A Lesson in Italian Train Travel

Pro Imperia

With the end of one country comes an increased anticipation for the next. So much so, that our last few days in Spain were spent talking about how great France would be, and true to form, the last few days in France were spent talking about how great Italy would be. I think it comes with the territory of prolonged travel: you spend so much time trying to embrace all that one country has to offer, but sooner or later, excitement gets the better of you and an antsy feeling takes over -- the need to see something else.

In Nice, we were constantly aware that the clock in the back of our minds was moving closer and closer to Italian time (the true definition of which, we're still adapting to).

Leaving Nice on our nice French train was no problem. We boarded with great efficiency, paid for tickets, settled in to posh seats and prepped for our arrival in Ventimiglia, just over the border where we would continue to Cinque Terre on Italian transportation. I don't know what it was, but literally, as soon as we came out of one tunnel, it was clear we had crossed the border and had left France. All of a sudden, it just looked, and more importantly, felt different. We both sensed it immediately, and when our suspicions were confirmed, we couldn't help but laugh to ourselves that a feeling of rundown neighborhoods and graffiti signaled Italy to us.

At Ventimiglia, the whole "train process" that we had grown so accustomed to turned on it's side. With no postings for our train, we stood in a line 15 people long while one ticket agent answered questions. While spending an eternity in line, however, the couple behind us noticed that our backpacks were from REI, and being from Portland themselves, we united in a Northwest bond. Turns out it was lucky for them, because with the way the trains operated, I don't know if they would have made it had they not been able to follow us.

When we finally reached the ticket window, Amy asked the man at the counter for a train to Vernazza, and in true Italian form, he replied saying only "11:30, platform 4." With that, he took no money and provided no more information or even tickets. So bizarre, since in every other country, we have had to pay additional taxes and fees in with our Eurail Pass, as well as show them documents and guard tickets with our lives. We told the Portland couple what to ask for at the window since they didn't speak Italian and then did the standard "hurry up and wait" that accompanies all of our travel days.

When the train did arrive, it was a total junker. Graffiti on the outside, no air conditioning or guides to inform you of the stops -- just some seats nailed to the ground of a box on rails. The Americans (all 5 of us by that point) camped out in one car and settled in for a journey of unknown duration, since no one had bothered to tell us just how long it was actually going to take to get to Cinque Terre.

Aside from being nervous that we would miss our stop (with our luck, we would miss Vernazza and end up in Hell), the first part of the trip south was uneventful. Then, it did a 180.

At one of the smaller towns along the line, the doors to our car swung open and in poured the rowdiest group of Italian soccer players you have ever seen. Instantly, the car went from being nearly empty to every seat full, or rather, they were more so piled on top of each other, moving around, standing, all the space full EXCEPT for the two right across from us.

One brave soul did sack up and sit down across from Amy, though, and while we were trying to act like pandemonium wasn't taking place around us, the soccer team immediately went into a frenzy giving their teammate a hard time in Italian. I, of course, couldn't understand anything they were saying, but as they were roasting this guy across from Amy, she couldn't help but laugh occasionally while trying to act like she was reading her book and then whispering to me what they were saying.

It didn't take long for them to figure out that the two blond girls were somewhat hip to what was going on, so from that point on they were talking non-stop to Amy while I waffled between smiling and nodding like an idiot and then losing interest and going back to my book. For Amy though, it was incessant. Very few of them spoke English, so the poor girl was thrust back in to Italian at full speed and with an entire soccer team. I don't know if some of them realized that I didn't speak Italian, because one of the few things they did say directly to me was "Are you shy? Are you nerrrvvouus?", to which I could do nothing more than indignantly respond with "No, I just don't speak Italian" and a few "ch's" and "puh's" in mock offense, having mistaken my ignorance for timidness.

After a long 2 hours on what was now the hottest train in Italy thanks to it being 80 degrees and overcrowded, the soccer team disembarked for their match. But, not before sufficiently hitting on us and leaving with promises to come see us in Rome (yeah right) and a barrage of "ciao bellas". When they got off, a calm came back to our car and the other Americans immediately turned around with dropped jaws and just started laughing.

It was really the most obscene, comical display of Italian 'machismo' that you could ask for after being in Italy for mere hours. Really though, every American girl's fantasy of being trapped with an Italian soccer team was somewhat lost on me and exhausting for Amy, but it made for a good welcome wagon.

With that, we fell back in to a peaceful silence and waited out the duration of what ended up being an almost 6-hour train ride. One of our longest rides yet and also most anxiety filled since we had no idea where we were the entire time, or even if we had gotten on the right train to begin with. Eventually though, the terrain started to look right and upon arriving in Vernazza, we began what was to be one of the most memorable weeks of our trip in one of the most amazing regions.