In Search of Pizza
Instead of Croatia I'm heading to Italy
Your Next Adventure Awaits!
Thanks for joining me on the serialized journey of North to Norway! If you enjoyed the extracts from my 2022 ride to Tarifa, the full book is available now on Amazon (paperback and e-book) and in select bookshops. Want a signed copy? Just drop me a comment!
This summer, Ralph and I are off to Spain and Portugal – tackling the Picos mountains, exploring Galicia, then heading to Portugal's coast, aiming for Cabo da Roca and eventually Malaga, where the bikes ship home. As you know from the blog, plans can always change!
Look out for posts on our Iberian adventures soon. But first, get ready for a taste of Italy! I'll be sharing a hopefully entertaining series about my 2024 trip to the land of opera, gelato, and pizza over the coming months.
In last week’s episode ‘Turning West to Trieste’ I take advantage of a quick detour to lake Bled before heading to Trieste, just over the Italian border.
Elbowing the entrance door open, my hands laden with bags and crash helmet, I squeezed into a tiny lift that ascended to a dimly lit, musty-smelling floor. There, Silvana, the landlady, greeted me with a radiant smile.
‘Ciao, entra pure, spero che tu abbia fatto un buon viaggio. Dov'è il tuo amico?’
‘It’s just me,’ I replied, my rusty schoolboy Italian just about deciphering her query about Ralph's whereabouts.
The room, though chintzy, exuded a certain comfort, despite the walls being liberally adorned with religious paintings and icons, creating an almost church-like atmosphere. Silvana then gave me a quick tour of the rest of the flat, which I would be sharing with several other guests that night. Even the toilet boasted a crucifix, a detail that struck me as rather peculiar. Grabbing a well-worn map from a nearby table, Silvana launched into a rapid-fire overview of the best local spots to explore on foot, her brightly painted nails jabbing excitedly at various landmarks. My Italian struggled valiantly to keep pace with her enthusiastic delivery. I think I'll just go for a wander, I thought to myself. But first, these damp clothes have got to go.
An hour later, dry, warm, and refreshed, I stepped out to explore. The city air hummed with a unique energy, a blend of different cultures that hinted at a fascinating past. And indeed, Trieste's story is quite something.
From a plucky Roman outpost named Tergeste, Trieste spent centuries dodging the maritime muscle of Venice before falling into the protective arms of Austria's Habsburgs in 1382. This strategic move paid off spectacularly, transforming it into the Austro-Hungarian Empire's booming, cosmopolitan main port – a vibrant, coffee-fuelled 'Vienna by the Sea' buzzing with Italians, Slovenes, Germans, and more. But all empires crumble, and after World War I, Trieste was snapped up by Italy, only to bizarrely morph into the short-lived "Free Territory" split between Allied and Yugoslav zones after World War II. Finally settling back under the Italian flag in 1954, modern Trieste retains the rich, complex flavour of its past: a unique city steeped in Mitteleuropean grandeur, Italian style, Slavic influences, literary ghosts, and seriously strong coffee. As I wandered, the echoes of its Roman origins were clear, from the remnants of the amphitheatre to the basilica and city walls.
Later, outside the splendid Castello di San Giusto, perched atop the hill overlooking the city and port, a lively gathering of the city’s youngsters was underway. They were enjoying beers and the city's renowned strong coffees at the end of their working day. Drawn by the lively atmosphere, I joined a couple of girls at their cramped little table. The atmosphere was abuzz with conversation. Aurora and Giulia were both studying English and were keen to practice on me – not that I was complaining! They spoke fluent English with a slight mid-Atlantic accent, likely picked up from TV and film, which was interesting considering they had both spent long summers in London. Keen to offer advice, especially after I confessed my last-minute change of travel plans, they were full of suggestions. Aurora, it turned out, loved Shakespeare.
‘You must go to Verona. It’s a beautiful city. Romeo and Juliet’s, of course. See the famous balcony.’
I dug out my map from my rucksack. Verona was nearly three hours away, westwards, towards the Italian Lakes. But, hey, I had no fixed itinerary, and a bit of culture was always a welcome part of my continental tours. Verona it would be.
I finished my beer quickly, picked up my map, and, wishing the girls well, left them to their conversation.
‘Parting is such sweet sorrow’, I said, cornily. Aurora threw back her head, her eyebrows arching as she chuckled.
‘Arrivederci, Friar.’
Ouch.
I’m partial to pizza, and the city had a reputation not only for coffee but for pizza, too. Giulia had a tip: a place along the harbour front called Da Pino. I headed off in search of it. The restaurant was full, but as a solo traveller, I found they could always squeeze me into a corner. I found myself sandwiched between a group of Italian-American cyclists and a family celebrating a kid’s birthday. Quiet it was not. Waiters bustled around, carrying enormous pizzas on large wooden trays held aloft with one hand. Here, they order pizza by the metre.
I kicked off with a bruschetta, crisp and fresh, basil flavours popping with cold slices of soft tomato piled high on top. Delicious. Then, the waitress sidled her way past the lycras with my speck (smoked ham) affumicata. I had wondered how long it might take me to find the perfect pizza, and I realized within a morsel or two that I would never again enjoy one as good as this. I am looking at the photograph I took as I write this, and I can feel my stomach juices flowing already at the memory of what remains for me the epitome of pizzadom. It was excellent. And, seriously, a quarter of a metre was not enough.
From early morning, the city was full of car horns, sirens, and the general hubbub of traffic, which reverberated off the walls of the office blocks and through my bedroom windows. I shoved my earplugs deeper in, but sleep had been lost even though I was still tired after the trip from Ljubliana and a very late dinner. In my underpants, I flung open the shutters and stepped onto the tiny balcony overlooking the city centre. Small, slightly dried-up plant pots lined the railings, and one, a particularly thorny specimen, grabbed determinedly at my crotch as I leaned over the edge for a better look at the street below. There was method in my madness. I’d woken several times wondering if my bike was still where I’d parked it. I usually aim to park in as secure a place as possible, especially after the incident in Bremen in 2023, when Ralph and I had all our camping gear stolen off the bikes. I gently teased the spikes out of Marks and Spencer’s finest and away from the danger area. Yes, phew, it was still there. I could see the thick green chain and heavy lock through the rear wheel. It was a cumbersome piece of equipment to carry around, but peace of mind was worth it.
© 2025 Stephen Oliver
You can find my book North to Norway in paperback and Kindle format on Amazon.