Just in case anyone was worried, Adrian and I were nowhere near the train crash this morning, although we were both on other SNCB trains. It is such a shock to see those pictures of twisted metal with those familiar (B) logos. My heart goes out to those families who had no idea that their breakfasts together today would be their last, and to all those injured passengers who required amputations. I hope that we quickly learn the cause of the disaster so preventative measures can be put in place as soon as possible.

This was a difficult day to plan. The ship was only docked in Civitavecchia for ten hours. In that time, we needed to get to the train station, take a 1.3 hour train into Rome, experience the wonders of this ancient region, and then catch the train back again, leaving enough time for any unexpected delays. I had everything planned out in advance, and we were going to attempt to visit three sovereign entities in one day – Italy, The Knights of Malta, and the Vatican City.

The ship let us off early so that we were able to catch the 8:57 train, getting us to the World Heritage listed Colosseum by 11:00 am. I had pre-purchased tickets on the web, so we were able to smugly walk past the long line of people waiting to buy tickets and get inside reasonably quickly. We had both pre-loaded Rick Steves’ audio guide onto our iPhones, and we listened to it as we walked through this immense structure. I enjoyed this particular commentary of Rick Steves’. Hearing the trumpets blare and his vivid descriptions, I could very easily look down into the centre ring and imagine the horrific theatrics that were played out in the second century CE. The underground passages that served as the backstage were also visible, giving an insight into the mechanics that were required for such a spectacle. To think that right on this spot, wild animals were brutally tortured, or that condemned men were placed in costumes and forced to act in a elaborate plays that would end in their death. This is the place where an estimated million animals and half a million people were put to death for entertainment. Although, having just seen the enormous bull ring in Malaga, I wondered how much has really changed in 1900 years.

I told Adrian that we had no time to stop and eat, so we grabbed a pizza and toasted sandwich to eat while on the metro. Our next stop was a visit to the Sovereign Military Hospitaller Order of Saint John of Jerusalem, of Rhodes, and of Malta. The order ruled over Jerusalem, then Rhodes, then Malta until it was ejected when Napoleon I captured the country in 1798. After the loss of Malta the Order settled permanently in Rome in 1834. The Magistral Villa is located on the Aventine hill, and hosts the Grand Priory of Rome, the Embassy of the Order to the Holy See and the Embassy of the Order to the Italian Republic. The Order still claims sovereignty, and thus the villa has extraterritorial status. I was able to peek through the keyhole and see St Peter’s basilica through the avenue of trees. That was our next destination.

After returning to Italy, it was time to cross another border into the Vatican City, and experience Adrian’s 100th World Heritage site (my count is around 50). The immense granite obelisk towers over the square. Originally carved by the Egyptians to honour the sky god Ra, then stolen by the Romans to venerate Jupiter, it now stands with a tiny cross at its peak to mark the transition from one superstition to another. There was a 100-foot tree nearby that was a gift from Belgium, and when the Pope received it he declared “May the Church in Belgium, and especially the Diocese of Liège, continue to be a land where the seed of the Kingdom, that Christ came to scatter on earth, generously germinates”.

Thanks to the terrible weather, the line into St Peter’s basilica was relatively short, and we were soon inside the church. Once inside, I was very impressed by the vast and ornate interior. The floor looked like a rich carpet, though it was really a pattern constructed in marble. Every surface was gilded or embellished in some way. We listened to Rick Steves’ audio guide, which irked me a little. I didn’t like hearing about his very statements about “Jesus’ message of love”, that “things are much more enjoyable here if you become a temporary Catholic”, and “your time here can be awe inspiring and beautiful if you accept and respect things on Catholic terms”.

However, he did touch upon the financing with indulgences, pillaging of the Pantheon, and torture during the Inquisition. He spoke of how the church betrayed Michelangelo, by promising they would be faithful to his plans and then altering them soon after his death. I learnt that the reason that the bronze statue of St Peter near the alter is wearing a toga is because it was probably originally of a Roman official, and later on the Catholics just replaced the head and placed some keys in his hand.

Suddenly it was 4pm, time to head back to the ship. We discovered that the metro station that google maps claimed was near the San Pietro train station did not actually exist, and thus decided it was best to catch the metro all the way back to the Roma Termini station and catch the train from there. By the time we finally got onto a train it was not going to arrive at Civitavecchia until 5:57pm, giving us only a half hour window for delays and getting back to the ship. Happily, the train moved towards the coast without delay, and we made it back onto the ship with ten minutes to spare.

After Spain, our ship set sail for Africa, my sixth continent. We docked in Casablanca at 8:00 am, and Adrian and I stepped off the boat. The dock was filled with dozens of buses taking the cruisers on day tours, but as far as we could see, we were the only two passengers who were exploring on our own. The port was immense and confusing, so we followed the buses to find our exit. Scores of taxi drivers speaking excellent English offered to drive us around the town, but I stubbornly insisted that we try our hand at public transport. Luckily I knew that the train station was near the tall Novatel hotel, so once we spotted that, we had some sense of direction. The Casa Port train station was right next to the hotel, but so unassuming we had to ask for directions twice before we found it. We bought tickets to Rabat, and I was on board my first train in Africa. One hour later, we were in Rabat Ville (or Rabbitville, as Adrian called it), the capital of Morocco. We hired a driver in a blue petite taxi to drive us around for the morning. My four months of French was enough for basic communication, and we soon arrived at the ruins of Chellah.

These are the ruins of a great Roman settlement called Sala Colonia that was built on both sides of the bridge across the Bou Regreg river. On the side that we visited, our guide walked us through the ruins, pointing out the function of each place. It was so easy for me to step back in time and imagine the pedestrians crossing the bridge, paying the tax at the gate, with the shops nearby filled with items to tempt sailors and other travellers. We wandered through the sites of the houses of the merchants, and stepped over a series of aqueducts that once led to a vast reservoir of water for drinking and to fill the saunas. Even the pattered mosaic floor of one home, built over 1800 years ago, was still intact below a layer of red dust.

In the fourteenth century, one part of this area was converted into a school, a mosque, and a mausoleum. The stones once used in Roman arches were re-used to build a minaret, and the classic Latin inscriptions were replaced by intricate Arabic scripts. Three generations of sultans, including that of Abu l-Hasan, were buried on the site, their graves still marked by brightly patterned tombs. We walked though the ruins of the small mosque, and we saw the niche in which the Imam stood at the front, his back to the others so that he was also facing East, his words amplified and forced backwards by the curve of the stone.

Today, the most conspicuous residents of Chellah are the storks, building their nests at the top of the columns, and gathering sticks from the nearby trees. We saw them courting each other with bends of the neck and rapid snaps of the beak. They seem quite content with this sanctuary that gives them peace and protection, close to the river yet safe from predators.

We next visited Tower Hassan, the minaret built by sultan Yaqub al-Mansur. Intended to be the largest mosque in the world, construction began in the 12th century, but stopped only four years later once the sultan died. The tower is only half the height that it was intended, and the only sign of the rest of the mosque are the crumbling walls and 200 columns that were taken from Roman ruins and assembled in rows.

After seeing the highlights of Rabat, we hopped back onto the train, as we wanted to ensure that we gave ourselves plenty of time to see Casablanca and then return to the ship. On the outskirts of both Rabat and Casablanca there were vast slums built next to garbage dumps, reminding me how lucky I was to be born into such fortunate circumstances.
We had lunch at a lovely restaurant called Sqala, set inside the ancient medina of Casablanca. We both had meals slow-cooked in a tajine (vented cooking pot), and I followed this up with a chocolate fondue with kiwifruit, pineapple, apple, and banana. It was delicious and I even managed to eat it without ending up covered in chocolate myself.

Then we spied the world’s tallest minaret on the horizon, and we headed for Hassan II mosque. The mosque, designed by French architect Michel Pinseau, is really beautiful, far more pleasing than the Sagrada Família, the colours blending perfectly with the surroundings. The building sits on the peninsula, as the fierce winds blow out from the Atlantic the warm sandstone reflects the light from the sky and offers protection from the elements. The blues and greens in the mosaics were delicate and precisely complemented the churning sky and tumultuous sea.
The area was full of tourists and locals, taking photos and posing for each other. Young women strolled about in jeans and designer handbags, some with headscarves, some without. We saw a young boy running in circles through puddles, his baby sister trying her best to keep up without getting too wet. A group of mixed sex teens hung out together, sitting on the absolution fountains, flirting and laughing. Even right next to the mosque, Casablanca was not a place of strict religious oppression. While a lot of the city was run down, the people had an upbeat and cosmopolitan attitude. The taxi drivers, shop keepers, and waiters were all multilingual, and the whole place felt very European.

We left Morocco with a firm desire to explore it more thoroughly next time we return. It was a very long walk all the way back to the ship, through the streets and navigating the complex dock, but we finally made it back to our cabin where I was so exhausted I refused to go out for dinner, and made poor Adrian miss out on his promised reward of pizza after a very long day.

The Centraal Station of Brussels may not look like it, but it was designed by Victor Horta between the two great wars. As Horta died in 1947, he did not live to see it completed in 1952. His pupil Maxime Brunfaut, completed the work.

A lot of people don’t like the austere and brutal lines of Central Station. It doesn’t have the splendor of Antwerp Station or the charm of Schaarbeek. There are few flowing curvilinear forms here. It is a very blocky, functional building, but I think that it has some hidden charms. In the great hall, glass slabs of light fall down upon the passengers. Its facade is adorned with nine large vertical windows, representing the nine provinces of Belgium of the time.

When I am one of the 140,000 passengers who visit the station each day, I stop to marvel at the fascinating stone from which much of the building is constructed. I think it might be Gobertange, a type of white calcareous sandstone. It is cut against the grain to reveal its layers, and there are occasional fossilised shells buried deep inside its crevices. Like a lot of Brussels, you just need to dig a little bit deeper to find its jewels.