Wearing my new and very stylish Italian leathers, I head to the city that hails as the fashion capital of the world. Its hard to say what this journey is all about. After all, I have been on the road, or track if you will, for just over three weeks now. I have been reading Paul Theroux's travel writing, a collection of essays entitled, Fresh Air Fiend, and it is clear I have a long way to go before I am quite the traveler he is. He has been everywhere, and, admirably, not just cities.
In a meaningful sense my train journey is about cities. It is true that the train covers countryside and mountains, coastal region and the like, but every destination, save my day trip to the beaches of Normandy, has been for metropolitan purposes. I don't necessarily think this is such a horrible thing; after all, I have yet to see all these cities. And it's not as if all I want to see are cities. I would
love to hike the Dolomites in Italy, the Pyrennees in the south of France, or find a deserted beach in Portugal. Cities just seemed easier, I guess. Enough apologies...a thorough overview of Western European cities ain't all bad.
I snuck on this train early this morning. It was a Eurostar Italia which was supposed to be full, but I hopped on carelessly, not sure if I would get booted by the uffizi or welcomed by them. It now rolls slowly into Firenze, the Italian, and perhaps world, capital of art, and the likelihood that I am sitting in someone's reserved seat becomes higher. I needed to take this train or I would have arrived in Geneva way past dark, and thus I disregarded the conductor's advice. The thing is, I paid for a ticket on this and every other train in Europe, but some require seat reservations, so the
cost of planning your entire trip can be outrageous. When I visited the information booth in Roma, and asked the half-sleeping attendant whether I could jump on the train anyway, despite its completo-ness, he didn't understand, so I took his ignorance of the English language as my passport to ride the faster train.
It's not easy backpacking. Decisions like the aforementioned happen everyday. In Spain, Dave and I hopped on and off the same train twice, considering and then reconsidering our fate as un-reserved, second-class travelers. In the end it turned out fine, we succeeded in reaching our destination reasonably unfettered, but we did have to sit in the restaurant car, where we were enveloped by a thick cloud of cigarrette smoke and accosted by a four year boy who felt the need to show us his genitalia. It could not have been any more ridiculous. We were playing cards at the time, as Dave and I compulsively did throughout the trip, and a Spanish youngster came by and began speaking what might as well have been the language of Mars. Not being able to converse at even a second grade level, we sat back and enjoyed the comedy of the boy donning the
cowboy hat that we had acquired in San Sebastian. He looked sweet as could be, so we had no reason to believe that at a moment's notice, he would drop his shorts.
Now, the train sits in Firenze Santa Maria Station, I watch as the Italians talk on cell phones ("Pronto", they answer, as if there time is more valuable than that of the caller) and the signore with the rolling food cart pleases people down the aisle. I dread the person whose seat I am sitting in. I hope and pray that they were sick today, or that they had better things to do than go shopping in Milan.
If they don't, then I run the risk of returning to my rightful and deserved seat: the restaurant car. There, I will probably inhale boatloads of noxious gases and a perhaps have another a picquito sighting.
Nobody comes. I thank the blue sky above. It's been sunny for most of my travels here in Italy (I expected this when I planned the journey in the first place). We have had our share of rain, but when I pick up the USA Today and browse the London weather, I realize that I am in heaven comparitively. 3 degrees celsius, and you can only imagine what the wind is like. Now, I give praise to the partly cloudy Italian sky.
This trip has in many senses been partly cloudy. I have had rain, sunshine and even a little snow, but all in all I would hard pressed to say it was full of rain. The downpours, like the trials and tribulations, were many, but the daydream on Barcelona coast, or the peacefulness of Nice soleil. I bet that is how most travel is, wet and wild at times, sweet and sunny at others. I doubt, or hope that it could be otherwise. One needs the rain to appreciate the sunshine.
It seems that for now I am safe. No one has come to claim seat 14F, so I can sit back, relax and revel in the peace of a comfortable, non-smoking seat. And it is incessant. Western Europe, surprisingly, is not under a cloud of Carbon Monoxide like one might expect, but the way that its people smoke would have you believe otherwise. We met three guys from the Boston-area last night, and one of them - Dave - told us that he had taken up smoking because it seemed to him a "good idea."
He was bored he said, and it was a good thing to do to pass the time. But after a night out with him and maybe three cigarrettes burned, I realized that his idea of chain-smoking paled in comparison to Western Europe's. Every few minutes it seems, another 12 year old picks up the habit, and I couldn't help but be sad when we met a Spanish girl who had been puffing since 10. It was accepted, she seemed to plea, and you couldn't blame her, really, in the world in which she lives, she didn't have a choice.
One man in his late 60's coughed virulently in the restaurant car in Spain, but kept on keepin' on, one pack after another.
But not in California, a place I can eat a sandwich and fries without the threat of a second-hand cigarette-induced headache. California has become a common thought these days, not just for its sunshine and clean (L.A. not included) and breathable air, but for the people. I miss and the comfort of home. Traveling during the winter months has not been easy in the sense that while I see Europe's "must see's", I miss the
holiday feasts and the New Years Party's. It is a trade-off I suppose, but its hard to rationalize at the time. I know that many of my destinations are sites I may never see again, so I jump on the opportunity to see them at all. Meanwhile, I know that time passes back home at the same rate, so it is hard to accept that January 1st football continues without me watching. I see a man, perhaps a tourist if some kind, sporting a California hat and the memories come back.
We're in a tunnel right now. A long stretch of black out the window, ended by the mist of the northern Italian alps. Just a moment ago, it was bright sunshine and green grass. Another tunnel. Out of it more of the same: misty hillsides and un-popped ears. Yet another, and another, and my mind wanders to the creation of the railroad tracks in this area. How did they blast the tunnels for this railway? How long did it take? and other curious, but irrelevant questions.
The mist becomes thicker, and I think about my luck having a seat on this jam-packed train. Today is Wednesday, and as I adjust my new shoes I realize that on Sunday, I will be home - my temporary home anyway. Now that I am traveling alone, the finality of the escapade becomes nearer and easier to recognize. In all, it has been 10 cities and two little towns, countless museums and bella vistas, delicious dinners and sumptuous snacks, four languages and over five hundred pictures, crepes and gelati, tapas and camembert,
pizza and pasta by the ton.
When the train stops, I will be in Geneva. When the dust settles, I will perhaps gain perspective, but for now, I will read. A last ditch effort to take another nap.
More to come...
