Written 6-11 June 2006 WARNING this story is about ten pages long. You either need a long lunch break, a bottomless cup of coffee, or a print out to take home or read on the train. Oh, and yes, I've written about the day we went to London and the day we left London but not about anything in between. I spend about 3-4 hours writing each day but can't keep up with life. Enjoy!
Home coming 31 May - 1 June 2006
Before climbing out of bed we knew it was going to be a long day. Long turned out to be an understatement.
The last day of our whirlwind week in London started out well. We broke the morning fast with Garo before farewelling his gracious parents who offered to host us again anytime. Gi told Joseph, Garo’s father, that we’d be back in six months time to stay for a couple of years. I know he was only half joking. Their home and hospitality were both gracious and generous. Accompanying Garo and his siblings Jacob and Arpi to the family hairdressing salon business we said another round of goodbyes before dragging our luggage on the underground train to meet our friend Peter at Oxford Circus.
Peter arrived promptly buttoned up in a warm jacket, wearing shades and looking significantly more grown up than my fond neighbourly memories of him as a teenager. Over expensive cappuccinos served in oversized cups we caught up on the comings and going of Peter’s life including his recent promotion, love interest and horrendous flatmate. Gi popped out briefly and returned with another long lost friend, Jon Jackson, who is still working at TopMan, a menswear fashion store, some twelve years after they met there. Jon looks ten years younger than his 40 something years with coffee colouring and youthful dreadlocks. However, after a round of kisses and photos he skipped back to work.
Following a stroll through Soho and an organic lunch the three of us tubed down to Victoria station chatting about family and the possibility of catching up again. In order to ensure we avoided any traffic delays and checked in early we caught the next coach to Stansted Airport, while Peter headed off to take an overland train home. With a driver who thought he was accumulating bonus points for braking I escaped to my usual on-the-move-and-I’m-not-driving snooze zone to overcome what is usually called motion sickness, but in central London’s 9km/hour traffic, and with this driver, should be referred to as ‘stop, yay start, ohhh stop again’ sickness.
Gi gently elbowed me awake as we pulled into the airport car park; gently patting down my newly cut hair where it was sleep ruffled. Inside we did all those lovely things you can do at English airports but shouldn’t take for granted in other countries like find a post box and post last minute postcards, enjoy the clean lavatory facilities for free and study the readily available information booklets. After deciding against spending British sterling we didn’t have on luxuries like books, music and lingerie we checked in and headed for the queues leading travellers to the hidden side of the dividing wall. Expecting to go through passport control we were instead confronted with a crowd of people organised according to English custom. The queues slowly moving through each narrow doorway in the plain beige wall became even long queues snaking around in a zigzag fashion in accordance with the barriers. Pairs of these twisting processions of bored individuals joined to become single file as we off loaded hand luggage and emptied pockets for security screening. As I passed through the metal detector I expected bells and whistles to go off as they always do when I wear boots through Brisbane Airport security. The silence surprised me. Why is it that I always have to strip off, removing my boots and belt at the Brisbane Airport security screening, walking through in stockinged feet, holding my pants up, but at a major airport in London, a city not unknown for terrorist activity, I just stroll through like I’m going into the supermarket? Behind me, as though reading my mind, padded my sock-wearing husband, his cowboy boots coolly passing along the X-ray conveyor belt like they owned the joint.
Having been fully searched at the Rome airport before our flight to London I was again expecting the same procedure with my laptop buried at the bottom of my small backpack. Again, I was surprised as I surreptitiously collected my belongings and prepared to leave. Gi however had his small backpack sent off along an isolated conveyor belt, obviously the equivalent of the ‘naughty seat’ for flyers. Pulling on his boots and stuffing coins and keys back into his pockets he went to join the uniformed lady who was in the process of waving his bag around looking for its owner. With the utmost courtesy and professionalism she asked if she could search the bag, and proceeded to unzip pockets and remove the contents. Gi rolls his clothes for packing to make the most of the available space and reduce the wrinkle factor. Ms Security Inspector was making good progress until he apologised for the ‘dirties’ and I commented that “dirty laundry must be an occupational hazard”. Pulling up sharply she confessed that normally she asks people if the clothes are clean or dirty, and wears gloves when inspecting dirty clothes, but Gi’s clothes looked clean they way he’d packed them so she had made an assumption. Needless to say the rest of the clothes didn’t get searched thoroughly. The bag had been sidelined because of a laptop battery that Gi had inadvertently left at the bottom of his bag. After testing it and the bag’s contents for bomb residue Ms Security Inspector politely offered to repack the bag, and looked genuinely relieved when Gigi refused.
We never did pass through passport control, and I’m still working out how the British authorities are going to know that I’ve left for another part of the EU.
Gate 41 drew us in and after spending my last £1.09 on three chocolate bars we settled in to wait for boarding. Ryan Air doesn’t allocate seats, which I’m told is to encourage passengers to board quickly and help the airline maintain its low prices and good ‘on time’ reputation. With families and the infirm boarding first we then boarded according to check in order, obviously another incentive for passengers to check in early rather than at the last minute (which still means forty minutes before departure time when the check in counters close). Gi and I were quickly on the plane, joining the smaller queue at the rear doors, stowing our luggage and unabashedly securing three seats between the two of us. Who said we don’t know how to adapt in foreign environments? Unfortunately the Ryan Air ‘leave on time’ policy doesn’t account for Italian passengers who certainly don’t see the point in rushing to be squeezed into restrictive seats with no possibility of decent food, drink or cigarettes for at least three hours. Slowly they filtered onboard, removing coats, blocking the aisle, probably dreaming about having a good coffee, a real coffee, back home.
The flight itself was almost full, and not particularly inspiring. We finally took off just after 7pm and, as we flew over London and then south towards the continent, I looked back out of the window to photograph the extended sunset, reflecting gold off the river. We had the pleasure of being served by two young stewards who seemed intent on filling the air with as much nonsensical banter as possible. I doubt that I’ve ever encountered flight attendants that were less professional and less interested in their responsibilities than these two. Ryan Air planes also seem to be hosted by young Irish women who mumble and speak too quickly into the microphone, as though embarrassed at the sound of their voice over the plane’s speaker system. Thankfully, the safety demonstrations are accompanied by the usual hand gestures and Safety Card referral (which is pasted to the head rest of the seat in front of me to ensure I pay attention to it). But her updates on the local time, weather conditions, food trolley, duty free shopping and transport options at the arrival airport remain a complete mystery. It was like she was speaking a completely different language with the odd word of English thrown in as a teaser. If we fly with Ryan Air again, and again I feel lost in translation I’m going to have to write in suggesting they use subtitles.
Arriving late into Rome Ciampino airport (oops, there go the Ryan Air statistics!) we shuffled off the plane to jump on the waiting airport shuttle bus. Passengers are no longer permitted to walk off a plane across the tarmac for safety and security reasons, but I was flabbergasted when the shuttle bus circled the Boeing 737 plane to pull up only ten metres from the nose, spilling us out at a glass sliding door.
Passport control syphoned the crowd through quickly with most of the passengers holding EU documentation, to which the Passport Officers barely gave a cursory glance. A flash of my Australian passport must have caused a heart flutter though as the robot behind the window grabbed it, reviewed my visa and my face and then thumped an arrival stamp onto the very last page of my almost new passport. It was now well after 10pm local time and as we moved through Customs it was obvious that the only option was the unstaffed ‘Green’ section, with the ‘Red’ area boarded up in murky shadow; clearly closed for the night.
Knowing that the last train from Rome’s central station, Stazione Termini, had already departed for Naples at 9.30pm our only hope of getting home that night was to try and find a late night coach. Purposefully striding passed the taxi drivers and passengers lingering outside the sliding doors, filling the atmosphere and their needy lungs with plumes of smoke, we located the next transfer bus. With the clock ticking and Gi’s sense of urgency increasing we waited another twenty minutes before it was the scheduled departure time. I’d just slinked down to the back of the bus to slip out of a skirt into some more appropriate street battle wear, jeans, and was resettling when the friendly ticket seller remembered his early conversation with Gi and suggested we try and find a coach at the next stop, Roma Tiburtina. It was starting to rain, my hand was badly hurting from a recent accident and my reluctance was overwhelming but before I knew it Gi was off the bus heading for the station.
For the next twenty minutes we dashed around reading the boards overhead trying to determine if there were any trains departing from this side of the city that headed anywhere near Naples. Mindful of the fact that the last inner city metro for the night left at 11.30pm we then raced around trying to locate the bus terminal. Eventually receiving directions that it was off to the side, well out of sight, Gi had us both slipping along the tiled footpath in the rain. The bus terminal was even seedier than the aligned train station, and inside the ticket booth a young woman provided the heartbreaking news that there were no coaches to Naples, ever! It was ironically heartbreaking because the idea of spending several hours on a coach on the wet freeway to Naples was incredibly unappealing. Ironically, if I’d known what was to follow, I would have hijacked a coach and driven it myself.
Dejected we skidded back along the slippery walkway towards the train station, down the stairs, hoping that we hadn’t already missed the last metro back into the centre of Rome. Force-feeding coins into the ticket machines I was perplexed when they kept appearing in the change catcher below. Giving up, Gi asked the nearby attendant what time the next train was due and what platform we needed. The woman, kitted out in her navy blue railway uniform, pointed with disinterest to the platform directly behind her glass booth, indicating it was due any minute. Taking his cue, Gi grabbed me and we boldly walked through the ticket barriers, ticketless once again. I’ve now come to accept that in Italy when it’s too hard to buy a ticket (machines broken, booths closed) you just don’t, and have faith that at the other end if tickets are being inspected that enough people are passing through for you to be able slip through, or better still that the gates will be open. This was the case when we arrived ten minutes later at Stazione Termini.
Following the signs up from the underground level I watched with pity as an Asian man ran flying onto the platform as the last metro train for the night pulled away; without him. Climbing the stairs, several other wanna-be-passengers dashed by us, unaware that they were already too late. I wondered how they were going to get to their midnight destinations.
With it still raining outside and the brightly lit station beckoning we wandered through the concourse, quietly observing the last of the retail outlets close up for the night. A double check of the departure board confirmed that the next train to Naples would leave some six hours later at 5:49am. We both knew the best thing to do was find a quiet, safe, dry place to spend the next few hours. The waiting room sign above our heads seemed like a heavenly signal. It was not anyone’s idea of comfortable but it had rows of plastic seats, a separate room with a TV screen and a radio blaring, and an area of desks obviously set up for business travellers and laptop use. The office chairs at these desks were now largely occupied by people slumped over asleep. Other people were sprawled out sleeping across the rows of seats, and in the corner a woman was discreetly trying to quieten a crying baby by breastfeeding it under a burgundy velvet cloak. Her pink dress and matching sparkly summer shoes were a stark contrast to her filthy, hardened feet and her husband’s more formal attire. Claiming a row for us I settled in to try and sleep, blocking out the crying, snoring and loud radio with my earphones and music. Gi, ever vigilant, and extremely disappointed that we had failed to find a solution to our six-hour transit problem, sat bolt upright beside me.
No sooner had I closed my eyes and wriggled around to find a small degree of comfort when Gi was shaking me. The arrival of a station official brought the unwelcome news that the waiting room closed at midnight and we all had to leave. Why you would close a waiting room was a mystery, but a mystery that would soon be unveiled. Gathering our bags, we begrudgingly walked out, the lady and her baby still wrapped in the velvet cloak, and an old lady shuffling along behind us.
Strolling around the station we realised that the only other seating was on the platforms. To avoid spending the night sitting on the tiled haemorrhoid-inducing floor we took up position along platform 15, sheltered from the rain, but still feeling the bite of the cold wind. With the storm intensifying outside, flashes of lightening illuminated the silhouettes of the slumbering trains, thunder rumbling above the ancient city. We pulled out the Neapolitan cards to play, the game of matching, mathematics and memory helping to pass the time. A mini cleaning truck droned along the platform sweeping and sucking up discarded cigarette buts, plastic coffee cups and fast food wrappers. The warm, dusty air it blew into our faces was gritty and unpleasant.
At 1am a garbled announcement overhead declared that the station would be closing from 1:30 – 4:30am. Looking around I wondered why TrenItalia bothered closing for three hours when there were obviously passengers waiting for the first early morning trains. It was unexpected that one of the central stations in a continent well-known for its railway service and links would close at all. Our decision to wait at the station instead of spending precious Euro on accommodation for a few hours suddenly felt like a very bad idea. Humping packs onto shoulders we wandered outside to consider our options. In Naples you can always find an all night bar or pizzeria open, a warm and dry spot to hang out. With only a couple of external signs lit up around the station we eventually found a café with enticing orange seats. Sculling an espresso coffee Gi joined me at a table, only to be told we had to pay another exorbitant service fee if we wanted to sit down. Ah, the joys of a city set up to empty tourists’ pockets.
At least now the mystery of the midnight closure of the waiting room was solved.
Reluctantly we walked back towards the station, the streets slick with rain and rubbish from the day’s trading. Crossing the tram lines, the last of the glass doors were being secured for the ‘night’ by security guards, and even McDonalds had finished serving its burgers and fries. The rain limited our options but we settled in front of the station, leaning against the glass windows in an alcove across from the bus terminal. With a tired sigh I realised that the only difference between me and the homeless bag lady in the next alcove was that she was sitting on large sheets of cardboard, warm and buffered against the concrete, under a layer of old blankets and newspapers; undoubtedly more comfortable, and more accustomed to these conditions, than me.
Gi remained standing, on full security alert, tense that we had to wait out here for three hours, in an unfamiliar place, amongst people he couldn’t fully gauge. He looked like he was casually people-watching but I knew he was carefully scrutinising everyone around. A homeless guy, his heavy beard blurring his face, paced up and down the length of the station, his scuffed brown leather shoes failing to make an indent on the concrete as he followed the same path up and back. A delinquent on a low-riding bicycle cruised around, a large German shepherd trotting along behind. Every now and then the dog barked ferociously and I jumped each time, hoping that it’s part of the chasing game and nothing more.
Four suspicious looking men spotted us and two of them casually peeled away to walk passed us at closer range. They looked about our age, one sporting a distinctive blue jacket and the other white tracksuit pants. As they strolled by they slowed to study our luggage, eyeing each piece and our appearance with apparent intent. Returning to become a group of four they edged closer towards us, Gi now asking me to calmly, but quickly get ready to move. On the inside I’m anxious, wanting to throw my head back and rage at the world for not having a late night train to Naples, closing us out of the relative sanctity of the station, and for mothers failing to direct their children away from a life of petty crime and violence. On the outside, I’m standing up, adjusting my jumper, jacket and scarf and walking with Gi, bags on shoulders, across the road to join the crowd waiting for late night buses. It’s nothing more than a message really, letting them know that we’re aware of their intentions, hoping that there is some safety in numbers. They nonchalantly followed us, milling amongst the crowd. Gi’s antenna was going crazy, assessing everyone nearby, and my heart rate had increased as I considered the prospect of being robbed again. More than that though, I’m fully aware of how far Gi will go to protect me, and our valuables, the majority of which are strapped to his back. In twelve years I’ve never seen him physically defend himself as he has an uncanny ability to talk his way out of dilemmas (even at gun point on occasion) but I have no doubt he’d put up a good fight, even against these four. Standing under the narrow bus shelter, the misty rain slicing in, late night revellers chatting as they wait to go home I could only hope it wouldn’t come to that.
Bus 55N splashed into the terminal and the crooked foursome walked right up to us, arrogantly circling us before boarding the bus. They continued to watch us from inside as the bus filled up, and it’s only as the engines rumbled and it moved towards the intersection that I started to breathe again. To my horror, the bus stopped short of the intersection and the crunching noises indicated the driver was having problems engaging the gears. Gi’s stress levels rose again as we watched the criminal cohort disembarks with the other passengers.
An angel above answered my prayers and another 55N pulled into the terminal at that moment. Like a flock of penguins the passengers trot over and piled in, the fickle four getting caught up in the wave. We both exhaled as this second bus chugged away, taking its dangerous cargo with it. We waited at the bus stop, watching the crowd slowly dissipate out as three more buses pulled in, loaded up and drove off into the night. As a sliver of relaxation creeps in, two more dodgy guys arrive, cruise around and then disappear into the darkness.
We moved back to the glass frontage towards the other end to find a group of English backpackers camped out. We plonked ourselves down beside them, hoping to blend in with the larger group, more comfortable in the illuminated doorway. I watched as they drank beer, rolled out sleeping backs and snuggled up, sharing cigarettes.
A homeless guy, dressed in what looked like the cast offs from a Scandinavian backpacker, managed to pry the glass sliding doors open and squeezed through. Having found a baggage trolley earlier that we’d loaded our bags onto, we positioned it against the wall and I sat on it. Gi’s legs started to fade, so following the homeless guy he snuck inside the train station to grab a second baggage trolley. Moments later he was being ejected, as the security guards kicked him out, ignoring his protests.
Soon after, a character of Middle Eastern origin sauntered up to the English tourists and gestured for a cigarette. With shaking heads, and ‘No, sorry’ exclamations they politely responded to his request. The fact that a couple of them were smoking had not escaped him, and in this part of the world it’s generally accepted that, if asked, you’ll give someone a cigarette. The only way around it is to say you’ve just smoked the last one, or are saving the last one for later. Their point blank refusal was a clashing of cultures. The tall, dark, wiry man demonstrated his fury at the rejection by ranting and raving in heavily accented Italian, ending the performance by spitting dramatically and forcefully in the direction of the group. Spitting is not an uncommon practice on the streets of Italy, as elsewhere in the world, but spitting at someone is considered incredibly insulting. Ironically the English backpackers failed to understand his saliva attack, or adopted the English approach of civilly ignoring any unpleasantness in the certainty that eventually it will go away. Their indifference only seemed to fuel his rage.
Gi, ever the bridge between cultures, understood both sides of the unfolding drama but reacted strongly to the spitting incident in accordance with Neapolitan street law. Chastising the man for his rough behaviour resulted in a battle of words and puffed chests, with a distance of some twenty strides between them. The English backpackers, those that were awake, watched the exchange with bewilderment, completely unaware that Gigi was defending them. The argument slowly fizzed out to a volley of warnings and reproaches, with both of them shouting ‘Okay, it’s finished, be quiet now”, “Shut up, there’s nothing more to say”, and so on. Watching grown men reduced to a match of whoever-says-the-last-word-wins in another language is a spectacle to behold. Especially at 3 o’clock in the morning, locked outside of a train station, intermittent rain drizzling and with nowhere to go.
As the quiet of central Rome void of traffic and pedestrian chaos settled on us, we watched as a little man with dark skin and a bizarre red hat trotted towards us pushing a baggage trolley. After discovering that the sliding doors were not going to open he asked what time the station opened. 4.30am was still an eternity away. Parking the trolley between us and the English tourists sprawled out across the pavement, he jiggled as he moved, surveying the area. Dressed in yellow shorts and the red hat shaped like an inverted, somewhat flaccid, ice-cream cone he certainly stood out. On his trolley was a big round Tom drum and a lone Congo drum balanced behind it, both encased in zip up bags.
He and Gi started chatting idly, revealing that he was from Brazil and part of a touring band. After hearing that we have lived in London, Australia, Thailand and Italy he wholeheartedly recommended that we visit Brazil. He continued to bounce around skittishly, at one point unloading the drums, leaning them against the wall. Unexpectedly, with barely a gesture for Gi to keep an eye on the drums, he disappeared, steering the trolley into the darkness. Some time later he returned, this time the trolley was loaded with two more Congo drums and a guitar. As I was wondering where the rest of the band were, three men strolled across the bus terminal. All four men had distinctly different skin tone, one coffee coloured, another the colour of dark chocolate. A mixture of dreadlocks, full lips, bright sneakers and open smiles mesmerised me as I watched them discuss their plans before two of them saunter off in the direction from which they’d come.
Mr Red Hat was left with the guitar player, and their discussion soon escalated into an argument. Leaping about, his voice shrill and adamant, we seemed oblivious to the attention, as his mate repeatedly tried to calm him down. Mr Guitar seemed unhappy with the plans and the idea of travelling by train, but Mr Red Hat insisted it was only for the short term, and really not a big deal. Or at least that’s how I interpreted the excited Portuguese dialect that was echoing around us. Mr Guitar started to walk away, aware that they would not resolve the issue. Suddenly, Mr Red Hat made a decision; obviously a decision made rashly and in the heat of an argument is not always the wisest choice. Turning to Gi he asked him to look out for his stuff saying he would return by 4:30am when the station opened. Gi just nodded, unsure what else to say. Storming off, Mr Red Hat ran after his mate who was now halfway across the bus terminal.
We stood there, looking at the percussion pile topped with the guitar and a shoulder bag that suspiciously looked like it would contain personal belongings, money and ID. Gi began to look uncomfortable, explaining that he felt suspicious about what had just happened. Foreigners arriving with large objects, arguing and unceremoniously leaving them in the responsibility of a complete stranger at such an odd hour gave him reason to be nervous. Moving, we positioned ourselves some twenty metres away, where Gi could still see the drums but not necessarily be involved.
His main thought was that it could be a bomb, left outside the train station, waiting for it to get busier; a potential act of terrorism. I’m not sure that being only twenty metres away meant that we would be unharmed should it explode, but at least it was safer than sitting next to it. The other possibility was that the drums were crammed full of drugs, and that the police, having watched the argument and Mr Red Hat talk to Gi, would sweep in and arrest him having assumed he was an associate taking possession.
Ironically we only saw one police vehicle all night, as the station opened up again, and the inherent dangers of standing around in such an unsafe area were over.
While we were on bomb alert, two girls wandered towards us, carrying a map and looking dishevelled and lost. Gi gave them directions in English and they wandered off again, somewhat nonchalantly, despite the warnings from Gi about being alert. As if to emphasis the point, three drunken English lads walked up to the station door, assuming they’d be able to go inside and crash for the night. Mumbling loudly that they slept for eight hours at the station in Slovenia they gave up and wandered off.
The circus side show continued as a grungy man vigorously smoking a cigarette came over and stood right beside Gi. Finishing his cigarette in a plume of smoke he threw the burning butt under the trolley I was sitting on and then strolled off. It was one of the strangest, premeditated deeds but in a place of homelessness and insanity it was just one more thing to ignore. Much like the tall man, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, his shoulders hunched over as though his height was a burden. He floated around, muttering to himself, incoherent and very much alone. Every few seconds he would toss his head, throwing his chin over his right shoulder, a tick he was unable to control.
A row of buses sat idle, the rain puddles started to dry up, still glistening from the yellow street lights. Taxis came and went. A street cleaning truck trundled through beeping and creaking. To one side an ancient wall stood majestically, a ruin amongst the grey concrete. A cream building towered behind it, the window trims painted mustard. The smell of urine and dust that usually lingered around the station had been washed away by the rain and street cleaners. Inside the station a team of workers had been busy erecting huge advertising banners for Fanta and Nike. We waited outside, willing the time to pass.
Gi quietly narrated the comings and goings to me, like he was watching a bizarre soap opera. He regularly reinforced the point that he didn’t understand much of the strange behaviour going on around us. Hands in his pocket, he quietly watched, like a bored security guard on duty in an art gallery, expecting a robbery.
The sleepiness and heavy headedness had passed, it was almost 4am and my eyes felt disconnected from my brain, like they were over exposed. Surprisingly I felt refreshed, like I’d slept. I knew it is only temporary.
It was time for the station to open up; people started standing in front of the doors, shuffling their feet, looking at watches. I watched as the English backpackers roused themselves and slowly packed up. They were unaware of the man in a leather jacket, standing in the shadows right behind them, watching everything. He was casing them out, waiting for an opportunity to grab an unattended piece of luggage. Motioning to Gigi we continued to watch as the group slowly folded up sleeping bags, riffled through packs and laughed at someone’s joke. Ten steps and I was standing in the middle of them, quietly talking in English, making them aware of their ‘friend’ and imploring them to be more vigilant. One girl dressed in a blue linen skirt and white singlet looked at me like I was her mother waking her up. Her boyfriend towered over me, not more than twenty years old, his goatee and beanie only highlighting his pale skin and youth. I suggested that he needed to look a little less innocent and a little meaner, tougher, and that they all needed to be aware of what was going on around them to avoid being robbed, or worse.
The doors opened and we all streamed inside. The next hour ticked by as we stood on the platform chatting to the English group who were also travelling to Naples on the 5:49am train. They’d just finished their university studies and were on a nine day tour of Italy in celebration. One lad was a media studies graduate, interested in journalism, and with the good looks to support his ambition, he drilled us about Australia, living in Italy and work. His girlfriend had just completed Criminology, but disappointed with the course content she didn’t see herself pursuing a career in Criminology.
The train journey was uneventful until Gi asked a gentleman nearby to close the window. He did so, reluctantly, only to open it again five minutes later, the early morning chill filling the carriage. In response to Gi’s second request, he gestured towards the two African women sitting across the aisle, complaining about the smell and their bare feet. He was just exaggerating, we certainly didn’t agree. Shocked at his rudeness and arrogance we watched as a young woman who had earlier been drilling for a university exam, stood up and stormed out loudly voicing that she wasn’t going to sit near a racist. I’d overheard the African women conversing in Italian but they didn’t react, as we too got up and left the carriage. Mr Racist’s female companion shrilly exclaiming “What happened, why are they leaving?” as though his remarks were perfectly reasonable.
The train was thirty minutes late getting into Naples, so at 9am we found ourselves arriving at Piazza Garibaldi central station in the middle of peak hour. Striding down towards the underground metro, ready for the short journey to the next stop at Piazza Cavour, right in front of our place, we were confronted with a huge crowd. It was obviously going to be a while before the swarm of people cleared, so we headed back towards the daylight in search of a bus. The bus journey took about 40 minutes, compared to the three minute metro ride, but we eventually made it to our front door, with our belongings. The desire to eat and shower were quickly subdued with the realisation that we’d left the fridge empty and the hot water system turned off for the week. However, the bed was undeniably available and calling our names.
It was a week before we fully recovered from our trip home from London. And while it’s a journey I never wish to repeat it’s undoubtedly an interesting way to meet ‘new’ people, and see a famous city in a different light. I still have two letters of complaint to write though: one to the central station authorities about the lack of wisdom in closing the station for three hours, and the other to Ryan Air about the need for on board subtitles.
Home coming 31 May - 1 June 2006
Before climbing out of bed we knew it was going to be a long day. Long turned out to be an understatement.
The last day of our whirlwind week in London started out well. We broke the morning fast with Garo before farewelling his gracious parents who offered to host us again anytime. Gi told Joseph, Garo’s father, that we’d be back in six months time to stay for a couple of years. I know he was only half joking. Their home and hospitality were both gracious and generous. Accompanying Garo and his siblings Jacob and Arpi to the family hairdressing salon business we said another round of goodbyes before dragging our luggage on the underground train to meet our friend Peter at Oxford Circus.
Peter arrived promptly buttoned up in a warm jacket, wearing shades and looking significantly more grown up than my fond neighbourly memories of him as a teenager. Over expensive cappuccinos served in oversized cups we caught up on the comings and going of Peter’s life including his recent promotion, love interest and horrendous flatmate. Gi popped out briefly and returned with another long lost friend, Jon Jackson, who is still working at TopMan, a menswear fashion store, some twelve years after they met there. Jon looks ten years younger than his 40 something years with coffee colouring and youthful dreadlocks. However, after a round of kisses and photos he skipped back to work.
Following a stroll through Soho and an organic lunch the three of us tubed down to Victoria station chatting about family and the possibility of catching up again. In order to ensure we avoided any traffic delays and checked in early we caught the next coach to Stansted Airport, while Peter headed off to take an overland train home. With a driver who thought he was accumulating bonus points for braking I escaped to my usual on-the-move-and-I’m-not-driving snooze zone to overcome what is usually called motion sickness, but in central London’s 9km/hour traffic, and with this driver, should be referred to as ‘stop, yay start, ohhh stop again’ sickness.
Gi gently elbowed me awake as we pulled into the airport car park; gently patting down my newly cut hair where it was sleep ruffled. Inside we did all those lovely things you can do at English airports but shouldn’t take for granted in other countries like find a post box and post last minute postcards, enjoy the clean lavatory facilities for free and study the readily available information booklets. After deciding against spending British sterling we didn’t have on luxuries like books, music and lingerie we checked in and headed for the queues leading travellers to the hidden side of the dividing wall. Expecting to go through passport control we were instead confronted with a crowd of people organised according to English custom. The queues slowly moving through each narrow doorway in the plain beige wall became even long queues snaking around in a zigzag fashion in accordance with the barriers. Pairs of these twisting processions of bored individuals joined to become single file as we off loaded hand luggage and emptied pockets for security screening. As I passed through the metal detector I expected bells and whistles to go off as they always do when I wear boots through Brisbane Airport security. The silence surprised me. Why is it that I always have to strip off, removing my boots and belt at the Brisbane Airport security screening, walking through in stockinged feet, holding my pants up, but at a major airport in London, a city not unknown for terrorist activity, I just stroll through like I’m going into the supermarket? Behind me, as though reading my mind, padded my sock-wearing husband, his cowboy boots coolly passing along the X-ray conveyor belt like they owned the joint.
Having been fully searched at the Rome airport before our flight to London I was again expecting the same procedure with my laptop buried at the bottom of my small backpack. Again, I was surprised as I surreptitiously collected my belongings and prepared to leave. Gi however had his small backpack sent off along an isolated conveyor belt, obviously the equivalent of the ‘naughty seat’ for flyers. Pulling on his boots and stuffing coins and keys back into his pockets he went to join the uniformed lady who was in the process of waving his bag around looking for its owner. With the utmost courtesy and professionalism she asked if she could search the bag, and proceeded to unzip pockets and remove the contents. Gi rolls his clothes for packing to make the most of the available space and reduce the wrinkle factor. Ms Security Inspector was making good progress until he apologised for the ‘dirties’ and I commented that “dirty laundry must be an occupational hazard”. Pulling up sharply she confessed that normally she asks people if the clothes are clean or dirty, and wears gloves when inspecting dirty clothes, but Gi’s clothes looked clean they way he’d packed them so she had made an assumption. Needless to say the rest of the clothes didn’t get searched thoroughly. The bag had been sidelined because of a laptop battery that Gi had inadvertently left at the bottom of his bag. After testing it and the bag’s contents for bomb residue Ms Security Inspector politely offered to repack the bag, and looked genuinely relieved when Gigi refused.
We never did pass through passport control, and I’m still working out how the British authorities are going to know that I’ve left for another part of the EU.
Gate 41 drew us in and after spending my last £1.09 on three chocolate bars we settled in to wait for boarding. Ryan Air doesn’t allocate seats, which I’m told is to encourage passengers to board quickly and help the airline maintain its low prices and good ‘on time’ reputation. With families and the infirm boarding first we then boarded according to check in order, obviously another incentive for passengers to check in early rather than at the last minute (which still means forty minutes before departure time when the check in counters close). Gi and I were quickly on the plane, joining the smaller queue at the rear doors, stowing our luggage and unabashedly securing three seats between the two of us. Who said we don’t know how to adapt in foreign environments? Unfortunately the Ryan Air ‘leave on time’ policy doesn’t account for Italian passengers who certainly don’t see the point in rushing to be squeezed into restrictive seats with no possibility of decent food, drink or cigarettes for at least three hours. Slowly they filtered onboard, removing coats, blocking the aisle, probably dreaming about having a good coffee, a real coffee, back home.
The flight itself was almost full, and not particularly inspiring. We finally took off just after 7pm and, as we flew over London and then south towards the continent, I looked back out of the window to photograph the extended sunset, reflecting gold off the river. We had the pleasure of being served by two young stewards who seemed intent on filling the air with as much nonsensical banter as possible. I doubt that I’ve ever encountered flight attendants that were less professional and less interested in their responsibilities than these two. Ryan Air planes also seem to be hosted by young Irish women who mumble and speak too quickly into the microphone, as though embarrassed at the sound of their voice over the plane’s speaker system. Thankfully, the safety demonstrations are accompanied by the usual hand gestures and Safety Card referral (which is pasted to the head rest of the seat in front of me to ensure I pay attention to it). But her updates on the local time, weather conditions, food trolley, duty free shopping and transport options at the arrival airport remain a complete mystery. It was like she was speaking a completely different language with the odd word of English thrown in as a teaser. If we fly with Ryan Air again, and again I feel lost in translation I’m going to have to write in suggesting they use subtitles.
Arriving late into Rome Ciampino airport (oops, there go the Ryan Air statistics!) we shuffled off the plane to jump on the waiting airport shuttle bus. Passengers are no longer permitted to walk off a plane across the tarmac for safety and security reasons, but I was flabbergasted when the shuttle bus circled the Boeing 737 plane to pull up only ten metres from the nose, spilling us out at a glass sliding door.
Passport control syphoned the crowd through quickly with most of the passengers holding EU documentation, to which the Passport Officers barely gave a cursory glance. A flash of my Australian passport must have caused a heart flutter though as the robot behind the window grabbed it, reviewed my visa and my face and then thumped an arrival stamp onto the very last page of my almost new passport. It was now well after 10pm local time and as we moved through Customs it was obvious that the only option was the unstaffed ‘Green’ section, with the ‘Red’ area boarded up in murky shadow; clearly closed for the night.
Knowing that the last train from Rome’s central station, Stazione Termini, had already departed for Naples at 9.30pm our only hope of getting home that night was to try and find a late night coach. Purposefully striding passed the taxi drivers and passengers lingering outside the sliding doors, filling the atmosphere and their needy lungs with plumes of smoke, we located the next transfer bus. With the clock ticking and Gi’s sense of urgency increasing we waited another twenty minutes before it was the scheduled departure time. I’d just slinked down to the back of the bus to slip out of a skirt into some more appropriate street battle wear, jeans, and was resettling when the friendly ticket seller remembered his early conversation with Gi and suggested we try and find a coach at the next stop, Roma Tiburtina. It was starting to rain, my hand was badly hurting from a recent accident and my reluctance was overwhelming but before I knew it Gi was off the bus heading for the station.
For the next twenty minutes we dashed around reading the boards overhead trying to determine if there were any trains departing from this side of the city that headed anywhere near Naples. Mindful of the fact that the last inner city metro for the night left at 11.30pm we then raced around trying to locate the bus terminal. Eventually receiving directions that it was off to the side, well out of sight, Gi had us both slipping along the tiled footpath in the rain. The bus terminal was even seedier than the aligned train station, and inside the ticket booth a young woman provided the heartbreaking news that there were no coaches to Naples, ever! It was ironically heartbreaking because the idea of spending several hours on a coach on the wet freeway to Naples was incredibly unappealing. Ironically, if I’d known what was to follow, I would have hijacked a coach and driven it myself.
Dejected we skidded back along the slippery walkway towards the train station, down the stairs, hoping that we hadn’t already missed the last metro back into the centre of Rome. Force-feeding coins into the ticket machines I was perplexed when they kept appearing in the change catcher below. Giving up, Gi asked the nearby attendant what time the next train was due and what platform we needed. The woman, kitted out in her navy blue railway uniform, pointed with disinterest to the platform directly behind her glass booth, indicating it was due any minute. Taking his cue, Gi grabbed me and we boldly walked through the ticket barriers, ticketless once again. I’ve now come to accept that in Italy when it’s too hard to buy a ticket (machines broken, booths closed) you just don’t, and have faith that at the other end if tickets are being inspected that enough people are passing through for you to be able slip through, or better still that the gates will be open. This was the case when we arrived ten minutes later at Stazione Termini.
Following the signs up from the underground level I watched with pity as an Asian man ran flying onto the platform as the last metro train for the night pulled away; without him. Climbing the stairs, several other wanna-be-passengers dashed by us, unaware that they were already too late. I wondered how they were going to get to their midnight destinations.
With it still raining outside and the brightly lit station beckoning we wandered through the concourse, quietly observing the last of the retail outlets close up for the night. A double check of the departure board confirmed that the next train to Naples would leave some six hours later at 5:49am. We both knew the best thing to do was find a quiet, safe, dry place to spend the next few hours. The waiting room sign above our heads seemed like a heavenly signal. It was not anyone’s idea of comfortable but it had rows of plastic seats, a separate room with a TV screen and a radio blaring, and an area of desks obviously set up for business travellers and laptop use. The office chairs at these desks were now largely occupied by people slumped over asleep. Other people were sprawled out sleeping across the rows of seats, and in the corner a woman was discreetly trying to quieten a crying baby by breastfeeding it under a burgundy velvet cloak. Her pink dress and matching sparkly summer shoes were a stark contrast to her filthy, hardened feet and her husband’s more formal attire. Claiming a row for us I settled in to try and sleep, blocking out the crying, snoring and loud radio with my earphones and music. Gi, ever vigilant, and extremely disappointed that we had failed to find a solution to our six-hour transit problem, sat bolt upright beside me.
No sooner had I closed my eyes and wriggled around to find a small degree of comfort when Gi was shaking me. The arrival of a station official brought the unwelcome news that the waiting room closed at midnight and we all had to leave. Why you would close a waiting room was a mystery, but a mystery that would soon be unveiled. Gathering our bags, we begrudgingly walked out, the lady and her baby still wrapped in the velvet cloak, and an old lady shuffling along behind us.
Strolling around the station we realised that the only other seating was on the platforms. To avoid spending the night sitting on the tiled haemorrhoid-inducing floor we took up position along platform 15, sheltered from the rain, but still feeling the bite of the cold wind. With the storm intensifying outside, flashes of lightening illuminated the silhouettes of the slumbering trains, thunder rumbling above the ancient city. We pulled out the Neapolitan cards to play, the game of matching, mathematics and memory helping to pass the time. A mini cleaning truck droned along the platform sweeping and sucking up discarded cigarette buts, plastic coffee cups and fast food wrappers. The warm, dusty air it blew into our faces was gritty and unpleasant.
At 1am a garbled announcement overhead declared that the station would be closing from 1:30 – 4:30am. Looking around I wondered why TrenItalia bothered closing for three hours when there were obviously passengers waiting for the first early morning trains. It was unexpected that one of the central stations in a continent well-known for its railway service and links would close at all. Our decision to wait at the station instead of spending precious Euro on accommodation for a few hours suddenly felt like a very bad idea. Humping packs onto shoulders we wandered outside to consider our options. In Naples you can always find an all night bar or pizzeria open, a warm and dry spot to hang out. With only a couple of external signs lit up around the station we eventually found a café with enticing orange seats. Sculling an espresso coffee Gi joined me at a table, only to be told we had to pay another exorbitant service fee if we wanted to sit down. Ah, the joys of a city set up to empty tourists’ pockets.
At least now the mystery of the midnight closure of the waiting room was solved.
Reluctantly we walked back towards the station, the streets slick with rain and rubbish from the day’s trading. Crossing the tram lines, the last of the glass doors were being secured for the ‘night’ by security guards, and even McDonalds had finished serving its burgers and fries. The rain limited our options but we settled in front of the station, leaning against the glass windows in an alcove across from the bus terminal. With a tired sigh I realised that the only difference between me and the homeless bag lady in the next alcove was that she was sitting on large sheets of cardboard, warm and buffered against the concrete, under a layer of old blankets and newspapers; undoubtedly more comfortable, and more accustomed to these conditions, than me.
Gi remained standing, on full security alert, tense that we had to wait out here for three hours, in an unfamiliar place, amongst people he couldn’t fully gauge. He looked like he was casually people-watching but I knew he was carefully scrutinising everyone around. A homeless guy, his heavy beard blurring his face, paced up and down the length of the station, his scuffed brown leather shoes failing to make an indent on the concrete as he followed the same path up and back. A delinquent on a low-riding bicycle cruised around, a large German shepherd trotting along behind. Every now and then the dog barked ferociously and I jumped each time, hoping that it’s part of the chasing game and nothing more.
Four suspicious looking men spotted us and two of them casually peeled away to walk passed us at closer range. They looked about our age, one sporting a distinctive blue jacket and the other white tracksuit pants. As they strolled by they slowed to study our luggage, eyeing each piece and our appearance with apparent intent. Returning to become a group of four they edged closer towards us, Gi now asking me to calmly, but quickly get ready to move. On the inside I’m anxious, wanting to throw my head back and rage at the world for not having a late night train to Naples, closing us out of the relative sanctity of the station, and for mothers failing to direct their children away from a life of petty crime and violence. On the outside, I’m standing up, adjusting my jumper, jacket and scarf and walking with Gi, bags on shoulders, across the road to join the crowd waiting for late night buses. It’s nothing more than a message really, letting them know that we’re aware of their intentions, hoping that there is some safety in numbers. They nonchalantly followed us, milling amongst the crowd. Gi’s antenna was going crazy, assessing everyone nearby, and my heart rate had increased as I considered the prospect of being robbed again. More than that though, I’m fully aware of how far Gi will go to protect me, and our valuables, the majority of which are strapped to his back. In twelve years I’ve never seen him physically defend himself as he has an uncanny ability to talk his way out of dilemmas (even at gun point on occasion) but I have no doubt he’d put up a good fight, even against these four. Standing under the narrow bus shelter, the misty rain slicing in, late night revellers chatting as they wait to go home I could only hope it wouldn’t come to that.
Bus 55N splashed into the terminal and the crooked foursome walked right up to us, arrogantly circling us before boarding the bus. They continued to watch us from inside as the bus filled up, and it’s only as the engines rumbled and it moved towards the intersection that I started to breathe again. To my horror, the bus stopped short of the intersection and the crunching noises indicated the driver was having problems engaging the gears. Gi’s stress levels rose again as we watched the criminal cohort disembarks with the other passengers.
An angel above answered my prayers and another 55N pulled into the terminal at that moment. Like a flock of penguins the passengers trot over and piled in, the fickle four getting caught up in the wave. We both exhaled as this second bus chugged away, taking its dangerous cargo with it. We waited at the bus stop, watching the crowd slowly dissipate out as three more buses pulled in, loaded up and drove off into the night. As a sliver of relaxation creeps in, two more dodgy guys arrive, cruise around and then disappear into the darkness.
We moved back to the glass frontage towards the other end to find a group of English backpackers camped out. We plonked ourselves down beside them, hoping to blend in with the larger group, more comfortable in the illuminated doorway. I watched as they drank beer, rolled out sleeping backs and snuggled up, sharing cigarettes.
A homeless guy, dressed in what looked like the cast offs from a Scandinavian backpacker, managed to pry the glass sliding doors open and squeezed through. Having found a baggage trolley earlier that we’d loaded our bags onto, we positioned it against the wall and I sat on it. Gi’s legs started to fade, so following the homeless guy he snuck inside the train station to grab a second baggage trolley. Moments later he was being ejected, as the security guards kicked him out, ignoring his protests.
Soon after, a character of Middle Eastern origin sauntered up to the English tourists and gestured for a cigarette. With shaking heads, and ‘No, sorry’ exclamations they politely responded to his request. The fact that a couple of them were smoking had not escaped him, and in this part of the world it’s generally accepted that, if asked, you’ll give someone a cigarette. The only way around it is to say you’ve just smoked the last one, or are saving the last one for later. Their point blank refusal was a clashing of cultures. The tall, dark, wiry man demonstrated his fury at the rejection by ranting and raving in heavily accented Italian, ending the performance by spitting dramatically and forcefully in the direction of the group. Spitting is not an uncommon practice on the streets of Italy, as elsewhere in the world, but spitting at someone is considered incredibly insulting. Ironically the English backpackers failed to understand his saliva attack, or adopted the English approach of civilly ignoring any unpleasantness in the certainty that eventually it will go away. Their indifference only seemed to fuel his rage.
Gi, ever the bridge between cultures, understood both sides of the unfolding drama but reacted strongly to the spitting incident in accordance with Neapolitan street law. Chastising the man for his rough behaviour resulted in a battle of words and puffed chests, with a distance of some twenty strides between them. The English backpackers, those that were awake, watched the exchange with bewilderment, completely unaware that Gigi was defending them. The argument slowly fizzed out to a volley of warnings and reproaches, with both of them shouting ‘Okay, it’s finished, be quiet now”, “Shut up, there’s nothing more to say”, and so on. Watching grown men reduced to a match of whoever-says-the-last-word-wins in another language is a spectacle to behold. Especially at 3 o’clock in the morning, locked outside of a train station, intermittent rain drizzling and with nowhere to go.
As the quiet of central Rome void of traffic and pedestrian chaos settled on us, we watched as a little man with dark skin and a bizarre red hat trotted towards us pushing a baggage trolley. After discovering that the sliding doors were not going to open he asked what time the station opened. 4.30am was still an eternity away. Parking the trolley between us and the English tourists sprawled out across the pavement, he jiggled as he moved, surveying the area. Dressed in yellow shorts and the red hat shaped like an inverted, somewhat flaccid, ice-cream cone he certainly stood out. On his trolley was a big round Tom drum and a lone Congo drum balanced behind it, both encased in zip up bags.
He and Gi started chatting idly, revealing that he was from Brazil and part of a touring band. After hearing that we have lived in London, Australia, Thailand and Italy he wholeheartedly recommended that we visit Brazil. He continued to bounce around skittishly, at one point unloading the drums, leaning them against the wall. Unexpectedly, with barely a gesture for Gi to keep an eye on the drums, he disappeared, steering the trolley into the darkness. Some time later he returned, this time the trolley was loaded with two more Congo drums and a guitar. As I was wondering where the rest of the band were, three men strolled across the bus terminal. All four men had distinctly different skin tone, one coffee coloured, another the colour of dark chocolate. A mixture of dreadlocks, full lips, bright sneakers and open smiles mesmerised me as I watched them discuss their plans before two of them saunter off in the direction from which they’d come.
Mr Red Hat was left with the guitar player, and their discussion soon escalated into an argument. Leaping about, his voice shrill and adamant, we seemed oblivious to the attention, as his mate repeatedly tried to calm him down. Mr Guitar seemed unhappy with the plans and the idea of travelling by train, but Mr Red Hat insisted it was only for the short term, and really not a big deal. Or at least that’s how I interpreted the excited Portuguese dialect that was echoing around us. Mr Guitar started to walk away, aware that they would not resolve the issue. Suddenly, Mr Red Hat made a decision; obviously a decision made rashly and in the heat of an argument is not always the wisest choice. Turning to Gi he asked him to look out for his stuff saying he would return by 4:30am when the station opened. Gi just nodded, unsure what else to say. Storming off, Mr Red Hat ran after his mate who was now halfway across the bus terminal.
We stood there, looking at the percussion pile topped with the guitar and a shoulder bag that suspiciously looked like it would contain personal belongings, money and ID. Gi began to look uncomfortable, explaining that he felt suspicious about what had just happened. Foreigners arriving with large objects, arguing and unceremoniously leaving them in the responsibility of a complete stranger at such an odd hour gave him reason to be nervous. Moving, we positioned ourselves some twenty metres away, where Gi could still see the drums but not necessarily be involved.
His main thought was that it could be a bomb, left outside the train station, waiting for it to get busier; a potential act of terrorism. I’m not sure that being only twenty metres away meant that we would be unharmed should it explode, but at least it was safer than sitting next to it. The other possibility was that the drums were crammed full of drugs, and that the police, having watched the argument and Mr Red Hat talk to Gi, would sweep in and arrest him having assumed he was an associate taking possession.
Ironically we only saw one police vehicle all night, as the station opened up again, and the inherent dangers of standing around in such an unsafe area were over.
While we were on bomb alert, two girls wandered towards us, carrying a map and looking dishevelled and lost. Gi gave them directions in English and they wandered off again, somewhat nonchalantly, despite the warnings from Gi about being alert. As if to emphasis the point, three drunken English lads walked up to the station door, assuming they’d be able to go inside and crash for the night. Mumbling loudly that they slept for eight hours at the station in Slovenia they gave up and wandered off.
The circus side show continued as a grungy man vigorously smoking a cigarette came over and stood right beside Gi. Finishing his cigarette in a plume of smoke he threw the burning butt under the trolley I was sitting on and then strolled off. It was one of the strangest, premeditated deeds but in a place of homelessness and insanity it was just one more thing to ignore. Much like the tall man, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, his shoulders hunched over as though his height was a burden. He floated around, muttering to himself, incoherent and very much alone. Every few seconds he would toss his head, throwing his chin over his right shoulder, a tick he was unable to control.
A row of buses sat idle, the rain puddles started to dry up, still glistening from the yellow street lights. Taxis came and went. A street cleaning truck trundled through beeping and creaking. To one side an ancient wall stood majestically, a ruin amongst the grey concrete. A cream building towered behind it, the window trims painted mustard. The smell of urine and dust that usually lingered around the station had been washed away by the rain and street cleaners. Inside the station a team of workers had been busy erecting huge advertising banners for Fanta and Nike. We waited outside, willing the time to pass.
Gi quietly narrated the comings and goings to me, like he was watching a bizarre soap opera. He regularly reinforced the point that he didn’t understand much of the strange behaviour going on around us. Hands in his pocket, he quietly watched, like a bored security guard on duty in an art gallery, expecting a robbery.
The sleepiness and heavy headedness had passed, it was almost 4am and my eyes felt disconnected from my brain, like they were over exposed. Surprisingly I felt refreshed, like I’d slept. I knew it is only temporary.
It was time for the station to open up; people started standing in front of the doors, shuffling their feet, looking at watches. I watched as the English backpackers roused themselves and slowly packed up. They were unaware of the man in a leather jacket, standing in the shadows right behind them, watching everything. He was casing them out, waiting for an opportunity to grab an unattended piece of luggage. Motioning to Gigi we continued to watch as the group slowly folded up sleeping bags, riffled through packs and laughed at someone’s joke. Ten steps and I was standing in the middle of them, quietly talking in English, making them aware of their ‘friend’ and imploring them to be more vigilant. One girl dressed in a blue linen skirt and white singlet looked at me like I was her mother waking her up. Her boyfriend towered over me, not more than twenty years old, his goatee and beanie only highlighting his pale skin and youth. I suggested that he needed to look a little less innocent and a little meaner, tougher, and that they all needed to be aware of what was going on around them to avoid being robbed, or worse.
The doors opened and we all streamed inside. The next hour ticked by as we stood on the platform chatting to the English group who were also travelling to Naples on the 5:49am train. They’d just finished their university studies and were on a nine day tour of Italy in celebration. One lad was a media studies graduate, interested in journalism, and with the good looks to support his ambition, he drilled us about Australia, living in Italy and work. His girlfriend had just completed Criminology, but disappointed with the course content she didn’t see herself pursuing a career in Criminology.
The train journey was uneventful until Gi asked a gentleman nearby to close the window. He did so, reluctantly, only to open it again five minutes later, the early morning chill filling the carriage. In response to Gi’s second request, he gestured towards the two African women sitting across the aisle, complaining about the smell and their bare feet. He was just exaggerating, we certainly didn’t agree. Shocked at his rudeness and arrogance we watched as a young woman who had earlier been drilling for a university exam, stood up and stormed out loudly voicing that she wasn’t going to sit near a racist. I’d overheard the African women conversing in Italian but they didn’t react, as we too got up and left the carriage. Mr Racist’s female companion shrilly exclaiming “What happened, why are they leaving?” as though his remarks were perfectly reasonable.
The train was thirty minutes late getting into Naples, so at 9am we found ourselves arriving at Piazza Garibaldi central station in the middle of peak hour. Striding down towards the underground metro, ready for the short journey to the next stop at Piazza Cavour, right in front of our place, we were confronted with a huge crowd. It was obviously going to be a while before the swarm of people cleared, so we headed back towards the daylight in search of a bus. The bus journey took about 40 minutes, compared to the three minute metro ride, but we eventually made it to our front door, with our belongings. The desire to eat and shower were quickly subdued with the realisation that we’d left the fridge empty and the hot water system turned off for the week. However, the bed was undeniably available and calling our names.
It was a week before we fully recovered from our trip home from London. And while it’s a journey I never wish to repeat it’s undoubtedly an interesting way to meet ‘new’ people, and see a famous city in a different light. I still have two letters of complaint to write though: one to the central station authorities about the lack of wisdom in closing the station for three hours, and the other to Ryan Air about the need for on board subtitles.
1 comment:
Jenny, I loved the photos! and what a story about the long wait at the train station!? You painted Gigi as your loyal bodyguard - and I can just see him doing that too!
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