Kinross to genoa

And we're up!!!

Very impressive not a moan from anyone at getting up early to get me to Italy.

Quick drink of water to ward off the hangover and hot heat and to give the energy to get me from Campsite to car, it's time to start the journey to Genova – Italy.

Its a long boring, hot Car journey back home where no one talks – it's great to get home to my parents, who are themselves more hungover than I am, (Tsk tsk.) and realy the whole weekend in a very fast 20 minute report. I'm bouncing off the walls I'm so full of energy, but then I have to make the mad dash to run around and change from dirty concert goer – to suited presenter. This is a great feeling – running around with two personalities.

Then it's off to the airport for a Ryanair flight to Milan. Once in the Ryanair airport – I am for the first time in my life in Italy. My first realisation of this is sitting on the bus to milan. It takes about an hour to leave – while we sit in the heat. I soon realise that my post-T chill is going to serve me well in Italy – where nothing appears to happen very fast.

There a cliche's everywhere – a very dominating woman chastising her husband for doing whatever it is he says he didn't do, while is face tells another story.

Two Italian men on the bus who sit and openly discuss and ogle some blonde scottish slappper – who is either too stupid or two wrapped up in telling an old school friend how wonderful she is to notice.

The guys keep catching my eye – so that we are having a discussion of her assets using sign language. They think she may be Paris Hilton. When her halterneck top slips when she picks up her bag at Milan station, they become convinced. Scotland's answer to Paris Hilton has been falsely identified by her breasts. From Milan station I have to find a train to Genova – I'm proud of my musical ability when I work out that “Ritar” is delay on the board – this language thing's a complete doddle. The information does not, however help me to work out what Italian is for ticket office, nor does it help me to make the queue disappear once i find it. Once in the ticket office queue, there are two loud dumb Americans in front of me. I'm sure not all American tourists are dumb – but the dumb ones are certainly loud – so you don't notice the others. They are trying to convince the little man in the ticket office that there is a train back from venice at 11pm – and that they want a ticket for it, clearly having a loud voice, lots of clothes from GAP and the world's most hated man for president qualifies you better for knowing Italian train times than working in Milan Train Station ticket office. These tourists are great – it makes you feel far less intrusive when you walk up, give the international raise of the eyes which refers to the two people he's just had the pleasure of dealing with and use broken phrase book Italian to say “Singel tae genoa please mate” - or thats how I hope it sounds.

Its getting late – and I've not eaten in a while, my train is in 40 mins – and I assume this is enough time to get a sandwich at the little shop. Bizarrely I nearly miss my train – time passes far quicker here. I know from experience, that you have to relax in to it – cos the country ain't gonna change because you are in town.

Once I'm on the train, it's good to get an seat somewhere air conditioned. Although its past 10pm, the thermometers on the buildings say 30 degrees. Italy feels really really foreign. I start to feel like a traveller. Sometimes being away on business you just feel like a suit on a conveyor belt, but all the different transport means and moving around feels pretty good. Its not that I don't want to get to my hotel room and put my head down – it's just pretty nice, floating on the adventure and expectation of seeing new climbs. Jack Kerouac once said that he like train delays – as it gave you the sitting around waiting in the middle of nowhere, where he would make sketches in words of little things which he came across on his travels. I'm not quite at that stage – I'm just trying to enjoy the experience that is available to me. Its also worth remembering that Jack Kerouac was a drug abusing hippy who died of alcoholism.

I finally surface in Genoa station – looking forward to finding a taxi, and hoping that he doesn't give me a look of confusion when I show him the address to my hotel. I am over the moon when the Taxi driver laughs at me, and explains in sign language and Italian that it is just across the street. From what I saw from the train – it is clear that Genoa is built on the side of a mountain. I am in the right street for my hotel – but it is 6 flight of outdoor stairs to climb to get there. Luckily they have a lift. It is still roasting – the check in is reasonably easy. A day which started by carrying bags 2 miles from a campsite to a car in Scotland has ended in a hotel in Italy. Tomorrow: Genoa. Good Night!!