This is my first experience of a "regular" Italian train and as I am sitting there, I begin to develop some conclusions about the differences between German, Dutch or Belgian (GDB) trains and Italian trains, not including the modern train that runs from Rome to Venice via Florence, which I expect has been upgraded for the zillions of tourists that visit along that particular route.
On GDB trains they announce the upcoming stops about five to 10 minutes before arrival. On Italian trains the announcement comes five to 10 seconds before the train screeches to a stop. I do mean screeches. GDB trains roll to a slow stop. On Italian trains you had better be well-anchored or seated as the train enters the station. On GDB trains, people honor reservations politely. On Italian trains, if you try to claim your reserved seat from someone who is already there, you will have to endure all sorts of facial and other contortions, to say nothing of muttered imprecations as the usurped passengers gather up their belongings, taking as much time as they can to vacate the compartment or seating area. Maybe they secretly hope you'll get tired of waiting and go away. On GDB trains, someone comes through checking tickets after every stop. On Italian trains ticket checking is a sometime thing. No one asked to see my ticket nor anyone else's as far as I could tell after Brenner Pass. Lastly, on GDB trains the water from a flushed toilet drains into a tank. On Italian trains it fertilizes the track bed.
I find my reserved seat, the middle of three in an empty compartment for six people. I struggle to get my 70 pound duffle onto the luggage rack above the seats and grab a window, wondering how long it will last. After a while, I decide to find a window seat in the non-reserved section so I can view the scenery for the whole trip.
We head into the Alps through Innsbruck and eventually climb over the Brenner Pass between Austria and Italy. The scenery is indescribable, at least by me. We hesitate for about 30 minutes at the Brenner Pass Station and I get off the train and stroll around, breathing the air and contemplating all the history that has involved this place. It's summer so the climate is benign but I can imagine how mean it could get in the winter.
As we descend I decide to have a little lunch and some beer in the dining car. While the service is excellent, I am surprised to find that when I order the cheese and sausage platter, I get not only the expected salami, prosciuto and mozzarella but also a huge chunk of bleu cheese, which I don't like. I also find I must pay an extra �2.50 for bread and crackers. I really didn't expect an Italian train to have mayonnaise but no mustard? That's right, just butter. I learn another lesson. Next time I buy baguettes in the station and just buy beers on the train.
As we descend into the Po River Valley, the hillsides are covered with grape vines. The sun becomes Italian. By that I mean sunlight is somehow softer in Italy. At every stop the car fills with more and more Italians. I feel myself starting to get upset at the intrusion on my enjoyment of the scenery. After a short while, I start to laugh at myself. Where did I think I was, still in Germany? This is Italy. People are noisy and chaotic and interesting.
One young lady is particularly fascinating. I first notice her out the window. She is accompanied by her father whom she is totally ignoring as she talks on her cell phone. She decides to sit in my compartment and is off the phone only long enough to get her bags situated with lots of help from two nearby young men, then immediately ignores them and re-starts her rapid fire conversation. This goes on for at least an hour. At one point someone says something so she goes out into the passageway. This does not help, though, as we can still hear every word of her conversations. Later when I move to my original compartment in the same car, she's still yakking away at the top of her voice so that everyone in the car can hear what she's saying. A number of the listeners are chuckling to themselves. I wish I knew someone who could translate for me.
I have to move to my original compartment to avert an international terrorist incident with me as the terrorist. At one stop, I hear a number of raised voices and I have just enough Italian to realize they are trying to determine the ownership of a piece of luggage. It tangentially occurs to me that they could be discussing my bag but since I don't want to give up my seat by the window, I ignore the whole thing. At the next stop, I notice an armed policeman marching down the passageway towards my original compartment. I reluctantly get up to find out what's going on. Sure enough, the policeman, the conductor and a number of other people are standing outside the compartment discussing and gesticulating. I move to the doorway and notice they are pointing at my duffel bag. I quickly claim ownership much to the relief of everyone. I decide I better sit in my assigned seat to avoid a similar misunderstanding.
I am meeting my friend of 40 years, Tom Trier. This is his first trip to Europe. He has been very eager to make this trip. For my part, I am sure I will enjoy the next three weeks even more with his company, especially when we see the sights I've visited in the past. Tom got in yesterday and is waiting in his room when I arrive.
We decide to eat near the hotel on the Via Veneto or Tourist Central. It seems as if there are more Americans walking around than Italians. We choose a place named Ciao Bella if you can believe that. Nevertheless, Tom's enthusiasm is contagious and our pizza and pasta dinners are actually quite good. The food is accompanied by a pretty good soprano of indeterminate age singing popular light arias. After dinner, we walk around getting caught up, stopping only to buy a gelato. But even Tom's excitement can't hold back my exhaustion so we return to The Julia and a great night's sleep.
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