From Bologna to Koln was the easiest travelling I had done so far. It was as if the Italian train line had only given me trouble out of spite- punishing me for thinking that I could attempt to plan around it. I even met some Americans on the train; two girls from California, Albina and Sachi. I must have talked the entire trip, ecstatic to be in the presence of a fellow U.S. citizen. I got to Koln around 11 pm and was picked up by relatives who lived there, Klaus and Sabine. They took me into their home and allowed me to recover from my sickness, treating me in a way I had not been accustomed to over the past few weeks- so nicely, in fact, that I was almost taken off guard. A soft bed and a warm meal is something you learn to forget about whilst living out of a backpack.
Although I was sick for my stay with them, they did manage to take me to a museum in Bonn, a city about twenty minutes away from Koln. It was a museum dedicated to the History of post World War II Germany. I may not have been able to read all of the captions on the exhibits they had, but between Klaus and Sabine translating for me and my rudimentary knowledge of the Deutsch, I could decipher what most of and the rest could be understood from the artifacts. What was most memorable to me, beyond the pint-sized Volkswagens and the Pseudo-American ice cream bar, were the two sections of the Berlin wall they had. I had already been yelled at by an especially stern guard for touching an authentic Jeep left over by American Troops- although I’n my defense there was no fence nor barrier around the jeep leading anyone to believe that it was a hands-off” exhibit- so when I crept over to the giant piece of history I was especially wary to watch my step. The last thing I wanted was to trip and fall, taking the suspended artifact along with me.
I stared at it for a few minutes. While it was just a slab of concrete covered in graffiti, something I was used to given my limited time working in Flint, what it stood for amazed me. It was a symbol of hope- of freedom. I tried to imagine what it must have felt like to be living in East Germany; having a life threatened by a communist government and then one day being free. It was unfathomable. Like many times on this trip I realized the liberties I had taken for granted. I have never lived in fear of persecution for my beliefs or for speaking against the government- I have never lived where I was afraid of my own government. Not afraid that my tax dollars would be misspent, but afraid of death at their hands. I walked away several minutes later still thinking about it- as I write this I’m still thinking about it.
The fact that there are so many stories amazes me. Things like the Berlin Wall falling, things like the Spanish Inquisition, things like the invention of the radio antenna. These things happen all the time- possibly even every day. Sometimes I wonder if going into film is a bad idea, I worry that all the good stories have been told, that the universal creative pool which everyone draws from is on it’s last reserves. But then I go to a museum or read a history book, or even just look around me and I realize how foolish it is to think that.
When I got back I went directly to bed and then slept till noon the next day, thus giving me a safe amount of time to pack up and get ready for my flight to London, but not enough to go on any more ventures with Klaus and Sabine. It saddened me that I couldn’t do that, I really enjoyed my time with them and I could tell they wanted to show me more. But my ailment (nor the flight) would allow that, and I had to say good bye to my hosts.
I got onto the plane towards London and reflected on my experiences backpacking. It’s true, I wasn’t leaving Europe, but the fact that England is part of the continent is something that I feel like very few people acknowledge. I remembered flying into the Germany two and a half weeks earlier, jet-lagged and exhausted but ready for adventure. I remembered all the other backpackers I met. Eugene was now in Barcelona where he planned on getting a job as to refuel his backpacking expense account and Gordon was in the French Alps mountain biking. Sarah and Nathalie, two high school friends I had met in Bern, where no longer traveling together- apparently a tiff in the Swiss capital sent them on separate pathways. I remembered Sicily and the poor, misguided people who lived there. I remember only being able to rest knowing that, while they thought lesser of me, the scorching sun still beat down upon us equally. I was thinking about all of this when I boarded the plane.
“Welcome to British Airways” a cheery blonde flight attendant said
“It was good to hear English- real English” I thought. I stepped onto the aircraft and due to the effects of my ever-present sinus infection a deluge of blood was set loose from my nose. I hurried into the bathroom and was reminded of the Dr. Seuss Christmas story about the Grinch, because this room, like his heart, was definitely two-sizes too small. As I pushed tissues against my face, pinching the bridge of my nose trying anything to get the bleeding to stop the plane took off. By the time the bleeding had subsided we were already half way done with the short jaunt from Dusseldorf to London. I had been in Europe for two weeks and it pained me that I didn’t even get to say good-bye to the strange and wonderful place.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
When in Rome...
The nights in Rome, much like the nights in any big city, aren’t like the nights I’m used to. I’m used to the kind of nights that shroud you in darkness, where the moon and stars are the only thing scarcely lighting the world around you, just making enough visible to give you a legitimate reason to worry about the noises you hear. The nights in Rome where bright; there where streetlights everywhere and if those had gone out- something that was quite common- the overbearing and illuminating aura of the city made it seem more like early evening than whatever ungodly hour it really was.
It was only around 1 am when I got to Roma Tiburtina, the train station that would take me to Bologna, home of my new changing station, but even at 1 am, early to a European as I have become accustomed to their propensity to stay out at all hours, no one was there. I sat alone on a train station bench. Across a few train tracks there was a bum sleeping on another bench. I watched him for 45 minutes, waiting for him to move. Part of me thought he might be dead. I had heard stories about people dying on subways and being ignored for hours and hours until they fell out of their seated positions and refused to get up. It was because of people like me, people who didn’t go out of their way to see if every unconscious bum was actually alive, that these things happened.
I pulled my laptop out of my backpack, hoping that through this chaos I could get some work done; record my thoughts as they had happened. The next day I looked back on what I wrote- it was melodramatic and full of hyperbole- I felt as if my world had just crashed around me, it was only fitting that my writing expressed that. About thirty minutes into my tirade three security guards came up to me. Once before in Italy I had played the part of a possible vagrant and was surrounded by security guards asking me who I was and if I had a train ticket, but this time instead of asking for a ticket the guards said something to the effect of “That is a nice laptop, you should put it away, there are pickpockets”.
That kind of scared me, but I’m a big guy in fairly good shape, I think that I could take some emaciated Italian pickpocket any day (or night), but they went on, “They will, ehhhhh” he said, making a motion like he was a child in a zoo whom had just grabbed a branch from a nearby tree and was intent on ruining the lives of whatever animal was within jabbing distance, “stab you” he finished.
I must have looked surprised because he continued “They will do anything to get something they can sell”. Until this point I didn’t realize that pickpocket was the European way of saying thug. I had this romanticized version of some modern day Oliver Twist roaming the streets taking unsuspecting tourists wallets in order to survive, someone who adhered to a strict thieves’ code of ethics, not someone who stabbed tourists and stole their laptops. This was a rude awakening. Everywhere around me were thieves and criminals, no good-niks who would skewer me for spare change, and who most likely enjoy the sound of my final screams as they walked away from my dying self, covered in refuse in some unmarked alley.
I hastily put away my laptop and locked the zipper handles together. The guard pointed over to a small vestibule with a fluorescent light that made the walls look like they were coated in pond scum. “Maybe you should wait over there” he said, adding the maybe as if there was any other logical choice.
I sat on my bag in the station for a few hours, every twenty minutes or so noticing another depraved soul wander in, no doubt waiting to get on the same train as me. A sturdy black man with a square head dressed in beige suit with a leopard pattern button down flaring out from the cuffs and collar sat down on a bench across from me. He had his head completely shaved so that the lights cast a glare of it and a faint moustache rested on his upper lip.
“How are you my friend”, he said. He had a heavy Italian accent that made his words hard to understand, but being the friendliest person I had met that night, probably in all of Italy, I took extra care in trying to figure out what he meant.
“I’ve seen better days” I said, not lying in the least. “How about you?”
“I’m not doing fine” he said. I took conscious note that there were far better ways to explain his situation given the perceived neutrality of the word “fine”. He continued, “I have missed my train and I do not like having to wait so late into the night”
He spoke in a very roundabout fashion; the way non-speakers of the English language do when they have a very complicated thought and lack the right words to express it.
We began talking, finding out that we both missed the same train and then taking turns saying horrible things about the Italian train system. I felt like I was a prosecuting witness at a Salem Witch Trial. His name was Valentine and he had lived in Rome his entire life. The reason he was upset is that he had to be at a good friends wedding the next day- rather later that morning as the clock had now crept past three AM. He was going to be cutting it awfully close. He was obviously saddened by this- not angry as I was, but disappointed. I think he felt worse for his friend that himself.
“I don’t understand how they can do this” I said, unlike Valentine I was still very angry, “I don’t see how they can take out plans and spit on them- just disregard them and go on with their own agenda. This is the second time that TrenItalia has forced my arrival in Koln to be delayed, and frankly, I’m pissed off”. He laughed. I don’t think he understood every word that I said, but my demeanor transcended the language barrier.
“Man may propose” he said. He had been previously been sitting with his head down staring at the space between his feet, but then he looked up and over to me saying, “but God will Dispose”.
I felt defeated. But I felt better when he said that. When I heard him say it I decided that I was not yet broken. Before this, my journey had reached it’s nadir- a low point from which it would be impossible for me to sink any deeper (barring death)- but now I felt as if all the weight these failures put on me had been set free. I realized that no matter what situation I am in, getting upset over things that cannot be changed, like an apathetic and languid train station, is worthless.
The train came and took us to Bologona. I didn’t sleep at all on the way there- probably something about having to ride in the aisle since all the seats were taken, and when I got there I immediately checked into a hotel and slept for 26 hours straight.
It was only around 1 am when I got to Roma Tiburtina, the train station that would take me to Bologna, home of my new changing station, but even at 1 am, early to a European as I have become accustomed to their propensity to stay out at all hours, no one was there. I sat alone on a train station bench. Across a few train tracks there was a bum sleeping on another bench. I watched him for 45 minutes, waiting for him to move. Part of me thought he might be dead. I had heard stories about people dying on subways and being ignored for hours and hours until they fell out of their seated positions and refused to get up. It was because of people like me, people who didn’t go out of their way to see if every unconscious bum was actually alive, that these things happened.
I pulled my laptop out of my backpack, hoping that through this chaos I could get some work done; record my thoughts as they had happened. The next day I looked back on what I wrote- it was melodramatic and full of hyperbole- I felt as if my world had just crashed around me, it was only fitting that my writing expressed that. About thirty minutes into my tirade three security guards came up to me. Once before in Italy I had played the part of a possible vagrant and was surrounded by security guards asking me who I was and if I had a train ticket, but this time instead of asking for a ticket the guards said something to the effect of “That is a nice laptop, you should put it away, there are pickpockets”.
That kind of scared me, but I’m a big guy in fairly good shape, I think that I could take some emaciated Italian pickpocket any day (or night), but they went on, “They will, ehhhhh” he said, making a motion like he was a child in a zoo whom had just grabbed a branch from a nearby tree and was intent on ruining the lives of whatever animal was within jabbing distance, “stab you” he finished.
I must have looked surprised because he continued “They will do anything to get something they can sell”. Until this point I didn’t realize that pickpocket was the European way of saying thug. I had this romanticized version of some modern day Oliver Twist roaming the streets taking unsuspecting tourists wallets in order to survive, someone who adhered to a strict thieves’ code of ethics, not someone who stabbed tourists and stole their laptops. This was a rude awakening. Everywhere around me were thieves and criminals, no good-niks who would skewer me for spare change, and who most likely enjoy the sound of my final screams as they walked away from my dying self, covered in refuse in some unmarked alley.
I hastily put away my laptop and locked the zipper handles together. The guard pointed over to a small vestibule with a fluorescent light that made the walls look like they were coated in pond scum. “Maybe you should wait over there” he said, adding the maybe as if there was any other logical choice.
I sat on my bag in the station for a few hours, every twenty minutes or so noticing another depraved soul wander in, no doubt waiting to get on the same train as me. A sturdy black man with a square head dressed in beige suit with a leopard pattern button down flaring out from the cuffs and collar sat down on a bench across from me. He had his head completely shaved so that the lights cast a glare of it and a faint moustache rested on his upper lip.
“How are you my friend”, he said. He had a heavy Italian accent that made his words hard to understand, but being the friendliest person I had met that night, probably in all of Italy, I took extra care in trying to figure out what he meant.
“I’ve seen better days” I said, not lying in the least. “How about you?”
“I’m not doing fine” he said. I took conscious note that there were far better ways to explain his situation given the perceived neutrality of the word “fine”. He continued, “I have missed my train and I do not like having to wait so late into the night”
He spoke in a very roundabout fashion; the way non-speakers of the English language do when they have a very complicated thought and lack the right words to express it.
We began talking, finding out that we both missed the same train and then taking turns saying horrible things about the Italian train system. I felt like I was a prosecuting witness at a Salem Witch Trial. His name was Valentine and he had lived in Rome his entire life. The reason he was upset is that he had to be at a good friends wedding the next day- rather later that morning as the clock had now crept past three AM. He was going to be cutting it awfully close. He was obviously saddened by this- not angry as I was, but disappointed. I think he felt worse for his friend that himself.
“I don’t understand how they can do this” I said, unlike Valentine I was still very angry, “I don’t see how they can take out plans and spit on them- just disregard them and go on with their own agenda. This is the second time that TrenItalia has forced my arrival in Koln to be delayed, and frankly, I’m pissed off”. He laughed. I don’t think he understood every word that I said, but my demeanor transcended the language barrier.
“Man may propose” he said. He had been previously been sitting with his head down staring at the space between his feet, but then he looked up and over to me saying, “but God will Dispose”.
I felt defeated. But I felt better when he said that. When I heard him say it I decided that I was not yet broken. Before this, my journey had reached it’s nadir- a low point from which it would be impossible for me to sink any deeper (barring death)- but now I felt as if all the weight these failures put on me had been set free. I realized that no matter what situation I am in, getting upset over things that cannot be changed, like an apathetic and languid train station, is worthless.
The train came and took us to Bologona. I didn’t sleep at all on the way there- probably something about having to ride in the aisle since all the seats were taken, and when I got there I immediately checked into a hotel and slept for 26 hours straight.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Roma Central, or how much I hate TrenItalia
Over the course of the next 36 hours, 35 of them where spent in bed. I made a short trip to the outside world to get some food and attempt to capture the setting of my island prison, but beyond that, the rest of my time was spent sleeping or vomiting up all the mucous that had settled in my stomach.
At 12 o’clock two days later, still sick but not nearly as bad as I was before, I checked out, boarded a train taking me to the eventual destination of Rome. From there I would then make a connection 2 hours later to a night train taking me to Munich which in turn would allow me to catch a train towards Koln. I went to the front desk at the train station to reserve a seat to Rome, the standard procedure because even while I had my Eurail pass, the Italian train system was so subpar that in order to ensure a seat you had to pay a 3 euro reservation fee. Language would not be a barrier this time, I would merely say hand them a piece of paper saying “8:30 roma reservation” and then show them my visa card as I was now out of euros. I was aware that no places in town accepted my debit card, but for the train station not to, a place that regularly handles hundreds of euros, seemed insane to me. As I had been before, and as I would be again, I was taken aback by the ineptness of TrenItalia. Not only did they lack the capacity to take my debit card, the internet was also not working so I wouldn’t be able to find out what terminal my connecting train would be at. I sighed as the woman tried to explain it. Too frustrated to let her finish spewing out the Italian words that meant nothing to me I walked away and boarded the train knowing that it was going to be another long day. The train ride to Rome was uneventful for me, most likely because I was asleep.
I woke up just as we were rolling into Rome Central. I instinctively looked at my watch, a habit I’ve picked up to find out what time it is due to my sans-cell phone lifestyle, and felt a knot in my stomach begin to form. It was 7 o’clock. Three hours later than when we were supposed to arrive in Rome and 1 hour later than when my train to Munich was supposed to leave.
I got off the train as fast as I could and made a b-line towards the ticket booth thinking that there was a possibility that I could catch another night train to Munich that would allow me to arrive in Koln the next day, given it would be a few hours later. I thought to myself how much I hated the Italian train system, of how DeutscheBahn, the German system, and SBB, the Swiss system where light years ahead of them. I had heard stories from other travelers of being stranded in cities because, at the slightest whim, the train workers can go on strike, and government intervention stops the train stations from hiring replacements. All these factors, including that there were only 2 windows to service a 75 person queue, caused a special sort of hate to be made inside of me, a wish for the entirety of TrenItalia to be sent to the seventh circle of Dante’s Inferno, and for them to be chewed on by Satan for all eternity.
90 minutes of maneuvering later- once yelling at an American for cutting and twice yelling at Asian tourists for trying to enter in the exit- I found myself at the front of the line, waiting to be serviced next.
“I want to get to Koln, is there any way I can do that?” I asked a fat man behind the window.
He looked at me with a blank stare. “Maybe if I offered him a cheeseburger he would be more receptive” I thought to myself.
“No English” he said
“No English” I repeated, almost mocking him with my disbelief, knowing that in any other country it would be normal ticket salesman to know the basics of a language that was responsible for a hefty amount of it’s revenue.
He pointed me in the direction of a young woman next to him, a minor delay, but one that was quite representative of the system.
She told me that there was, in fact, a train that could take me to Munich then Koln, and it would actually get me there only a few hours later. This was amazing- possibly the first thing that TrenItalia did that was in unison with all that is right. It would be a sleeper train, like the one I took to Naples, and it left in two hours. Knowing the pains that a train like that can cause, I reserved a bed in the first class area for 40 euros more. After I bought the ticket she found an apt time to explain to me that this train also left from a different station, one I would need to take the subway to. Once again, a minor inconvenience, but still, I wondered how many metaphorical straws it would take to break the proverbial camel’s back. I bought my 4 euro subway ticket and made my way to Roma Tiburtina, the station where my next train left from. I was tired, but happy that I would soon be on my way to Koln, and more importantly, out of this wretched country. I arrived an hour early and sat alone on the deck. 45 minutes had passed, and still no one else was there. 50 minutes, and no one. 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, until finally the 56th minute came to pass and still no people. This would have been fine if the train had come, a bit unnerving that no one else was taking the same train as me, but fine.
I say “if” the train had come because the train didn’t come.
I figured that it was because the train was late- I had been on late trains and from what I understood about the Italian train system, being late was a thing of regularity. Someone had thrown a rock threw the light-up sign that hung above my gate that would have normally said if there was a delay, so I had to walk all the way to the main station at Roma Tiburtina to see if there was any Ritardo, the Italian word for delay.
“Quite fitting” I thought. The entire Italian train system was Ritardo.
There was no delay. Still, I thought, maybe this was something that went unnoticed. I decided I would stay for another hour to see if it would show up.
I only lasted 45 minutes before I stormed my way back to the Rome Central. It was past 11 o’clock now and ticket booth was closed. I found my way to a group of police officers- people whom I would be more accurate to describe as three cronies drinking beer on a golf cart.
“Do you know who I can talk to about a train not showing up?” I said.
“You mean you missed your train?” he replied
“No, I mean my train didn’t show up, I want a refund and another ticket”
“Oh, you missed your train. You must stay here, office closed. Wait here, I get you hotel information” he said turning away to me and talking to his two fellow officers.
“No, I didn’t miss my train, I would have said that if I did. The train didn’t show up”
But it wasn’t any use. He never turned back and they drove away.
Fastly losing more and more faith in the Italian populous I made my way over to the Information office. The shade was pulled down the front window but I saw the shadows of two men smoking inside. I knocked on the door, and suddenly, as if my vision was only receptive to movement, they froze.
“I can see you. I know you are in there!” I said, trying to sound friendly, although my attempt that that was a miserable failure. Anger had taken hold of me.
I saw that there was a way into the back via a door that was open because a janitor was inside cleaning. Trespassing was the least of my worries as I entered the room, the two men inside shocked that I was capable of such civil disobedience. One wore a suit coat, the other in a sweat-stained button down. The man in the coat squatted down on a small stool and his less dressed counterpart was given the office chair in front of the computer. I decided the second man would be the best to talk to as he seemed to have the majority of whatever authority they possessed, irrelevant of his grubby attire.
I explained to him my story, about the train to Rome being late, about waiting in line forever, about needing to be in Koln, about the train not showing up. I made sure I included all the details, every last bit of information I could include, so much that it took me almost 20 minutes to recite my day’s journey.
And he looked at me with his sunken, baggy eyes. He stared at me and I couldn’t help but notice his partially opened mouth- one that was outlined in dry saliva- evidence that it had been in this agape position all day. The thin white ring of his own dried spit broke when he opened his mouth to say,“No English”.
This was the man in charge of anyone who has a problem in the entire train station, the man who gave directions to hotels, hostels, attractions, and restaurants. A man who had most likely worked his way up through the system, who had been around the English language his whole life, who listened to my speech and reacted with facial expressions. And beyond all that, this was a man who could not speech English. To say I was furious would be an understatement akin to saying Joe Jackson is kind of cashing in on his son’s death.
I stormed across the table and went onto his computer, he mildly objected but the directness of my actions told him that it would be better to avoid physical confrontation. I pulled up an online translator, changed the setting to “Italian>English” and attacked the keyboard with unchained rage. I wrote several hundred words and clicked “enter”
“Now do you understand?” I said
He faked reading it and then, in almost perfect English, responded,
“The train came, you just missed it”. I looked over to his squatting friend, “yes, or tren ritardo”
“You are Ritardo”, I wanted to say.
“No, you don’t understand, it never came, I was there”
“Where you at the correct station, you know that it wasn’t at this station”
“Yes, I was there. When I say it didn’t come, I mean it didn’t come”
This bantering went back and forth for some time, him questioning every detail that I said, me maintain what had happened, until finally he said, “The train must have been transferred to another terminal” he went over to his computer and looked it up, “Oh yes, the train was transferred to terminal 3 in Rome Central- why weren’t you there?”
“Because I was told that it was coming to Tiburtina, because I tried to check but your sign at the terminal there was a rock through it, and because you don’t have speakers except for the main station there!”
I grabbed my tickets out of his hands. “You know what?” I yelled, “I’ve had enough of this… game- you are a moron. This train station is full of morons. I cannot deal with you and your broken system. I realize that you do not believe did not show up, I realize that you will not refund me.” I stopped and caught my breath, “I also realize that you are a human completely void of any reasoning skills. You have denied, not only me, but also Logic itself. All I ask now, is that you validate my ticket so I can take the next train (which happened to be a 4 28 AM to bologna).” I thrust my ticket into his face and, unwillingly, he scribbled his name on the back of it and wrote “Bologna, 4:28”. I left that office the angriest I have ever been at an individual.
At 12 o’clock two days later, still sick but not nearly as bad as I was before, I checked out, boarded a train taking me to the eventual destination of Rome. From there I would then make a connection 2 hours later to a night train taking me to Munich which in turn would allow me to catch a train towards Koln. I went to the front desk at the train station to reserve a seat to Rome, the standard procedure because even while I had my Eurail pass, the Italian train system was so subpar that in order to ensure a seat you had to pay a 3 euro reservation fee. Language would not be a barrier this time, I would merely say hand them a piece of paper saying “8:30 roma reservation” and then show them my visa card as I was now out of euros. I was aware that no places in town accepted my debit card, but for the train station not to, a place that regularly handles hundreds of euros, seemed insane to me. As I had been before, and as I would be again, I was taken aback by the ineptness of TrenItalia. Not only did they lack the capacity to take my debit card, the internet was also not working so I wouldn’t be able to find out what terminal my connecting train would be at. I sighed as the woman tried to explain it. Too frustrated to let her finish spewing out the Italian words that meant nothing to me I walked away and boarded the train knowing that it was going to be another long day. The train ride to Rome was uneventful for me, most likely because I was asleep.
I woke up just as we were rolling into Rome Central. I instinctively looked at my watch, a habit I’ve picked up to find out what time it is due to my sans-cell phone lifestyle, and felt a knot in my stomach begin to form. It was 7 o’clock. Three hours later than when we were supposed to arrive in Rome and 1 hour later than when my train to Munich was supposed to leave.
I got off the train as fast as I could and made a b-line towards the ticket booth thinking that there was a possibility that I could catch another night train to Munich that would allow me to arrive in Koln the next day, given it would be a few hours later. I thought to myself how much I hated the Italian train system, of how DeutscheBahn, the German system, and SBB, the Swiss system where light years ahead of them. I had heard stories from other travelers of being stranded in cities because, at the slightest whim, the train workers can go on strike, and government intervention stops the train stations from hiring replacements. All these factors, including that there were only 2 windows to service a 75 person queue, caused a special sort of hate to be made inside of me, a wish for the entirety of TrenItalia to be sent to the seventh circle of Dante’s Inferno, and for them to be chewed on by Satan for all eternity.
90 minutes of maneuvering later- once yelling at an American for cutting and twice yelling at Asian tourists for trying to enter in the exit- I found myself at the front of the line, waiting to be serviced next.
“I want to get to Koln, is there any way I can do that?” I asked a fat man behind the window.
He looked at me with a blank stare. “Maybe if I offered him a cheeseburger he would be more receptive” I thought to myself.
“No English” he said
“No English” I repeated, almost mocking him with my disbelief, knowing that in any other country it would be normal ticket salesman to know the basics of a language that was responsible for a hefty amount of it’s revenue.
He pointed me in the direction of a young woman next to him, a minor delay, but one that was quite representative of the system.
She told me that there was, in fact, a train that could take me to Munich then Koln, and it would actually get me there only a few hours later. This was amazing- possibly the first thing that TrenItalia did that was in unison with all that is right. It would be a sleeper train, like the one I took to Naples, and it left in two hours. Knowing the pains that a train like that can cause, I reserved a bed in the first class area for 40 euros more. After I bought the ticket she found an apt time to explain to me that this train also left from a different station, one I would need to take the subway to. Once again, a minor inconvenience, but still, I wondered how many metaphorical straws it would take to break the proverbial camel’s back. I bought my 4 euro subway ticket and made my way to Roma Tiburtina, the station where my next train left from. I was tired, but happy that I would soon be on my way to Koln, and more importantly, out of this wretched country. I arrived an hour early and sat alone on the deck. 45 minutes had passed, and still no one else was there. 50 minutes, and no one. 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, until finally the 56th minute came to pass and still no people. This would have been fine if the train had come, a bit unnerving that no one else was taking the same train as me, but fine.
I say “if” the train had come because the train didn’t come.
I figured that it was because the train was late- I had been on late trains and from what I understood about the Italian train system, being late was a thing of regularity. Someone had thrown a rock threw the light-up sign that hung above my gate that would have normally said if there was a delay, so I had to walk all the way to the main station at Roma Tiburtina to see if there was any Ritardo, the Italian word for delay.
“Quite fitting” I thought. The entire Italian train system was Ritardo.
There was no delay. Still, I thought, maybe this was something that went unnoticed. I decided I would stay for another hour to see if it would show up.
I only lasted 45 minutes before I stormed my way back to the Rome Central. It was past 11 o’clock now and ticket booth was closed. I found my way to a group of police officers- people whom I would be more accurate to describe as three cronies drinking beer on a golf cart.
“Do you know who I can talk to about a train not showing up?” I said.
“You mean you missed your train?” he replied
“No, I mean my train didn’t show up, I want a refund and another ticket”
“Oh, you missed your train. You must stay here, office closed. Wait here, I get you hotel information” he said turning away to me and talking to his two fellow officers.
“No, I didn’t miss my train, I would have said that if I did. The train didn’t show up”
But it wasn’t any use. He never turned back and they drove away.
Fastly losing more and more faith in the Italian populous I made my way over to the Information office. The shade was pulled down the front window but I saw the shadows of two men smoking inside. I knocked on the door, and suddenly, as if my vision was only receptive to movement, they froze.
“I can see you. I know you are in there!” I said, trying to sound friendly, although my attempt that that was a miserable failure. Anger had taken hold of me.
I saw that there was a way into the back via a door that was open because a janitor was inside cleaning. Trespassing was the least of my worries as I entered the room, the two men inside shocked that I was capable of such civil disobedience. One wore a suit coat, the other in a sweat-stained button down. The man in the coat squatted down on a small stool and his less dressed counterpart was given the office chair in front of the computer. I decided the second man would be the best to talk to as he seemed to have the majority of whatever authority they possessed, irrelevant of his grubby attire.
I explained to him my story, about the train to Rome being late, about waiting in line forever, about needing to be in Koln, about the train not showing up. I made sure I included all the details, every last bit of information I could include, so much that it took me almost 20 minutes to recite my day’s journey.
And he looked at me with his sunken, baggy eyes. He stared at me and I couldn’t help but notice his partially opened mouth- one that was outlined in dry saliva- evidence that it had been in this agape position all day. The thin white ring of his own dried spit broke when he opened his mouth to say,“No English”.
This was the man in charge of anyone who has a problem in the entire train station, the man who gave directions to hotels, hostels, attractions, and restaurants. A man who had most likely worked his way up through the system, who had been around the English language his whole life, who listened to my speech and reacted with facial expressions. And beyond all that, this was a man who could not speech English. To say I was furious would be an understatement akin to saying Joe Jackson is kind of cashing in on his son’s death.
I stormed across the table and went onto his computer, he mildly objected but the directness of my actions told him that it would be better to avoid physical confrontation. I pulled up an online translator, changed the setting to “Italian>English” and attacked the keyboard with unchained rage. I wrote several hundred words and clicked “enter”
“Now do you understand?” I said
He faked reading it and then, in almost perfect English, responded,
“The train came, you just missed it”. I looked over to his squatting friend, “yes, or tren ritardo”
“You are Ritardo”, I wanted to say.
“No, you don’t understand, it never came, I was there”
“Where you at the correct station, you know that it wasn’t at this station”
“Yes, I was there. When I say it didn’t come, I mean it didn’t come”
This bantering went back and forth for some time, him questioning every detail that I said, me maintain what had happened, until finally he said, “The train must have been transferred to another terminal” he went over to his computer and looked it up, “Oh yes, the train was transferred to terminal 3 in Rome Central- why weren’t you there?”
“Because I was told that it was coming to Tiburtina, because I tried to check but your sign at the terminal there was a rock through it, and because you don’t have speakers except for the main station there!”
I grabbed my tickets out of his hands. “You know what?” I yelled, “I’ve had enough of this… game- you are a moron. This train station is full of morons. I cannot deal with you and your broken system. I realize that you do not believe did not show up, I realize that you will not refund me.” I stopped and caught my breath, “I also realize that you are a human completely void of any reasoning skills. You have denied, not only me, but also Logic itself. All I ask now, is that you validate my ticket so I can take the next train (which happened to be a 4 28 AM to bologna).” I thrust my ticket into his face and, unwillingly, he scribbled his name on the back of it and wrote “Bologna, 4:28”. I left that office the angriest I have ever been at an individual.
The boat ride to Sicily and the infamous Agora Hostel
I remember the boat ride to Sicily. As much as I can say I have learned to dislike the people of southern Italy, there is nothing I can say against it’s scenery. It is absolutely and undoubtedly beautiful. The indigo sea revels in stark contrast to the red and yellow houses that dot the coastline, creating a line of civilization between the mighty sea and the overbearing mountains. On the Bluvia, the vessel that took me to the island, I managed to take a few pictures, and upon revisiting them I realize that the wildly expressive colors I saw where not an illusions created by an ailing mind, but a bold reality cast full of striking features. When we reached land I quickly became aware of my surroundings. This was not the clean and friendly Europe that had been Oostende or Bern, this was a poor and rough part of the continent. I tried asking a woman behind some desk at the train station where the Agora Hostel was. She looked at me as if I was a babbling fool and didn’t respect me with a simple reply of “no English”. I had a very rudimentary map of where the Hostel was. It was a small map of the city printed in monotone red and with a large box, one so big as to make any direct coordinates impossible, in the southwest portion reading “Agora Hostel”. I stepped out of the shade of the station into the hot Sicilian sun and began my venture west. I walked for about twenty minutes and then walked into a shop to ask someone where my hostel was. “Agora Hostel” I said, and again, they gave me nothing. I continued to walk. I walked and walked, cutting back and forth between the alleyways as to make sure that no inch of the city was left unturned, all the while asking people if they had heard of the hostel and always getting the same response. Hours passed. Dirt from the filthy streets fused with my sweat from my physical exhaustion began to cover me. I took out my visa card and dragged it down my neck, scraping away a layer of grime that coated my skin. This was all my debit card was good for, a device used to peel away the filth I had become one with, as no one in the entire island would honor it leaving me at dizzy and at the brink of dehydration. In desperation I started to waver from my path, now taking a route further into the center of the city, hoping that by some miracle I would come across the my elusive goal. Off in the distance I saw something, that while not the Agora, did exude hope. It was a McDonalds, and, even in my state, I realized the irony of the situation. The one place that I now wanted, the place that I had travelled miles for, was arguably the most accessible and criticized place in my homeland. I stepped into the doors at around 10 30, the main dining room filled with the Italians who sounded like the sang when the spoke, but as I made my way towards the register their chorus seemed to stop. I don’t blame them though. I saw myself, ruddy and drenched in sweat, in the reflection of the McFlurry machine.
I held up the card outlined in skin and dirt. “Visa” I said in a lackluster tone to the girl behind the counter. I had already prepared myself for denial.
She looked at me and smiled, “Ci”. It was the best thing I had heard in all my time on the island. I wasn’t hungry anymore, illness had ridden me of any appetite, but I did order three waters. As soon as she could hand them to me I ripped of the top and squeezed their soft plastic body, emptying every last drop of hydration they offered into my starved body.
“Do you know where the Agora Hostel is?” I asked, this time with a shred of hope- something that felt unusual to say, something I had become unfamiliar with.
She looked at me, and then began to speak.
“It is….” She searched for the words, “No more”
My mouth fell. It was reminiscent of the satryonic wolf in old cartoons whose lower lipped fell to the floor when a woman walked by, all that was missing was the melodramatic thud.
“It is no more?” I said, mirroring her English, “What do you mean- it is closed? “ I said, “Kaput” trying to think of any more languages I knew that could express what I meant to say.
“Yes” she said, eagerly nodding, the kind of way someone nods when they want to agree with you for two reasons. Either, A, they want so badly what you want that they feel agreeing with make it come true, or ,B, they want to agree with you so you will no longer feel the need to question them and ultimately leave. I think it was the latter choice.
It made sense. I had asked 30 people and not one of them had heard of it, even give that some of them genuinely hadn’t heard of it, out of 30 people it was extremely unlikely that not one of them knew the directions or had even heard of the Agora Hostel.
Although I had become aware of my predicament- planning to stay in a hostel that no longer existed that is, and was in a better position because of it, as I stepped out of the McDonalds and was miles away from the train station (and hotel district), my morale sunk to a new low.
I trudged onward, staggering in zombie fashion. I was completely alone, and sole truth that was what kept me moving onward. There was no one to pick me up; there was no one to help me- only my left foot, then my right. Stopping was on option, Sleeping in the street like a dog was an option. Those where options for the broken. As I slowly made my way to the train station, planning what my next move would be if there were no hotels available, I realized that I had been defeated. I had not done enough research on the place I was going to stay, and because of that I was defeated. People are defeated everyday- for every great invention, for every genius discovery there have been one thousand defeats. I do not fear defeat, no one should. To be defeated in inevitable. The United States has failed, Thomas Edison Failed, the 1972 Dolphins failed, what made them different, is that they were never broken. No one, not anything, is totally perfect- to strive for perfection is foolish and will only end in humiliation, self-degridation, and less willingness to try again- to persevere, to not be broken, is what one should strive for. Take the failures, accept them, learn from them, and move onward as someone who better understands. This was the first of many defeats I would face in the next few days, losses only made worse by my ever worsening condition, but I was never broken.
Around midnight I found myself at the foot of the Bella Villa. It was nice- too nice I thought, a far cry from the hostels and sleezy hotels I had stayed at so far, but while my wallet ruled that there would be a more economic alternative, my weary feet, my swollen eyes and throat, and my congested nose overturned it’s objective verdict.
It ended up “only” being 50 euros, a good deal I thought given the amenities. I booked two nights and prayed that it would be enough time for me to heal.
Monday, July 20, 2009
To Catania
The past few days have been scattered with feverish memories, tossed together to create a timeline of events with edges blurred together.
I vaguely remember the ride from Napoli to Giovanni Village, the port of which I would ferry to Sicily, Valhalla of the Mediterranean. I sat alone for a long time in my car, which was very nice considering it gave me time to sleep, but about an hour away from our destination a strange man with a large backpack that made a clinging sound with every step entered into my compartment. The way the Italian compartment cars are designed, so that there are three bench seats on each side of the rectangular “room”- (if you dare to call the scant space a room)- allowed us to sit on opposing sides, each allowing us to have our own bench to lounge upon. We did that, sitting in silence for several minutes, until he looks to me and says “Are you traveling?”. I didn’t respond immediately. I was groggy and his English was bad, the worst that I had heard yet, but after several seconds I managed to understand him and answered with a facile “yes”.
It was a strange question to ask, something that should have tipped me of to his unusual nature, but I was tired, I was sick, I was unable to realize such things and began to match him in conversation. More than once in the next hour he pulled out a beer from his back pack, no doubt these aluminum cans where was caused the sound, the full ones jostling around with the empties, an aural representation of his pathway to intoxication. Had my nasal passages been clear of mucous I would have undoubtedly smelled the alcohol on him, but in my congested state I was unaware.
As he drank his three or four warm beers he told me about his life. His name was Frank, and he was from France, “Frank the Frank” he said. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and assumed the humor was lost in translation. He was an art renovator, as to say that his job was to go around the country and touch up great works of art. He was on a trip to Sicily to work on a great cathedral in the center of the island. “The most beautiful cathedral in the world-ee” he said, pausing and then shooting me a look of disbelief in his own words, “One of the most beautiful” he said in correction. I was extremely surprised at this wondering how such a clumsy and graceless man could work on literally priceless pieces of art, but when he pulled out his kit of tools that which I could not possibly find a use for, but he masterfully navigated through it, reason enough for me to give him credulity.
After several minutes of impersonal small talk about what he did or where I had been, Frank strayed from the preset path.
“Do you know-ee why I drink-ee this?” He asks me. I smile, pretend I can’t understand him and think of something to say to change the subject. “I drink this for three days because my wife has left me”.
“Oh dear” I think to myself, There is was, the ringer, the one thing I couldn’t possibly fathom he would say. “After twenty-ee years-ee, she left me”. I looked to his hand and saw the a white thin white tan line amongst his bronze hands proving so.
“Oh God” I manage to utter, “I’m sorry”, but just as I finish, and probably short moments before I had finished he says “She left-ee me for another man”.
“Please don’t say an American” I thought, “Anyone but an American” .
“For a German School-ee Teacher”
I reflexively breathed a heavy sigh of relief, but immediately furrowed my brow upon the beginning of my exhale as to disguise it as some sort of unfamiliar but sympathetic action. At this point Frank began to drink more heavily and his English became less and less intelligible, but, there was only 25 minutes left I was capable of nodding and saying “that’s horrible” upon on occasion when his glances called for it. Hungry for solace like a small child eying some piece of candy he cannot afford, I felt pity for him.
I got off the train and headed to the towards the port to continue my progress towards The Agora Hostel in Catania, Sicily.
I vaguely remember the ride from Napoli to Giovanni Village, the port of which I would ferry to Sicily, Valhalla of the Mediterranean. I sat alone for a long time in my car, which was very nice considering it gave me time to sleep, but about an hour away from our destination a strange man with a large backpack that made a clinging sound with every step entered into my compartment. The way the Italian compartment cars are designed, so that there are three bench seats on each side of the rectangular “room”- (if you dare to call the scant space a room)- allowed us to sit on opposing sides, each allowing us to have our own bench to lounge upon. We did that, sitting in silence for several minutes, until he looks to me and says “Are you traveling?”. I didn’t respond immediately. I was groggy and his English was bad, the worst that I had heard yet, but after several seconds I managed to understand him and answered with a facile “yes”.
It was a strange question to ask, something that should have tipped me of to his unusual nature, but I was tired, I was sick, I was unable to realize such things and began to match him in conversation. More than once in the next hour he pulled out a beer from his back pack, no doubt these aluminum cans where was caused the sound, the full ones jostling around with the empties, an aural representation of his pathway to intoxication. Had my nasal passages been clear of mucous I would have undoubtedly smelled the alcohol on him, but in my congested state I was unaware.
As he drank his three or four warm beers he told me about his life. His name was Frank, and he was from France, “Frank the Frank” he said. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and assumed the humor was lost in translation. He was an art renovator, as to say that his job was to go around the country and touch up great works of art. He was on a trip to Sicily to work on a great cathedral in the center of the island. “The most beautiful cathedral in the world-ee” he said, pausing and then shooting me a look of disbelief in his own words, “One of the most beautiful” he said in correction. I was extremely surprised at this wondering how such a clumsy and graceless man could work on literally priceless pieces of art, but when he pulled out his kit of tools that which I could not possibly find a use for, but he masterfully navigated through it, reason enough for me to give him credulity.
After several minutes of impersonal small talk about what he did or where I had been, Frank strayed from the preset path.
“Do you know-ee why I drink-ee this?” He asks me. I smile, pretend I can’t understand him and think of something to say to change the subject. “I drink this for three days because my wife has left me”.
“Oh dear” I think to myself, There is was, the ringer, the one thing I couldn’t possibly fathom he would say. “After twenty-ee years-ee, she left me”. I looked to his hand and saw the a white thin white tan line amongst his bronze hands proving so.
“Oh God” I manage to utter, “I’m sorry”, but just as I finish, and probably short moments before I had finished he says “She left-ee me for another man”.
“Please don’t say an American” I thought, “Anyone but an American” .
“For a German School-ee Teacher”
I reflexively breathed a heavy sigh of relief, but immediately furrowed my brow upon the beginning of my exhale as to disguise it as some sort of unfamiliar but sympathetic action. At this point Frank began to drink more heavily and his English became less and less intelligible, but, there was only 25 minutes left I was capable of nodding and saying “that’s horrible” upon on occasion when his glances called for it. Hungry for solace like a small child eying some piece of candy he cannot afford, I felt pity for him.
I got off the train and headed to the towards the port to continue my progress towards The Agora Hostel in Catania, Sicily.
Friday, July 17, 2009
The long Train to Naples
I got to Milan at 10:00 pm dirty, tired, and sick. In other words, I blended in very well. After a few .50 euro hamburgers at a stand outside the train station- the best deal I’ve seen all trip- I got onto my 11:20 TrenItalia night train to Naples. Much like most of Italy I had seen, it was crowded, dirty, and full of angry people. As I walked down the aisle that’s ceiling was a foot too short for me I imagined being stuck next to some fat Italian man who was going to yell at the programs on his handheld black and white TV the entire night. I found my “room” and found that, in the six person compartment there was only one other person sitting there. He was probably a few years older than me, wore a camouflage shirt, and had skin as darkest skin I had ever seen. I hoped to God he wasn’t some Algerian Militant. I made a comment about how hot it was in the car, not only because it was sweltering- to the point where I was sweating profusely, but also as a test to see how much English he spoke. In a thick African accent he said to me, “Yes, it is quite hot”.
I found out his name was Sall (pronounced Saul) A’doodoo- a native of Senegal who came to Milan to work in the Fiat auto factories. He had just been laid off and was now going to Rome to visit his sister’s family. His English wasn’t great, but it wasn’t impossible to underhand him- through facial gestures and hand signals almost anything can be ascertained. As we rolled down the Tuscan coast he told me about his cousin who was a cab driver in Orlando. The kind ofperson who seems like a hindrance to most Americans, the type of guy who seems like he just got into the country and cannot speak any English at all, and the someone whom Sall and his family where limitlessly proud of. I immediately felt guilty. Not because I had directly wronged someone like his cousin, but because of how ungrateful I was to live in a place like the United States. The way Sall smiled when he talked about his cousin, when he talked about how one day he would go to America- “because America is where you go if you want to be someone", he said, "What is it called..." he paused to think, knowing what he wanted to say but unsure how to put it, until finally he said "Ah yes...The American Dream",
Is the lack of motivation that my generation is stricken with a product of our nature, or of our nurture? Poverty is miles away, something we merely read about while flipping through the glossy pages of National Geographics that line the seats in our allergists’ and doctors’ offices, but because of that have we turned into people who don’t know what it is like to face strife, and through that emerge victorious with the type of genius that can only be forged in the bowels of true adversity? I don’t think so; I just think that sometimes we live in ignorance of what disaster really is. We rode alone in the dark for while longer and said nothing. I don’t think either of us where asleep but we were too tired to talk. The seats where uncomfortable, but there was silence, something I enjoyed after hours of incessant noise. But, sadly, that changed as we came to a station somewhere several hours south of Milano.
They were a fat family. A fat father with a fat moustache, a fat mother with fat that rolled over her elbows, and a fat child, probably 13 years old, who whined and cried in a language that neither Sall or I understood but, from the way they looked, we assumed to be something middle eastern. For the next eight hours, there was no sleep, just the boy talking on his cell phone- although screeching would better describe the sounds that came from him- and then asking his mother for more cakes that she seemed to pull from an endless supply in her bag. He would hold it in front of his chubby face, his eyes glistening with desire, and then tear it apart like in an animalistic feeding frenzy. I could feel my throat swelling up as the night went on, a sign that my body desperately needed sleep to rebuild its defenses, but no number of devastating glares would stop his behavior until finally at 5 am I stood up and yelled at him “I know you don’t understand me, but you’ve got to shut up. Just stop making noise. I want you to stick one of those Twinkies in your mouth and keep it there because I’ve got to sleep. I’ve been travelling for days and I need sleep”. My throat was already inflamed, and along with not speaking for hours my already low voice was turned into a deep bellowing base that caused him to be quite for the first time. His father looked at me, I expected him to get up, to yell, but he saw that I didn’t care what he thought and stayed down. I was finally able to get to sleep, and when I awoke at my stop five hours later the family was gone.
I found out his name was Sall (pronounced Saul) A’doodoo- a native of Senegal who came to Milan to work in the Fiat auto factories. He had just been laid off and was now going to Rome to visit his sister’s family. His English wasn’t great, but it wasn’t impossible to underhand him- through facial gestures and hand signals almost anything can be ascertained. As we rolled down the Tuscan coast he told me about his cousin who was a cab driver in Orlando. The kind ofperson who seems like a hindrance to most Americans, the type of guy who seems like he just got into the country and cannot speak any English at all, and the someone whom Sall and his family where limitlessly proud of. I immediately felt guilty. Not because I had directly wronged someone like his cousin, but because of how ungrateful I was to live in a place like the United States. The way Sall smiled when he talked about his cousin, when he talked about how one day he would go to America- “because America is where you go if you want to be someone", he said, "What is it called..." he paused to think, knowing what he wanted to say but unsure how to put it, until finally he said "Ah yes...The American Dream",
Is the lack of motivation that my generation is stricken with a product of our nature, or of our nurture? Poverty is miles away, something we merely read about while flipping through the glossy pages of National Geographics that line the seats in our allergists’ and doctors’ offices, but because of that have we turned into people who don’t know what it is like to face strife, and through that emerge victorious with the type of genius that can only be forged in the bowels of true adversity? I don’t think so; I just think that sometimes we live in ignorance of what disaster really is. We rode alone in the dark for while longer and said nothing. I don’t think either of us where asleep but we were too tired to talk. The seats where uncomfortable, but there was silence, something I enjoyed after hours of incessant noise. But, sadly, that changed as we came to a station somewhere several hours south of Milano.
They were a fat family. A fat father with a fat moustache, a fat mother with fat that rolled over her elbows, and a fat child, probably 13 years old, who whined and cried in a language that neither Sall or I understood but, from the way they looked, we assumed to be something middle eastern. For the next eight hours, there was no sleep, just the boy talking on his cell phone- although screeching would better describe the sounds that came from him- and then asking his mother for more cakes that she seemed to pull from an endless supply in her bag. He would hold it in front of his chubby face, his eyes glistening with desire, and then tear it apart like in an animalistic feeding frenzy. I could feel my throat swelling up as the night went on, a sign that my body desperately needed sleep to rebuild its defenses, but no number of devastating glares would stop his behavior until finally at 5 am I stood up and yelled at him “I know you don’t understand me, but you’ve got to shut up. Just stop making noise. I want you to stick one of those Twinkies in your mouth and keep it there because I’ve got to sleep. I’ve been travelling for days and I need sleep”. My throat was already inflamed, and along with not speaking for hours my already low voice was turned into a deep bellowing base that caused him to be quite for the first time. His father looked at me, I expected him to get up, to yell, but he saw that I didn’t care what he thought and stayed down. I was finally able to get to sleep, and when I awoke at my stop five hours later the family was gone.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
On the road again
The 14th seemed like it was much longer than the 24 hours I had been told it contained. When I awoke from a restless sleep at the Pizzeria Hotel in Luxembourg my only prerogative, besides trying out the Luxembourgish McDonalds and getting a “McToast” which sort of like a breakfast Panini and is absolutely delicious, was getting as far away from that place as I could. I had the idea to go back down to the hostel and see if my former group was still there, and if so, possibly throw rocks at the deserters, but the heft of my spite was far outweighed by my considerable soreness, including a fresh new bruise from the hit-and-run incident only hours earlier. I consulted my eurail travel book and decided that I would again try to get to Thun.
I left the train station around 10:00, tired, sore, and beginning to feel sick, and as my train made it’s way through the Rhine river valley towards Thun, I couldn’t help but let a smile eek out. Using the actual river as our guide, the beauty of the terraced mountainsides made me forget about how uncomfortable I was.
I reached Thun that evening and, as it was with Oostende, became immediately infatuated with the city. A milky green river runs down the alps through the center of town and the people whom lived there seemed to exude a Sense of swiss hospitality, gladly answering my questions as to where the hostel I looked for was, which was after about 90 minutes of me exploring the tourist-friendly town and its various waterworks. In hind sight, I regret taking that long looking around the town, because as beautiful as it was I had wished I was aware of my hostel situation sooner, because as I arrived to the hostel- which was much more than the advertised 10 minute walk from the train station being nearly four times that, I came to realize that the falsehoods didn’t stop at distance. What was described as a “homey hostel that thinks it’s a resort” was actually several shacks placed throughout a vacant lot. Wild dogs roamed the area like patrolling hyenas, hungry for any mean, simply waiting to pick off unsuspecting travelers. I looked over to the one room with a light on and saw the silhouette of a man raise his arm and then strike forward, followed by a low groan, and then another silhouette lunge across the room, tackling him against the wall and immediately decided that I would turn back and take the train to Bern, already aware that this was the only hostel in town and that any hotel was going to cost upwards of 100 euros.
The train ride to Bern was long as it was late and the only trains still running were local transit ones that stopped ever several
miles to pick up locals going into Bern for a night out, and with each tedious halt, I became more and more aware of the possibility of there being no rooms available in Bern. A possible re-enactment of the previous night is not what I was looking for. Luckily I was able to find an internet connection at the station in Bern and book the last room at a hostel- once again one claiming to be ten minutes from the train station. I walked up the two sets of stairs inside the Bern train station, ready for another wild-hostel chase, when I heard one of the loudest noises I had ever heard. It sounded like thousands and thousands of trunks of trees, giant redwoods, being violently snapped into. Before me was the bus station. It was a fairly simple design, a tall pointed roof that provided space beneath it for the fleet of public transit the city employed, and while it was very good at serving that intended purpose, as a structure that is designed to avoid being hit by lightning, it failed miserably. An enormous storm had overtaken Bern, the one that followed me from Luxembourg I was forced to assume, and again I would be searching for my hostel in the rain. The storm left as soon as it came, and although the streets had become flooded in a matter of 10 minutes, after 20 the rain had totally subsided, allowing me to enter the hostel only partially soaked. I checked in put my clothes away, and got some chips and a water, sadly that was not only the extent of their “menu” but also the only food I had eaten all day. I sat down at a table next to a taller guy with long hair and a goatee on a laptop. I was exhausted and hoped he would make the first shot at conversation, but after several minutes of silence I threw a softball at him, asking “So, does this place have free internet?”, a basic question, one that wouldn’t take much thought but would hopefully open up the floodgates allowing for something else.“No” he said, “No, it cost five francs for an hour, not really that bad” I agreed with him without thinking about it, not knowing that I was actually paying 20 dollars a day to get on the internet, “yeah, that is pretty cheap I said”.
There was more silence. He had not taken the bait. As far as I knew he was breaking the unwritten rule that if someone wants to talk to you in the hostel lobby, you have to at least humor them with some very basic conversation.
I tried again, this time taking a more directed approach.
“so what are you in Bern for?” I said, assuming that he would give me a short succinct “im just backpacking” answer, the thing that almost everyone said.
“oh, I’m in between two neuroscience conferences in Berlin, so I just came back here to check out the city, I used to do research for the University here.” He said as if that’s why everyone came to Bern.
I found out that his name was Blake, hewas a 28 year old graduate from Rice University in Houston, and an internet entrepreneur, (too modest to name all his sites he would only tell me about “buildasign.com ”) whom also dabbled in neuroscience. Something about that name must ensure success.
After our conversation ended I was drawn over to a table that had been shouting and laughing the whole night- sitting there were three girls, a natural blonde and brunette, both with longer hair, and a girl with bleached blonde hair cut snug. They all wore floral dresses and looked like they yearned for a different era. There were also two guys- one whom looked like he had just walked out of a frat house on any number of America’s higher educational campuses, and the other with a long black pony tail past his shoulders and a pair of black sunglasses that matched his black wife beater that hugged his lanky torso.
I walked over, sat down, and introduced myself. They reciprocated and I learned that the girls where Nat, Lou, and Kat, respectively, and the guys were Chad and Peter. Chad was, as I’m sure some can guess, the guy who looked like he was in a frat- and as the night went on I found out that he was, in fact, a recent grad of the University of Colorado at Boulder and did partake in the Greek life. Peter and the girls where all from Australia, although Peter was not travelling with them. Talking to them was my first encounter with “aussies”, term they demanded I call them, and if everyone who calls home to the to the same continent they did is as interesting and fun as them I will have no choice but to take my next adventure there. We talked about everything and we talked about nothing- but mostly we just talked. I said good bye to them the next morning and got on my train To Milano. I didn’t to see the sites in Bern, but I can’t say I wanted too. It’s only been a few days but this trip is beginning to wear on me, both physically and mentally. I plan on getting on a night train in Milano and taking that to Sicily where I hope the sunshine will be able to rejuvenate me.
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