Posts Tagged ‘italy’

Scoot…er Originally uploaded by itsjustanalias.

They say that for all his faults, at least Mussolini made the trains run on time. Mind you they also say he was a complete loon. One day I must find out who ‘they’ are, and if there’s an open slot for membership. Milan central station is big enough to satisfy the massive ego of Il Duce, it’s all roman columns and imposing stonework, and is just huge. All it needs is a balcony above the main entrance and you can imagine the dictator of your choice standing and waving/saluting and watching his military parade in front.

Still, for all their efficiencies our train from Milan to Padova ran 20 minutes late. But that’s not what I want to say. I want to say thanks to the italians, who, unlike the Dutch or the Swiss with their to-the-second precision, have this very efficient system and have managed to make it just a little bit chaotic.

If you’ve ever caught a train in italy, you’ll know this, and if not, well… it’s not enough to buy a ticket. You have to validate it as well. On the platforms there are little yellow boxes that stamp a timecode onto your ticket. I’m really not sure what this adds to the ticket, in terms of validity, but it’s essential. The first time I travelled by train in Italy I didn’t know this and was subjected to a withering torrent of italian when the guard had to (the horror) write on my ticket. Other times I’ve been reduced to a mad dash to find a validation machine that worked, along with dozens of other desperate commuters, running from platform to platform only to be denied by an ‘out of service’ label.

This time I bought my ticket from Padova to Milan using one of the automated ticket booths. It printed off two cards, my ticket and my receipt. I splashed out for the first class, it was an extra €7 and why not, when it’s that reasonable. I validated my ticket well in advance (I wonder how far in advance is too far) and used the handy train guide to find the position on the platform that would be closest to my compartment (something else we could use in the UK). The train arrived and I joined the others in a comfy six place compartment and we rolled out of Padova. Then the conductor arrived, I gave him my ticket. He asked for the rest of it. He must mean the receipt, I thought, weird. He took the receipt off me and studied it for a while. Then he sighed and told me (I assume) that I should have validated it and there’d be a fine. I stammered a few words of Spanish and he gave another huge sigh. Then he took out his pen and signed and dated the card.

So: any Italian experts (and I’m looking at you here Liz… ask your driver fellow)… why do they do this? Any other rail travellers… do they do this anywhere else?

Leffe for me, radioactive juice for you…. Originally uploaded by itsjustanalias.

Padua/Padova is about half an hour away from Venice, and as a consequence, the majority of tourists seem to drive past it. This is a good thing, as an abundance of tourists is a pain… even though we constituted two more. We saw quite a few groups during the day, being led past the 12th century market (the building I think is a little newer than that, but not by a whole lot) or being taken to rub the old bones of St Antony in the basilica, or at least the back of his sarcophagus. Padua also has miles of covered pavements, porticos, for whatever reason. The weather is not going to be a problem there because you can traverse the entire historic centre of the city under cover. We took the tour of the piazza del bo, which is part of the university. 1222 they started here, so there’s a history of learning. The reason we did the tour is that they have the worlds oldest dissection theatre. It’s tiny, a room the size of a small bathroom with six steep tiers above it in an inverted cone shape. They had a special dispensation from the pope to let them cut up criminals. That and sitting in the lecture hall that Galileo lectured in (spruced up a bit, some paint, some additional parquet flooring) were pretty good highlights.

As for the Padovese, well, they like their Aperol spritz, it’s an aperitif similar to campari, which they also drink in huge numbers. They also seemed to flock to one stall at the side of the market and when we looked they were going mad for octopus. Simple boiled octopi, we asked for a small one, and the stallholder deftly sliced the head in two, scooped off the beak, took out the bits you shouldn’t eat and chopped up the rest. He drizzled it with olive oil, a bit of parlsey and there it was, waiting to be polished off by skillful use of toothpicks. It was lovely… mmmm octopus brains… you can taste the intelligence.

I’ve just got back from a long weekend visiting Liz in Italy. I’ll write something about the visit soon, but first a word about the French… merde! Those work-shy-cheese-eating-surrender-monkey-striking-railway-upsetting French… we love ‘em. I took the train to Italy, well, three trains, two overnight. First from Oviedo to Barcelona (12 hours or so) which went without a hitch, my first time using couchettes, or litera as they call them here. Six to a compartment, six narrow bunks and thin blankets and cotton sheets. I did get to talk to a maoist gnome (or rather I was talked at by a maoist gnome… but that’s for a future post… the one about the people you meet on trains) but I also slept quite well. After a day in Barcelona I got another trai… waitaminnit… that sign says (in Catalan and in Spanish) Due to a French train strike the service to Milan will be by bus. BUS! Bloomin’ French….

I ended up having to explain about the strike to a few rows of disgruntled non Spanish speakers (Japanese, Canadian, American) all of whom had just followed directions and gestures and now found themselves inexplicably on a coach. And not a coach like those lovely Argentine ones, oh no… Ordinary, upright seats, no blankets. It was an uncomfortable night, and we were woken early by the flashes of the Japanese as we drove through the Alps at dawn. It looked lovely but I would have preferred a bed. And the coach took a couple of hours longer than the train would have… so fifteen hours of cramped neck ache…

The third train was from Milan to Padua (Padova as the Italians misspell it). Milan station is the single most perfect example of facist architecture I’ve ever seen. It’s enormous, and designed to impress. ‘Well, at least he made the trains run on time’ sprang to mind. This train was late… only by ten minutes but that’s enough to be a metaphorical two fingers to Il Duce in my book. I met Liz at the station in Milan, she had arrived from the airport not long before I decoached stiffly.

Still, the return journey went without a hitch, and let me tell you, I really did miss out on a bed on the outward leg. The trenhotel Salvador Dali had four proper beds to a compartment, wide enough to roll over without peril, propper mattresses too, not just hard cushions. It’s a fine thing to go to sleep as you roll into Turin, and to wake up as you roll out of Girona and head to the bar for a freshly made coffee (hello british rail operators: even the trolley car in italy had an espresso machine) and a sandwich made with fresh bread. The only downside is the fact that it took me two days, but if you have time, it’s the only way to fly.