I’ve always appreciated the work of graffiti artists and in Melbourne, Australia, spectacular graffiti art seemed to be everywhere. Bursting off the walls in vivid explosions of color, the urban artworks brought their surroundings to life and helped give the neighborhoods that much more of a pulse.
Melbourne has a rich and impressive selection of graffiti art lining its streets and alleyways. So much so that the British street artist, Banksy, said it was arguably Australia’s most significant contribution to the arts since they stole all the Aborigine’s pencils. However, it’s not just other street artists that think highly of Melbourne’s graffiti, as Australia’s National Trust and Heritage Victoria are both in favor of protecting the city’s graffiti art.
Unsurprisingly though, not everyone considers graffiti as a valid art form to be celebrated. Scott Hilditch, chief executive of Graffiti Hurts Australia says that protecting graffiti would signify the acceptance of society’s decline and open the floodgates to vandalism by sending a dangerous message that graffiti is acceptable.
According to The City of Melbourne’s own figures approximately $700,000 was spent cleaning up illegal graffiti over a 12 month period spanning 2007/8. That figure has been rising steadily since 2001/2 when the local government spent $358,000 on graffiti removal.
However, unlike the ugly graffiti ‘tags’ I saw in Zadar, Croatia, much of the graffiti I saw in Melbourne was ingenious and engaging. Indeed the city government recently conducted research and community consultation which revealed that while most people agree that ‘tagging’ is unsightly and unwelcome, ‘street art’ graffiti is widely appreciated.
I wish I could give full credit to the artists who created the fantastic works and stunning murals featured in this post. Unfortunately though it’s extremely difficult to identify the artists involved, even when the works are completely legal.
I very much enjoyed wandering around the streets of Melbourne looking at and photographing graffiti art that turned ordinary walls into galleries. My only complaint was that there was no map that would help me navigate my way around pieces of particular merit or interest. However, I suspect that’s part of the what gives graffiti its value. It’s ability to grow from nothing, like a seedling taking root where utility had perhaps all but suffocated creativity.
As I wandered from street to street browsing the graffiti, I found myself looking at various pieces and thinking about how a bland and ordinary brick wall might dream of one day becoming the home of art. How some bricks might aspire to be a part of a wondrous work of architecture, and how others might long to become an essential piece of an artists expression.
I remembered how the influential architect, Louis Khan, once suggested that even a brick wants to be something. So as my eyes studied the artfully adorned walls with their colors, messages, declarations and emotions, I couldn’t help but imagine how these bricks might very well be happy with their place in the world.
A few years ago a friend of mine told me that when I visited Australia I might never return. He said that I would “fit right in,” and while I very much enjoyed my first visit there in 2009 I can’t say I found it a place that I yearned to call home. However, on my return to the land down under this year I visited the State of Victoria. Bathed in sun and basking in the summer heat, I no doubt saw it at its best, but beyond that I had found the Australia that my friend had told me I might never leave, it was right here, and it was Melbourne..
My first impressions of Melbourne were influenced quite heavily by the woman who was driving the tram I rode through the city to where I would be staying. She was an older woman, perhaps as rounded in character as she was in form. Using the announcement system she commented on various things we would rattle by.
We passed a man on a bridge playing bagpipes with a sign in front of a bag in which passers by would throw change. “Will somebody please give that guy enough change so he can finally buy his bloody ticket home. That’s what that sign says you know.” A few people on the tram laugh and look out of the window back at the pipe player. “He’s been at it for years and I can’t stand bagpipes!” She continues.
A few stops and jokes later I struck up a conversation with the driver. I tell her it’s my first time in Melbourne so she gives me a few tips on where to go and what to see.
As we pass by homes lining Dandenong Road she then tells me a story about a friend of hers who wanted to visit England. “He never got there, poor bastard. His oriental wife stopped him from going, and now he’s dead.” She pauses at a red light and I tell her I’m sorry her friend didn’t get to visit England.
In her loud brash tone only somewhat stifled by the noise of the tram she continues. “They’re everywhere you know, the orientals.” Feeling somewhat uncomfortable I look over at an asian woman close by. I’m relieved to see she’s wearing earphones and is unlikely to hear what the driver is saying. “They might look pretty and coy to you young blokes, but you wanna watch it, they’re honey traps, love! Deadly I tell ya.”
Another stop light and I switch the subject back to something a little more conducive to a public transport situation. But as we reach my stop and I step off the tram she loudly gives me some parting advice. “Remember love, yellow fever will kill you, so keep your snake on a leash!” And with that the doors clatter to close and the tram rattles away.
STREET LIFE
I was couchsurfing in Melbourne, that’s to say I was staying in the home of a local whom I hadn’t met before. My host was a guy called Phong, a typically laid back Australian who owned a waxing salon, something which I found mildly amusing as he didn’t strike me as a particularly metrosexual kind of guy.
The next day Phong took me on a tour of the local neighborhoods. The main streets seemed alive, brimming with activity and energy. Amazing graffiti and street art was everywhere and there were shops, galleries and boutiques with interesting names like ‘Fat Helen’s‘ and ‘Shag’ (fashion & clothing shops), the ‘Hard Wok Cafe’ (Chinese food), and ‘Fuku Hair Studio.’
LIFE’S A BEACH
While Melbourne isn’t famous for it’s beaches there are still a few sun-trap shorelines to enjoy. The first one I visited was St Kilda beach which was busy with sunbathers, swimmers, and various other kinds of beach bums.
While St Kilda has a somewhat checkered past as a sketchy neighborhood full of drug users and loose women, in these more modern times some claim the moral threat comes from Europeans like me! Apparently we’ve been diluting Australian decency with our bare breasts and no good liberal ways.
Fortunately though, local politician, Reverend Fred Nile, is on hand to uplift Australian decency by trying to end topless and strapless sunbathing at beaches like St Kilda. However the moral guardian won’t tolerate women covering up too much, in 2002 he also proposed banning women from wearing Islamic head scarfs and veils.
Undeterred by the unchecked debauchery of South Australia’s coastline I headed over to Brighton Beach with fellow couch surfer, Lauren from New York, who was also staying with Phong.
Brighton beach is particularly famous for its colorful little ‘bathing boxes‘ that were built in the late nineteenth century and are now protected by heritage laws. The eighty two beach huts are a popular Melbourne landmark and have been the subject of countless paintings, drawings, and photographs over the years.
WHAT ABOUT THE FOOD?
Of course, when you travel anywhere food often becomes a big part of your experience, and there is no shortage of funky, fun, or formal places to eat in Melbourne. On one day we ate breakfast from a hole in the wall joint, then lunch at a place called ‘Lucky Coq‘ where you can get a delicious pizza for just $4 then sit back in old sofa’s our out in their rooftop sun-cube.
Australians take their coffee pretty seriously and Phong took me to meet a friend of his who had just opened a cool place called Monk Bodhi Dharma which was rusticly hip. The coffee’s were specialist grinds like Ethiopian Yirgacheffe, that the barista talked about with near fanatical enthusiasm and knowledge. But aside of the coffee the little back street place serves a mouth-watering variety of healthy and healing foods like ‘Peace Cookies,’ ‘Cuban chickpea potato stew,’ ‘Indian creamy pumpkin mansoor dal coconut mango soup,’ and ‘West African peanut, bell pepper and tomato soup.’ (Seriously, after writing that I’m hungry!)
Another very cool place we ate at was ‘Lentil as Anything.’ where you order exquisite vegetarian food from a menu that has no prices. When you have finished your meal you decide what the food and experience was worth then make a donation in a black box on the counter as you leave.
Staffed almost entirely by volunteers ‘Lentil as Anything’ has been in the ‘hot for profit’ business for ten years and now has four locations across Melbourne, as well as a college canteen run in the same way.
I liked ‘Lentil as Anything’ very much because it wasn’t just about you and the food, but instead they seek to encourage and cultivate communication going beyond food to engage the community with programs developed to address the hardship of inequality.
POLE POSITION
Something I was especially excited to do was go to Albert Park which hosts the Australian Formula One Grand Prix. We checked out the pits and I stood on the rostrum where the drivers are presented with trophies before spraying the champagne at the end of the race.
Despite his obvious bemusement, Phong was kind enough to allow me to drive his old Toyota around the park on the roads that double as the race track. The two laps I completed were far from high speed as I had to obey the speed limit, nevertheless it was a absolute thrill to negotiate corners I’ve been watching race cars speed through for years.
As we drove out of Albert Park I was just loving life. The sun was shining, the weather was beautiful, I’d just driven around a Grand Prix circuit, and I was in Australia. At that moment Phong turned on the radio and as if choreographed by a movie producer the track that began to play was the classic 80’s song ‘Land Down Under‘ by Men at Work.
MELBOURNE’S MARKETS
I’m not really one for shopping, or at least big-brand shopping. I find few things as loathsome as fighting my way though crowds of bag wielding shoppers in what always feels to me like a very confrontational situation. That said, I do like local trade, craft and farmers markets like Portland’s Saturday Market or London’s Camden Markets. I was therefore delighted to learn that Melbourne has a thriving market community of local traders, food sellers, and farmers.
I always feel like I’m making more of a connection when I wander around these kind of open air markets chatting with the traders. I have brought some truly wonderful items at markets like these, from jewelry to ornaments, clothing to music.
I ended up spending my final night in Melbourne with Phong, Lauren, and other couch surfers at St Kilda’s unique and vibrant night market rammed with close to one hundred stall-holders. It was a gloriously warm summer night and the place was teeming with the kind of interesting characters that always seem to find these places. Under a darkening blue sky on the rolling lawns crowds gathered to watch fire dancers perform to the beats of bongo drummers.
I’d been looking for a new ring, but instead I ended up buying a ’singing bowl’ imported from Nepal and sold to me by a interestingly dressed woman who insisted I spent the right amount of time finding the bowl that “sang to me.” I tried a few, laughing as the woman put one hand on by back and another on my belly asking me “Do you feel it there?” “I think you should probably be asking my wallet,” I told her “But that’s in my back pocket and if you put your hand there people are going to get the wrong idea.” She laughed and told me that my “heart” would make the right decision.
In the end I settled on a modest bowl, that apparently “sings” in an F key. It provided my fellow couch surfers and I with some amusement as we sat around listening to the bongo drums and watching the dancers. Later on I Googled the singing bowls F key and wouldn’t you know it turns out that note is the heart chakra that helps with compassion and balance. So who knows, maybe that woman was onto something after all, because at the price I paid it would seem my heart showed my wallet a little compassion which certainly helps by bank balance.
I’ve wanted to see the New Year in on Sydney Harbour for a few years now and I can now finally tick that box.
Seeing in the new decade at Sydney Harbour under a blue moon sounds like a pretty good way to celebrate the arrival of 2010, and it was. From the north side of the harbor, near Bradfield Park I had a great view of the Harbour Bridge and the Sydney Opera House.
As darkness fell upon the warm summer night a smaller firework display lit up the evening sky allowing younger children to see a display before they had to go home to bed. However, the crowd didn’t seem to thin at all as we counted down the time to midnight.
Eventually midnight struck and a great shower of fireworks began to erupt filling the night sky with color and noise. It was as grand and spectacular as I had hoped it would be, and like all such firework displays it seemed to be over far too soon.
Maybe I’ll return to Sydney to see in a future new year, but coming from the other side of the world I suspect that this would be a rare occasion for me. It is, therefore, perhaps fitting that my chance to celebrate the New Year in Sydney, and indeed the new decade, happened this once beneath a ‘blue moon.’
So happy New Year everyone, hope you all had a great New Years wherever you were. May 2010 be a great one!
Leaving the U.S.’s Pacific North West behind I headed off to New Zealand to spend Christmas with my friends Philly and Kerry-anne. This time last year the three of us were on a hectic tour of the North Island, but due to the fact that Kerry-anne is hugely pregnant (I believe the more polite term would be “blooming”) we had a far more sedate itinerary which included a whole lot of nothing, and suited me just fine.
It was a long a torturous flight from L.A to Auckland. My coach class seat was broken and uncomfortable and the woman in the seat ahead of me kept insisting on reclining her seat fully while I tried to eat the unappetizing in-flight meal. She also insisted on pushing her hand luggage and shoes under her seat into the miniscule area where I would be able to stretch my legs if I were five feet tall. In the end I got so fed up with her I took her shoes and hid them a little further down the plane which made for some amusement as we neared the end of the twelve hour flight.
I had a short layover in Auckland before catching my flight down to Wellington. Enough time to slowly stroll from one terminal to the next enjoying the warmth of the summer sun on my face. For an international airport noticing the place felt more like a small airfield as I followed a blue and white painted line along the pathway past grassed areas, a car park, and the main building for ASS, the Airport Security Service.
In Wellington I was met by Philly and Kerry-anne and as we put my luggage in the car and drove to the house it felt like I’d never been away.
Their was no itinerary for this trip, and no rush to get from one place to the next. When we moved anywhere we moved at a pace slow enough to accommodate Kerry-anne who rather comically waddled like a migrating penguin as she carried their soon to be born first child.
Due on January 14th, baby McGrath is currently measuring three weeks ahead of schedule and Kerry-anne is experiencing ‘Braxton Hicks contractions’ which I’ve now learned is a medical term for false labour.
Not being a parent myself I didn’t really need to hear a lot of the words Phil and Kerry-anne were using in relation to the pregnancy. As much as I love Kerry-anne I don’t need really need to learn anything about her uterus or any of the other bodily functions that become common place for pregnant people to refer to. I would sooner that babies were delivered by UPS and that pregnancy was more like parcel tracking than a nine month scene from the movie Alien.
We spent Christmas with friends Andy and Kate and sat around all afternoon just eating and chatting. On a rainy day we went to the Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa, and Philly and I went to see the movie Avatar in 3D. All in all we chilled out and enjoyed the calm before Philly & Kerry-anne start their 25-life sentence as their little bundle of joy enters the world.
I also got to spend some time with my friend Yolande from Malaysia who has recently moved to Wellington. We walked around the CBD (Central Business District) and ate good Asian food at a scary little place as we caught up.
I would write more if there was more to write. But in truth my short trip to New Zealand was wonderfully uneventful and fantastically relaxing. Philly and Kerry-anne worried that I would be bored, but quite the opposite was true. It was just great to kick back and spend some good chill-out time with them both knowing that the next time I see them things will be very different indeed.
So with Christmas behind me I boarded a plane to Australia where I will be seeing the New Year in with thousands of other revelers in Sydney where we’ll watch fireworks light up the iconic harbour bridge. I can’t wait!
Never one to pass up the opportunity to travel I took up an invitation to travel to Florence in Italy to accompany a friend who was making a brief business trip there. While he went about his work I explored the city, sampling the food, the culture, and art, and the pure magic that makes Italy uniquely romantic to anyone who loves to travel.
Whether its the fashion, the food, the architecture, or the art, there’s just something seductive about Italy. Just being there made me wish I could speak Italian in the near musical tones that spring from the tongue in a burst of rolling R’s and words that always seem to end with an I.
As our taxi driver zipped his way through the busy streets of Florence teeming with mopeds and tourists, I looked out of the window grinning like a cheshire cat and brimming with the excitement of a child about to be let loose to explore the setting of a new adventure. I had just two days and I wasn’t going to waste a moment.
At the hotel, situated next to the Arno river, I didn’t waste a moment inspecting the room than instead made an immediate escape as my friend James prepared for his conference ahead. Equipped with nothing but the pointing gesture of the concierge at the hotel’s reception, I ventured out onto the streets that have hardly changed since The Renaissance. I didn’t want a map, I wanted to find my own way and allow the city to surprise me.
Just a moment from the hotel was the famous landmark, the Ponte Vecchio, a narrow cobbled bridge lined with shops and merchants. Hidden away above the shops is a private walkway which forms part of the Vasari Corridor that was built in 1548 for the Grand Duke of Tuscany. At over a mile long the Vasari Corridor connects the Palazzo Vecchio (Florence’s town hall) to the Palazzo Pitti via the Uffizi Gallery, which is one of the oldest art galleries in the world.
As I wandered across the bridge I imagined what it would be like to have walked across in its early days. Back then butchers and fishmongers occupied the shops and stands and the air would have been thick with pungent smells that mingled with the sound of their noisy haggling and general traffic of the time. Today the only smells present are the occasional waft of perfume from well dressed women who float between the jewel filled shop windows like clouds in a summer sky.
Walking toward the Piazza della Signoria (or Signoria Square if you want to use it’s less enticing name) I stopped to buy fresh roasted chestnuts from a man who was roasting them beside the road. When I was a child we would eat roasted chestnuts when my family went to firework displays on Guy Fawkes Night. With my hands clasped around the pack of hot chestnuts I turned the corner and found myself in the company of giants; the Piazza della Signoria.
Surrounded by statues and sculptures I just stopped in my tracks and turned around slowly taking in this explosion of classical art. Perseus towered above me triumphantly holding up the severed head of the Medusa, while Hercules was overpowering Cacus close by at the entrance of the Palazzo Vecchio.
I walked a few steps and stood in front of Michelangelo’s David amid a sea of Japanese tourists posing for photographs while making V signs and smiling. I’ll confess that as incredible as the art is, I was giving more than a passing thought about the curious fact that Japanese tourists always make V signs when they pose for group photos.
I looked back at David and wondered what he would have to say about all this if he were somehow granted the ability to talk. I suspect the first words out of his marble mouth would be to demand some clothes. After all, the poor guy has been standing there naked for more than five hundred years being scrutinized by Kings, Queens, traveling gentry and now hoards of camera clicking Japanese tourists making V signs as they pose at his feet.
For quite a few minutes I just stood there and gazed at the Cathedral examining its intricate and beautiful facade. The sculptured walls reminded me of temples I had seen in India, towering monuments to God and man.
Circling the great Cathedral I craned my head back to try and take in this magnificent and inspiring building which was built nearly six hundred years ago. The dome, designed by Filippo Brunelleschi, is recognised as a work of architectural and engineering brilliance. Indeed, many of its design secrets were not learned for another four hundred years, and to this day it remains the largest masonry dome ever constructed.
As impressive as the dome is from the outside the best way to appreciate it is by going into the Cathedral and climbing the steps inside the walls of the drum to get to the base of the dome.
This is not a climb for the faint hearted, the stairs are perilously steep in places, and with few windows to offer a glimpse of light, the confined dark space can feel very claustrophobic indeed. However, an opportunity to make this climb is one that should not be missed because the reward is well worth the exertion.
As I walked through the passageway door onto the narrow balcony at the base of the dome I was awestruck by the mosaic that decorated the walls above me. It was unlike anything I have ever seen before. The richly detailed painting of epic proportions stopped me in my tracks. If I were to see nothing else on this brief trip to Florence, seeing this alone would have made the journey worthwhile.
Started in 1568 by Giorgio Vasari and Federico Zuccari the mosaic is a depiction of The Last Judgement and is simply an incredible wonder to see. I was the only person in the dome and I stood there marveling the 38,750 ft² artwork that engulfed me and seemed more like a performance rather than a static work of art.
Perhaps its because I have never been surrounded by a painting in this way before, but the characters of the work seemed almost lifelike to me. As ludicrous as it might be, it actually took me a few moments to register the boundary between the painted balcony at the top of the dome and the real one above that.
I attempted to capture something of the absorbing and sometimes harrowing nature of this artwork. But as I took the photographs I knew that the ancient brush strokes of Vasari and Zuccari would get the better of my modern camera which stood little chance of communicating the experience of this captivating mosaic.
A further climb up yet more enclosed and dimly lit stairwells took me to the very top of the dome and out into the open air. From here you are presented with a spectacular Tuscan view across Florence. There are only a few cities in the world that have remained relatively unchanged for five hundred years, but this is one of them. From this vantage point that you can truly appreciate the breadth of history that stretches before you in a vista awash with a dazzling array of classical landmarks.
As the sun began to set I watched the clouds change color and blur into the falling night like shades of a watercolor painting. Church bells rang out from all directions as the city below began to shine in the familiar orange glow of street lights. Five hundred years ago seeing Florence from this height would have been a thrilling experience, and today it has lost none of that power.
Upon leaving the cathedral I decided to indulge myself in some gelato (Italian ice cream) from a little place near the Duomo. Having only discovered the joy of gelato in Croatia, less than a month before, I couldn’t claim to be a connoisseur by any stretch of the imagination. However, despite not really being a fan of ice cream, I have found a new sinful pleasure in gelato.
At Gelateria Grom near the Duomo the colorful selection of flavors makes it hard for me to make a decision. Frutti di bosco, Menta, Mandorla, Lampone, Amarena, Cioccolato, and so many others. I pick two flavors in a chocolate and nut covered cone then wander out into the night enjoying the eruptive flavors. I don’t know what the best ice cream in the world tastes like, but surely this can’t be far from that?
Later on I met up with James and a few of his colleagues at an ancient villa located on the hill of Settignano. We stood around chatting, sipping red wine and eating hors d’oeuvres served on large silver trays by waiters in white jackets.
Eventually we returned to the city and made our way to a small bar that James knew from his previous trips here. The Shot Cafe on Via Dei Pucci is small but clearly popular nightspot where the music was loud and the drinks were often on fire. It was as good a place as any to drink unusual potions and bring the long day to a suitable fade-to-black kind of end.
The next day the skies were bright and the sun brought out the terracotta colors of the buildings as I strolled out of the hotel and along the Arno river. For quite some time I simply sauntered along soaking up the feel of Florence, enjoying the Tuscan morning.
Florence has as much to offer in shopping as it does in art and culture. Though in this setting so steeped in history the items behind the glass of shop windows can easily take on the feel of museum pieces, preserved and displayed to show the culture of the time. Motionless mannequins in expensive designer clothes stand like statues glorifying the here and now. It was, in some ways, an oddly surreal experience looking at shops in this way, viewing them as windows to the world we know today, rather than simply shop displays trying to entice us to part with our money.
I had stopped for lunch at a small pizzeria on a side street close the the Piazza della Repubblica. I could have sampled many of the delicious looking pizza’s on offer and given more time I would have, but I wanted to immerse myself in this beautiful city as much as I could and time was at a premium.
Winding my way through the streets I visited the Palazzo Strozzi (Strozzi Palace), the Basilica di Santa Croce, which is another spectacular church, and the The Santa Croce Museum. As the daylight began to fade I climbed the 414 steps of Giotto’s Campanile where I was rewarded with a fantastic sunset view of the city and Brunelleschi’s dome. I finished my day in the old leather market perusing the various stalls selling everything from clothing to books, and art to eyewear.
So what better way to leave this classical Italian city than a black tie gala dinner. James had invited me to join him at the event which had been organised by the conference he was attending.
As it was Italy I had decided to ‘go rogue’ and wear a silver-white bow tie and black shirt rather than the more traditional black tie and white shirt. I rarely wear suits and had actually had to buy one specifically for this event. But it was fun to dress up and even more so because I was in Italy.
So when the long night drew to a close I suggested to James that we walk through the city to our hotel, if for no other reason than to just soak up what we could of this magnificent place. And wouldn’t you know it, as we made our way through the little cobbled streets we happened upon somewhere selling gelato. Perfect!
Following my friend Becky’s unexpected deportation from the UK, the pair of us were making an unscheduled return to Croatia just three days after returning from our trip to the countries beautiful Istrian Peninsula. Under angry black clouds and bombarded by high winds and heavy rain we found ourselves in the city of Zadar
Almost anywhere can look good under clear blue skies, but only truly beautiful places remain so in any weather.
Rain can quickly wash away the appeal of a city as stone buildings transform into ominous tomb stone colored giants with people pushing their way past one another like Orwellian drones.
Perhaps in brighter weather Zadar might have been a more alluring location, but under slate colored skies the city had the charm of a disgruntled traffic warden and as much beauty as nuclear power station.
Old town Zadar is, according to one travel website, “enchantingly Romanesque.” However, if the cities beauty was measured on a scale of pop stars then Zadar would be somewhere in the region of Tina Turner and Keith Richards.
The city is by the Adriactic Sea and while that helps its mixture of old and new architecture is more of a catastrophic collision than a cultural cocktail. In British terms Zadar is Croatia’s Dagenham or Coventry.
However, despite the dismal weather Becky and I were determined to make the most of this unscheduled return to Croatia, and under the circumstances I think we did just that. It wasn’t the relaxing indulgence that Rovinj was, but nonetheless we did get to have a few laughs along the way. In the end though, even with a promise of better weather, I can’t see Zadar appearing on our future travel itineraries anytime soon.
Fortunately though, local politician, Reverend Fred Nile, is on hand to uplift Australian decency by trying to 
I ended up spending my final night in Melbourne with Phong, Lauren, and other couch surfers at 
Their was no itinerary for this trip, and no rush to get from one place to the next. When we moved anywhere we moved at a pace slow enough to accommodate Kerry-anne who rather comically waddled like a migrating penguin as she carried their soon to be born first child.
Surrounded by statues and sculptures I just stopped in my tracks and turned around slowly taking in this explosion of classical art. Perseus towered above me triumphantly holding up the severed head of the Medusa, while Hercules was overpowering Cacus close by at the entrance of the 
As impressive as the dome is from the outside the best way to appreciate it is by 
So what better way to leave this classical Italian city than a black tie gala dinner. James had invited me to join him at the event which had been organised by the conference he was attending.
