'Roaame if you want to....Roaame around the world'

Cinque Terre is such an unbelievably picturesque, postcard perfect place it's just not funny. Waking up with the sun streaming in and the fresh sea air outside our door, i decided it was pertinent that i head out for a glorious morning jog to combat the oil consumption and second consecutive gorgeing. As the Ipod pumped out rockin hits, i ran like a madman in my floral boardshorts past the locals, through the steep narrow staircases and thin, windy alleyways, all the way up to the idyllic view at the foot of the town castle. Rev and i went back up to the castle a little later in the morning to smell roses and take in that view once last time, subsequently losing track of time and shitting ourselves when we saw the clock at 11.10am - our train was at 11.20. Bolting back through the main town tunnel to the hostel, we got our gear in order, got Brooks, then zipped over to the station to say bye to our Mamma Rossa (who was loitering around no doubt scouting for more backpackers to accost), before making it onto the 11.20 train to La Spez.

Hey hey colosseum

IN the cosy Trenitalia compartment, i sat on my bum for the next 4 hours windowside, gazing out at the changing landscapes, watching the countryside fly past under a glowing, pastel blue Roman sky, the Ipod fully charged and filtering a perfect soundtrack for the moment. If i said 6 weeks ago that i was on a train to Rome, it would have felt mindblowingly surreal and totally unbelievable. Yet here i now was, just hours from the core of the one flourishing, all powerful Roman Empire, the cradle of civilisation, and funnily enough, it felt almost too casually like the 'next destination'. You tend to get that when you're moving around so fast - its hard to keep up. But it's very exciting this way, and always fresh. This freedom of being here in Europe, free to go anywhere, free to see so much, to take it all in, to have your eyes opened so wide. Its remarkably awesome.

Me pointing out the statue

Arrived at Roma Termini at roughly 4.30 and checked into the very cosy Alessandro Hostel, before throwing down some pastas and another litre of red a nearby Italian joint called Alfredos. Went roamin' around Rome, along diagonally line, well worn square stone Roman streets just like in my Asterix comics. I imagined the scene before me 2500 years ago, with men and women in togas and toey sandals, doing as Romans do. The vibrant Rome sun bore down on our backs with a perfect heat, and all of a sudden, there it was. The bloody Colosseum. THAT building - stark, bold, grand and old. Greying, crumbled, time ravaged and yet still so impressive after 2000 years, though admittedly, the sucker does look a whole lot better in photos. We continued to breathe in the vibe of the old ancient city, checking out the trademark Trevi fountain, throwing a coin over my shoulder, which apparently means i will one day return to Rome (throw in two coins and you apparently marry an Italian - though there was no disclaimer about whether its a Roman bloke or an old, frumpy, toothless Roman woman, or what. With no quality control i stuck with the one coin). Saw the not necessarily very Spanish looking Spanish Steps and continued to sing 'Rooooame if you want to....Rooaaaam around the world', which i'm pretty sure was a B-52's track from the 80's. It felt like an apt, though annoying, theme song for this present situation.

Not bad at all really. Colosseum 2

We noticed that Italy posesses perhaps the most hip, pimpin and fashionable police force in the whole world - the very smooth 'Carabinieri' traffic police - decked out in designer black suits, with a fancy red strip down the leg, rock star boots, usually spotted milling around smoking fags and seding SMS, or zipping around town in their Alfa Romeos. Next to these movers and shakers, our cops look like a bunch of total dorks. Took advantage of a hostel pizza party, drinking a plethora of Peroni beers until our table was full of empties, impressing the pub patrons with our seasoned drinking prowess. Canadian jock bozos began to sing cliche, mundane songs on acoustic guitar at some point, and i screamed Fruit Platter when bloody Oasis started getting a run. So, in retribution, teaming up with random Aussies surrounding us, Brooksy pinched the guitar, and with the Rev at the helm, we pumped out perhaps the worst ever version of Khe Sahn, a loud, offensive dogs breakfast that failed to even reach the chorus. It was bad. We made the Croydon South Cricket Club sound like the National Boys Choir. As the Canadians reclaimed their axe, we up and left rather plonked, back to the hostel for some more bread and oil and some well earned shut eye.

Roooamin. SPanish steps

This was pretty cool. Colosseum action