August 31, 2006
Bergamo - London
Well, that's about it, as far as the cycling goes, apart from the ride to Bergamo airport, in the evening for our flight, then home across London in the early hours of Friday morning. We spent all of the day walking around Bergamo. I took over 70 pictures. Afterward, I felt I knew Bergamo better than Middlesbrough. Our flight was due out at 10-30pm.
We arranged with the hotel to store our bikes and luggage until the evening, then, at first, set out to look around the newer parts of town. Returning to the vicinity of the hotel, we strolled through the pedestrianised shopping centre, before, ignoring the funicular railway, walking uphill, through an older district to la Citta Alta. We ate lunch outside, at a hotel restaurant. I had Bresaola [dry-cured beef, a speciality of La Valtellina, served with olive oil and a wedge of lemon] followed by braised rabbit.
After eating, ignoring the second funicular railway, we continued uphill to the site of the old castle, the highest point in the city. Our return to the city centre was a long loop around the eastern side of the old town, then through an evidently less prosperous neighbourhood, where we saw a dwarf in a doorway, before picking up some of the morning landmarks.
By now, Barbara was determined to spend some of her remaining time in Italy on eating an ice cream. We eventually tracked down an ice cream parlour in the shopping precinct. We sat down at an outside table, the waitress took our order. A dark-haired man, with an unkempt beard and uneven teeth, who had obviously drink taken and with what seemed the Northern Italian equivalent of a growling 'see you, Jim' demeanour, picked on us to tell his story to. 'We're foreigners,' I said, 'We don't understand Italian well.' He tried, but gave up on us and turned his attention to an elegantly presented older woman and her middle-aged daughter. Much to our surprise, they didn't give him the breeze, but spoke to him quietly and politely, until his attention was taken by a group of young mothers with young children. The young mums weren't quite overawed by his overtures, but he had the babies' votes. After a few minutes as a children's entertainer, he crossed the arcade and entered a smart looking women's clothes shop. He spoke to one of the pretty assistants, who temporarily disappeared from view. She returned and put something in his hand. He came out again, presented himself at the counter of the ice cream parlour, then sat back outside with a drink. He's got something, I thought. Barbara, again making comparisons to herself with a UK equivalent, thought that he would have been given the bum's rush much earlier in the piece.
Later, another, younger man, also on the ear-hole, showed a social security card as evidence of in-evident disability and in a piercingly irritating, wheedling manner tried to extract money from the same group of customers. He was ignored. Other beggars we saw in Bergamo were on their knees in sidewalk supplication, in order to remind their potential benefactors, that they, like Christ, were suffering too.The ice cream by the way, was disappointing.
Before collecting the bikes and bags from the hotel, we made our way back to the supermarket where we had bought provisions the day before. This was mainly for dinner on the airport concourse and chocolate-driven gifts. We perused the olive oil section for a while, as you'd expect, quite extensive in an Italian supermarket, when a local woman, hearing we were not Italian, asked us if we spoke French and then offered us advice on best brands. In the end we bought no oil. It's too heavy to carry on a bike of course and also easily available at our end, for not much more.
Back at the hotel we loaded the bikes and set out for the airport. It was an easy ride, apart from a short distance on the footpath by the railway tracks to avoid a one-way loop. The airport was much busier than I expected. I sorted out the bikes for the flight, then enquired whether or not we would be allowed to carry fruit as hand-baggage, we had bought peaches and figs to take home. As long as they're not jam was the answer. In our absence, the severest restrictions on UK flights had been eased.
In the queue to check in, were two groups of men wearing a kind of uniform. One group were dressed all in black, black polo or T-shirts, with black trousers, the other with mainly black trousers and red shirts. My first thought was, that we might be sharing an aeroplane with two end-of-tour rugby teams, not something to look forward to. After check in, before going air-side, we found seats, in the terminal, among a group of students who were planning to spend the night at the airport for an early morning flight. After we had eaten we gave them what was left of our food and drink, which wasn't much.
On the shuttle bus from the terminal to the aircraft, I spoke to one of the blackshirts. They were volunteer mechanics for the Williams Formula 1 motor-racing team. The Italian Grand Prix at nearby Monza was to take place on the following Sunday. 'You mean you do this for nothing,' I said, 'And they make you fly Ryan-air?' I made sure I sounded incredulous. 'They wouldn't be able to run the team if it wasn't for us .' 'Ask for some of the drivers' money,' I kept to myself. He told me the red shirts were doing similar charity work for the McClaren outfit. At least they weren't rugby teams.
We were flying back to Luton, which although closer to London than Stansted, in British civil aviation terms is classed as a provincial airport. I had convinced myself that it would be quiet late at night and we would breeze through the terminal in no time. We might have done, had it not been for the other flights from Murcia and Alicante, with whose passengers we were sharing the facilities. There were only three immigration officers on duty. An hour or so later I asked the woman who was checking my passport, why they were only three. 'We had an asylum seeker,' she said. 'And the Virgin Mary's a baggage handler,' I thought.
After the train from Luton to Kings Cross Thameslink station, we completed our trip as nocturnal tourists in our own town. [British Museum, Trafalgar Square, St. James' Park, Buckingham Palace]. No pictures though.
More houses, less churches.
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Today's ride: 20 km (12 miles)
Total: 653 km (406 miles)
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