promises.



This German wasn't the only unpleasant person I encountered in Lima: the service in restaurants was almost as bad as the driving on the roads to get to the restaurants. Staff were slow, inattentive and rude. The worst part was when they had the audacity to ask for a tip at the end. No chance. I nearly spat out my Inca Kola. But Peruvian dining wasn't all bad: they have both the aforementioned Inca Kola - a new favourite soft drink of mine - and Pisco sour - a new favourite alcoholic drink of mine. Inca Kola is a bubblegum-flavoured fizzy drink, occupying the same market as Coca-Cola or Sprite. Except Inca Kola is a lot more popular than these two pretenders. A lot more popular. In fact, Coca-Cola was so worried about its dominance on the Peruvian market, that instead of trying to compete, it just bought the Inca Kola company.

Pride of place amongst the market giants.

Pisco sour is an alcoholic cocktail made from lime juice, egg whites and a local spirit called Pisco, a sort of grape-derived brandy. Again, this was delicious and certainly did the trick.



Besides its drinks, Lima is home to a great number of surfers' beaches. However, these are all named after other famous beaches: there was a Redondo Beach and a Waikiki Beach, all of which led me to think: do they really want to name parts of their country afters places traditionally filled with Americans..?



So after a few days enjoying the hidden delights of Lima, I was off to Colombia. But that's a story for another day.



So long for now, and remember: never trust an injured German.

Brazil: Nuts.

Brazil: land of samba, football, caipirinhas and crime. What a way to start my Samerican voyage...




First stop was Rio de Janeiro. For those of you who don't know, Rio is Brazil's second largest city (population: over 6 million) and former capital. It is also arguably Brazil's most exciting city, and after long and extensive research which included going to one other Brazilian city at least - and indeed at most - I've decided to agree.



Rio is a natural marvel. The tatty-looking tower blocks are superbly juxtaposed with the very impressive surrounding mountains and other natural features. Despite its glamorous reputation, Rio is very obviously poverty-stricken and run-down in a lot of places. Every street has its own little family of homeless people going through the bins for cans they can sell on for the tiniest amount. Sewage seems to be a major issue as well, with some roads smelling like a festival toilet after 3 weeks of continuous use. This is an issue only exacerbated by the intense heat. The average daily in Rio was easily over 30 degrees centigrade, peaking at 40 during my time there.



The Rio de Janeirians/ites/istas/arians (delete as appropriate) are, as a whole, very pleasant and welcoming. There seems to be a general feeling of settling for their lot in life: yes, there's plenty of crime and the police are useless; yes, they are impoverished even by our lowest standards; yes, they have to deal with millions of gringos (as backpackers are known around the continent); and yes, there's the intense heat to deal with. The reputation of crime in Rio is not the best in the world, and it's such a shame for the honest, friendly and hospitable residents of Rio that this reputation is due only to a small minority of scallywags and drug lords.



Why not eliminate these scallywags and drug lords? I'll tell you why: the police in Rio are about as much use as Anne Frank's drum kit. Sure, they seem to be better equipped than the British Army, but the sheer amount of danger they encounter every day at work is similar to that of a ginger desert tour guide: any day could be their last. It wasn't surprising to see, therefore, that they treated every situation with the utmost vigilance. During one particular incident, the tamest of scuffles outside a bar/club/furniture shop (more on this later), the nearby police did nothing to intervene until their patrol car was bumped into by the combatants. At this point, a burly-looking policeman walked over to the action and drew his gun. He had his thumb on the hammer and finger on the trigger the whole time.



This wasn't the only instance of what I perceived to be heavy-handed policing. Earlier on on the same evening, some friends and I were urinating against a wall (there was a street party and no toilets: we've all been there) when a police officer spotted us and started walking over, truncheon drawn and ready for action. Naturally - and in our slightly inebriated state - we ran finished, ran off and lost him in the crowd.



Now of course the police can be forgiven for overreacting in these cases. They do an incredibly dangerous job in Rio (2 police are killed every week on average in the city), yet earn on average just under £6000 a year, compared to £23,000 for a constable in the UK (yes, I did some research for this). This low pay means most have other jobs at night working for private security firms, and thus, you will find that most police officers in Rio get only 3 hours' sleep a night. No wonder they looked so grumpy when they saw some Americans and a Brit relieving themselves on Rio...



None of the above facts prepared me for what I saw on my 2nd night in Rio. My new friends and I had decided to go to Lapa, a popular nightspot where people drank and danced on the streets and where much fun was had by all. At the time of the incident, we were dancing and chatting outside a furniture shop where the owner had decided to set up a DJ with speakers, along with a fridge full of drinks for sale. We saw an old-looking homeless man collapse and start fitting on the road just outside the furniture shop, right next to some police. Instead of helping, the police ordered the man's friends to carry him off the road as he was blocking traffic flow. The man was brought over to a tree near us, against which he was leant and where he proceeded to have one final, big seizure. When an ambulance did finally arrive, the man had already died. Whether he could have been saved by police intervention or how often this happens is unknown to me, but it was a very shocking episode nevertheless.



We nearly joined the homeless fellow on a ride on one of Rio's plentiful public buses. This particular bus seemed to have been driven by Rubens Barrichello (a Brazilian Formula 1 driver for those of you who are less familiar with Bernie Ecclestone's life work) and with standing room only, I became very well acquainted with the chap next to me.



Despite all this, I would thoroughly recommend going to Rio: the stereotypical and slightly overused description of the people of Rio always dancing and being generally up for a good time is actually very accurate. Before the incident with the homeless chap, we witnessed an escalating argument between two local youths. We all thought this might get out of hand when one of them moved aside and the other started break-dancing. Yes, that's right, they had a dance-off to resolve an argument. As much as I condone this in Rio, I fear a similar attempt at conflict resolution in the UK would involve two fat blokes falling over a lot and altogether causing far more damage and injury than any brawl would have done.



The beaches were beautiful and the sea even more so. The weather was hot to say the least. Rio also has a fantastic method of transportation called the 'collectivo'. This is basically a minibus with a fat guy hanging out the window shouting at anyone who looks like they might need to go somewhere. These collectivos drive along set routes and can pick up and drop you off wherever you like along these routes, all for less than the price of a bus ticket.



I made some great friends in Rio, and even though one may have tried to sexually assault a German and masturbated when others were in the room, I would happily go back for more.



Next up was Sao Paulo. This followed a 6 hour bus ride (very short by South American standards) on a coach which was more comfortable than every plane on which I've ever travelled. Sao Paulo is the 4th biggest city in the world and the biggest in Brazil and South America. Despite this, it has relatively little in terms of excitement. Sure, it has a great nightlife with every type of club imaginable represented, but there are no landmarks, no unique architecture and no unique atmosphere like there was in Rio. Maybe this is because Sao Paulo is more developed than Rio and seems to have less poverty and crime than Rio, resembling a kind of much bigger and less practical Berlin, with its uniformly 60s tower blocks. Luckily I'm leaving here tomorrow morning and will be going on to Montevideo, the little-known capital of Uruguay.



At least now I can say I've been to both South Africa and Brazil and didn't get kidnapped, robbed or murdered once.

Until next time... and please, don't have nightmares.

South America: Ex and Why.

It's not every day people decide to go to South America - there's usually some sort of hilarious and heart-warming story behind each twist and turn in the build-up to any trip like this one.



Now of course this particular trip is no different... other than in almost every way. There was no real hilarity in the planning of my jaunt to Samerica*, and you're unlikely to need those Rennie tablets you have on standby: there is little or no heart-warming to be found. That said, and if you're still reading, then you obviously either have some sort of mild interest in what I'm doing or literally nothing else to do...



So why am I doing this? Why Samerica? Why now and not 5 years ago, before I'd spent twenty-odd grand on university? All of these questions will be answered, some satisfactorily, most of them less so. In fact, the short answer to all of the above questions is simply "why not?". Of course, that answer would lead you to believe that I am a massive, annoying douche. You'd be right...



With graduation looming, I had applied for jobs left, right and indeed centre, with little tangible success (how 'tangible' can an interview be?). Now apart from being quite disheartening and bloody annoying, it left me with no idea of what I wanted to do career-wise and a year of my life to fill while I sorted out some sort of future. At the time, I was in a relatively serious relationship and she was keen to have a post-degree gap year and see a bit of the world. Seeing as I had sweet Fanny Adams else to do, I thought "Oh go on then, I'll tag along." There were several obvious upsides to this: she could do all the planning and decide on the routes/attractions/accommodation and everything else, leaving me the simple yet painful task of finding some money and handing it over in one handily-sized, tree pulp-based payment vehicle (I believe the layperson calls them 'cheques').



By November 2010, things were progressing nicely: I had a job working in a local excuse for a restaurant and the money was coming in, various trip options were being researched and discussed and I was generally contented. Then along came a large, dump-shaped (make of that what you will) spanner that inserted itself into the proverbial works. I was given a relationship P45, I became a citizen of Dumpsville, I would henceforth be flying solo. I suppose the key point of that particular sentence would be that I broke up with the girlfriend.



Obviously this was irritating and immensely upsetting for me, so I had a good mope for a month or so. I carried on working and decided to press ahead with a trip somewhere. The next issue was choosing which continent to visit. I opted for South America.



Why there? It was the perfect balance of being neither too dissimilar to cultures to which I'm used nor too similar. I decided travelling around entirely foreign (if you'll pardon the pun) places alone might be ill-advised and take me way out of my - admittedly narrow - comfort zone. Romance languages being spoken would help as well... Africa? Too different and also a bit obvious. North America? Too similar. Asia? Too different. Oceania? Too expensive, too similar: too bad. Surely Europe then? I've already done most of western Europe and the eastern part just doesn't interest me. South America? Let's see: huge European influence, check. Mixed with indigenous cultures, check. Romance languages spoken, check. After literally minutes of consideration, I had decided Samerica was the destination for me.



Where in Samerica? It's a big place. I solved this problem by taking inspiration from the world of animation. I first drew a big circle, covering all but 2 countries. This circle, or my route, as it evolved into, was refined constantly by people's advice and recommendations. It turns out everyone either knows someone who's been, or has been themselves. This ranged from my corporate banker friend from the gym (his name conveniently being 'Jim'), who had been to Brazil and Argentina a few times to do some banking, to Lorna (not that one), one of the cashiers at my bank, who proceeded to try and sell me the HSBC Super Premier Platinum Advanced Plus Gold account in between regaling me with tales of how her brother was mugged in Venezuela.



It wasn't just bankers either: friends' housemates had their experiences to share, from a hostel recommendation for Germanophiles in Buenos Aires, to brief guides to the best museums in Bogota. Suddenly, Samerica no longer seemed 'original' and 'cool' and 'different'. However, I had booked my flights by this point, so there was no turning back.



Whenever I tell people about my trip, the most common reaction is jealousy. Some are jealous just of the fact that I'm leaving the UK for an extended period, others are jealous of specific aspects of the trip. I have one friend who had in fact spent a considerable amount of time in Samerica himself and to whom I am very grateful for providing endless tips and advice. When he was shown a copy of my itinerary, he became slightly geographically confused and informed me of his jealousy concerning my planned visits to what he called 'The Guineas'. He obviously meant 'The Guyanas', a region with which very few seem to be familiar. Suriname was especially difficult to organise, but that's a story for a future 'blog'.



If you're reading this and becoming jealous, then you're one of many and this makes me immensely pleased. In fact, the five and a half grand this expedition will cost me overall will have been very well spent if I invoke envy from just one person...



But for now, there's packing to be done, affairs to be arranged, things which need to be attended to and indeed other engagements to be carried out, so I shall endeavour to update everyone as often as possible on how it's all going.


Until then... and please, don't have nightmares.


* 'Samerica is clearly short for 'South America'. If you hadn't figured that one out, then hang your head in shame.

The Joys of Siena a bit of Tuscany...

The Joys of Siena a bit of Tuscany...

For those of you who are new to these musings/drivel (delete as appropriate): welcome. To those of you who have already rendered themselves a subject of the full force of my cynicism regarding the world: why did you return?!

Travel takes on many forms, from commuting to holidays, from backpacking to Virgin Galactic. This particular edition of my carefully-constructed and in-no-way-insightful thoughts on places what I've been to concerns itself with Tuscany.

Tuscany is one of those places of which everyone has heard, but very few people (including me before I went there) actually know anything about: a similar reaction can be obtained by asking Americans about Europe... or indeed almost anything. Most people can successfully place it in Italy, but that's about the extent of the layperson's knowledge of Tuscany. A quick check on Wikipedia in a library told me that Tuscany is a region on the north east coast of Italy and contains a total of some three and a half million inhabitants, which is nice. What's that? Some places you may have heard of within Tuscany? Well, there's Pisa (that one with that slanted tower), Florence (the place that isn't Venice) and Siena (the one that's Siena).

We flew in to Pisa - a city over which I shall cast my proverbial beady eye later on in this comprehensive travel guide - and had a solid 2 hour drive ahead of us. This all sounds lovely and charming, but the scene needs to be set properly, lest you have any incorrectly-assumed positive images in mind. We had, in our infinite wisdom, decided to rent a villa which was smack-bang in the middle of the Tuscan equivalent of the M25. Tuscany has one main motorway which seems to roughly go around the edge of the region, but nowhere near the middle. This inconvenient fact, coupled with the mountainous roads we'd have to use, meant that driving between two places roughly 47 miles apart was conducted at an average speed of bugger all.

With me literally hot and bothered at the wheel, it was with a sense of delight and relief that the surrounding scenery gradually morphed (not literally - I hadn't taken mind-altering drugs for at least a few hours) from desolate factories and cheap retail parks to vineyards and general greenery as far as the eye could see. There was only one thing I was thinking as I drove along the Via Chiantigiana, through one of Italy's principle wine regions, passing vineyards and surrounded by grapevines, with the aroma of red wine hanging in the air: "I wish I wasn't driving a sodding Ford Galaxy".

We arrived at our rented villa following only a few death-defying driving manoeuvres as I navigated around carefree Frenchmen and endless numbers of Dutch pensioners on caravan holidays (Dutch pensioners seem to only have two speeds when driving caravans on winding roads where overtaking is impossible - slow and stop). Three things did I notice during the first few days; 1) Everywhere you look in Tuscany, your view is filled with beautiful, green, hilly scenery, all drizzled liberally with sunshine. 2) Temperature-wise, it was barely hotter than a sunny day in Southampton. 3) There were no other Brits in the region, what with David Cameron having to cut short his Tuscan holiday to go home and tell off some unemployed people for stealing trainers and setting fire to buildings in London. This lack of Brits was one of many positive qualities Tuscany would go on to reveal.

                   Typical roadside views - such as this - lead to foreigners driving even slower than normal.

One of my favourite aspects of the region was the panoply of mediaeval towns. This may not be the kind of comment to make you leap up from your computer and hop on the next plane to Pisa, but even if architecture and history aren't your thing, the sheer serenity and state of preservation some of these places find themselves in are remarkable. Every other day brought a different mediaeval town, each more mediaeval than the last. Some personal highlights were San Gimignano, a town which has almost as many mediaeval towers as it does tourists; and Monteriggioni, a town that is no more than 100 metres in diameter, but has all of its surrounding defensive wall intact and seems to have changed even less even than Norfolk since the middle ages.

                            Monteriggioni. Taking this photo almost got me run over by an irate Italian motorist.

Aside from plentiful pleasant walled towns, Tuscany can offer you some corking wines (geddit?), notably Chianti. Following my Tuscan sojourn, Chianti has rocketed to number three in my favourite wines list. And yes, I am pretentious enough to have a list of favourite wines.

The locals' affinity for wine is best expressed by the Calici di Stelle festival in August. In our local town, there was a street party attended by local wineries and most of the town's population: yep, both of them were delighted to be there. There was a system whereby one bought a ticket which entitled you to sample 10 glasses of different wine. Of course I partook and had a thoroughly enjoyable evening. I imagine a similar concept in the UK would result in mass cirrhosis of the liver, a record night for drink-drivers being stopped and a 2 inch deep layer of vomit in every town centre in the country.

If Italians had a British level lack of self-control, their street vomit would presumably be more appetising than the British offering of kebab and chips. The food, as can be expected, was wonderful, with pizza and pasta ubiquitous and sumptuous. Local delicacies also gave me a licence to be adventurous with my food: I had barbecued rabbit (delicious), boar (even better) and a fair amount of ice cream (very good, but sometimes you just want to wolf down a Feast don't you?). Having been as gluttonous as I was, I'm amazed I didn't return looking like a poor man's Rick Waller... Oh wait...

The Tuscans themselves are also very tolerant, as you'd have to be coping with the endless French people and Dutch caravans. They're a friendly old bunch as well: during the Calici di Stelle in the local town, a local Italian chap supervising one of the winery stalls befriended me and began plying me with free glasses of wine. Things soon escalated and before I knew it we were toasting with various types of Grappa and other miscellaneous alcohols. After that evening, I would often encounter him in the town and try to practice my (limited) Italian with him. He humoured me for two weeks and was even kind enough to offer me a free bottle of wine from his wine shop before I left. What a lovely chap he was, and he was far from being an extraordinary case in terms of hospitality and friendliness.

It was hard to visit the bigger towns between the wall-to-wall Chianti drinking and trips to mediaeval towns, but we managed to venture out to Florence, Pisa and Siena. What were they like? Oh alright then...

Pisa only has two things going for it: its well-connected international airport and the lovely Piazza dei Miracoli. The Piazza is the home of Pisa's most famous landmark: a poorly-engineered tower. The leaning tower is a lot smaller than I had imagined, but the interesting design quirks in an effort to correct the lean are interesting. Then there's the enormous cathedral, a sight in itself. Altogether, the Piazza makes you feel a bit like you've gone back to the 16th century, albeit a 16th century where everyone in Italy was Japanese.

                                                   The one and only money shot in Pisa.

Siena then: Siena was for me a perfect size, with plenty to see, as well as providing a general feeling of how the city has looked for centuries. It is filled with mediaeval alleyways and side streets; all surrounded by buildings that were older even than Bruce Forsyth. It also has the remarkable Il Campo, a sort of round town square, where they have a horse race every year, called Il Palio, to great clamour. I'm told you have to buy tickets a year in advance if you want to watch Il Palio. The cathedral in Siena is also quite a sight in the flesh, even if tourists insist on talking loudly and brazenly taking photos, both of which all visitors are asked not to do...

                                   It seems the Italians like striped cathedrals, like this one in Siena.

Finally, Florence: the Hollywood name amongst the list of pretenders. Florence is renowned the world over as being a place of beauty and tourists. This reputation is justified. Tourists seemed to outnumber locals by 20 to 1 in many of the main squares. I imagine it's what living in central Tokyo must feel like, only with more French people and less pollution. Sure, Florence was lovely and some of the buildings were exquisite, but it all felt a bit too touristy. It felt too much like the buildings had been built for tourists, rather than as places of worship or art. Not even the world's largest masonry dome on the cathedral could shake off the disillusionment I was feeling... Still, I was glad I went and there were times during my visit when I felt genuinely pleased to be in Florence, but throughout the day I just couldn't help but feel sorry for the locals...

                          Despite my misgivings over Florence, I was rendered silent by some views on offer...

I swiftly came to the conclusion that Siena was my favourite Tuscan city, despite not offering the same prestige or renown as its larger counterpart further north.

The weather did heat up after a few days, which did make our almost daily climbs up cathedral towers slightly more challenging than would be ideal, but when you think about the poor mugs who had to build these edifices you tend to stop feeling so sorry for yourself.

Normally I would offer up some sort of conclusion. And this article will be no exception. Tuscany then is a culturephile's wet dream: you have the architecture, the art, the fine cuisine, the finer wines and the eye-catching countryside. You do have to pay for all of these cultural gems though: Tuscany - and above all in the main cities - is not cheap. An added bonus is the friendliness of the locals. So Tuscany is definitely a place to visit for the discerning tourist, and the local way of life is very easy to indulge in - after all, when in Rome... Just watch out for Frenchmen and Dutch caravans.

Until next time. And please, don't have nightmares.