Euro Shorts

Schools Out

The train is an elementary old rattler covered in graffiti. Connecting Napoli, Pompeii and the Amalfi coast, it runs a dubious schedule, pausing for single line tunnels through the coastal ranges. It can be chaotically crowded, yet approaching Vico today is a relaxed mix of visitors and locals. As it rolls in a crowd looms on the platform. They appear to be high school students, yet up front, the young men freshly inhabit adult bodies, full of hormones and stubbly growth. They crowd the doors, and in that moment it is obvious you either push out or get trapped on. As the only sizeable fella, I push out against the surge, breaking a path for some meek startled young tourists. There are Italian cries and protestations as the hordes' formation is disrupted. We emerge through the lighter ranks at the rear to pause wide-eyed at this swarm along the entire platform. Two doors along a ruckus has broken out. The doors are being wrestled with sticks as yells and taunts accompany flying debris. This territorial theatre plays out for a couple of minutes with railway staff feigning interference. Then it is over, the stressed doors are forced closed, and the brightly graffitied train rolls away, leaving heightened emotions and reflecting the colours of life in this place.

The Piazza at Vico Equense

The late summer evening is warm and carefree. Vico Equense is along a famous stretch of Italian coast south of Napoli, a clifftop village perched between steep hills and the Mediterranean. We sit for dinner on the Piazza. Tourists are sparse, maybe just us. Italian is spoken, and we order with minimal translation and gestures. Classic Italian food is served as we absorb how Australian Alfresco is a soft reflection of this. The square is cosy, surrounded by mid-height Italian architecture, ochres, shutters and gables. Each corner has a couple of cafes and a couple of other businesses squeezed in. It pulses with life, conversations, dining and families strolling with gelato. A central renaissance-figured fountain forms a roundabout of sorts. Alongside it is a Carabinieri traffic officer in sharp dress uniform. Local traffic has its own sensibility, stopping and squeezing any which way around the village. Every car has panel damage; one pulls up mid-roundabout and with a gesture the driver disappears, leaving just enough room for the flow to continue. Nothing seems overbearing; the space has a sense of balance enhanced by a history of complex societies living along these fabled cliffs for millennia.

Keszthely International Drehogel Festival

The shores of Lake Balaton are dotted with Hungarian holiday villages. In Keszthely, peak season has lapsed into a sleepy Saturday morning. Along the old curving streets, a fresh warmth compliments the distinctive ochres of the hand-textured cottages, which are far from the buildings of my world. Approaching the town square, something is happening. A cluster of activity as curious characters form a sizeable circle with decorative boxes on wheels. Long colourful dresses, pressed shirts, braces and shiny shoes exhibit classic Eastern European flair and bring an air of formality to what seems to be music boxes: street entertainers. Just as we arrive, a crank handle is turned, and mumbling socialising gives way to olde-world warm tones of a portable barrel organ. The first performance is accompanied by rich voice, the next has a toy monkey with symbols. They take turns with different flavours and concepts that allow time to absorb the intricacies of this entertainment. About halfway around the circle, the pecking order collapses. They break off into smaller groups and independents. This character and sound charms the morning and the rest of the day. The Keszthely International Drehogel Festival takes us so far from our own reality as to be ensconced in a fairy tale.