As I glance around at the
youthful backpackers on a train that can only be described as a cattle car, I
have no idea that I’m about to learn a hard lesson about the difference between
Italia Rail and Rail Italia. I forget which is the one where I sat in first
class with a roving drinks cart on my way to Venice and Florence, but
this is the other one.
I'm jammed on a little fold-down
jumper seat w my luggage crammed around me, the only forty-something among impossibly
cool hipsters from around the world. I'm now sporting an extra red
leather weekender bag bought in Florence (love it!) filled with gifts
bought all along the way and I’m balancing it on my lap, clutching my purse with
both hands like I’m eighty. I chuckle to myself imagining the people to whom
I’d bragged, “Yeah, I book all my own travel in advance online. It’s a cinch.” And until today it has been.
I’ve
been traveling solo around Italy by train for two weeks without a hitch and I’m all
set to take a couple of different trains to the Rome airport to catch a 6pm
flight to Croatia. Yes, life is good. I
caught the train out of Cinque Terre no problem and I’m on a 10:07 to
Rome. Not Termini, which is Rome’s Grand Central, but one even closer to
the airport, or so I thought. I am also
pretty sure (yet not positive…) that to get to that particular station I
have to change trains in Pisa. I remember seeing that online when I
booked, but it's not indicated anywhere on my ticket. No worries - I'll
just ask the conductor. Now, as the
train chugs in to the Pisa station, anxiety starts to spread. Do I change trains here or not? The train slowly comes to a stop and the doors
slide open.
There is no conductor. And
I can't even move to go find one. In fact, as I struggle to stand up I
can’t even move my arm to peek at my ticket crammed near the bottom of my
purse, but I had already read it thoroughly and know it holds no answers. So here I am in Pisa at a crossroads,
precious moments ticking away and I need to make a decision. I'm pretty
sure I need to get out. But what if I'm wrong? This train is headed to
Termini where trains to the airport run every half hour. But what if the
train from here is faster (and nicer!)? Decision time.
The train is still
paused, passengers are pushing their way on and I'm completely twisted
about what to do when out the window I glimpse a sign with an arrow with the
words "Train to Airport". Aha! Problem is I'm now jammed in further behind
all the people that just got on and I'm frantically trying to maneuver my two
heavy bags and giant suitcase to get off. I am like those crazy black Friday
shoppers, aggressively elbowing through, stepping on feet, dragging my suitcase
over toes, chin tucked, shouldering on. As passengers hiss angrily at me
in Italian, I’m fully aware that I am the ugly American but I have only one
thought: Must. Get. Off.
Somehow I land on the
platform with all my bags, the entire train car no doubt still cursing
me. Adrenalin (and sweat) flowing, I bump my suitcase up two flights of
stairs and across a walkway over the tracks to the platform where I discover
the other train is to the...Pisa Airport.Shit. SHIT!! I look
down as the train I just jumped off pulls away bound for Rome where I
desperately need to be.
Why oh why did I get off that train?? I'm cursing
myself. Then panic really sets in. I have to check in by 5 or I miss my
flight! What if that was the last train to Rome? Unlikely, but my mind is
racing. What if the next train isn’t for hours? The ride is a good three hours
or more from here. I look at my watch- 11:30. OhmyGodohmyGod. I can't breathe and now I'm in a cold sweat
on this 100 degree platform. I force myself to stop and practice my breathing. After a few minutes my forehead starts to
relax and my breathing slows. Now a
cooler head prevails and I calmly assess my situation:
· *
I'm most likely going to miss my flight
· *There will be change fees involved but I have my credit card and I’ll get there tomorrow.
·
*I'll have to stay another night in Rome (credit card)
·
*I’ll lose a night in Croatia. Oh well, it is what it is. I’m still on vacation. Stuck in Rome – first world problems
· *
Maybe I should go see the leaning tower and just spend the night
here. Probably cheaper than Rome.
I st I wheel my luggage purposefully down to the ticket office and
discover that the next train to Rome is leaving in ten minutes! I want to drop
all my bags and twirl around the little office.
I mentally run through my itinerary.
I’m cutting it
close for a 5pm check in but I’m optimistic. This is totally do-able. I'm overjoyed.
Th The train is already
waiting on the platform and it's normal. Not first class with a roving
drink cart but nowhere near the cattle car. A typical commuter train. Yay! I
collapse exhausted onto a seat near the window, take out my Kindle, put on my
headphones and we pull away. I close my eyes and exhale, nearly giddy with
relief.
Moments later the
guy sitting directly across from me starts jiggling his right leg. The
seats are close enough that as he does this our knee caps keep bumping
together. Well that's annoying. I bet he was the kid who always tapped his
pencil during tests. I open my eyes and realize he's doing a whole lot
more than jiggling his leg. What next? He’s probably twenty-something, would benefit
from body waxing and bears a striking resemblance to Mario of video game
fame. I sneak a glance at the two guys across the aisle. Are they
witnessing this? They're sound asleep, bodies sprawled, mouths agape. Do I confront
this guy and tell him to move or quit it? What's the protocol here? I am NOT moving all my shit again either. I
reread the same sentence in my book eighteen times without processing,
prudishly pulling my kneecaps as far away from him as the seats allow and hoping he finishes soon. I finally lean my head against the
window, close my eyes and fall asleep. When I open them later the wanker
is gone.
Now it’s 3:30 and we have still
a few more stops to Termini. I'm starting to worry that I'll miss the
airport shuttle and the guide book says a taxi to the airport from Rome is
forty-five minutes without traffic. I'm picturing getting out of
Manhattan at 4:00 on a Friday (or any day!) and am starting to despair that
after coming so close I may still miss my flight. I remind myself of
my earlier pep talk and if I stay another night in Rome I'll make it fun.
But I'm so close!
Train arrives at Termini a
few minutes late - 3:50 - and I'm a few tracks from the airport shuttle. I have
no ticket and only twenty euro cash (ticket is fourteen) and I'm prepared to
beg them to take my cash and just let me on. But this is not an issue
because people shuffle off the train so slowly that by the time my feet hit the
platform I hear the electronic announcement that the airport train just
departed. Keep moving, I tell myself firmly.
I wheel my stuff down steps
and outside where taxis are sitting and ask how fast to get to the
airport. One guy says half an hour- he sees my panic. It's now 4:00.
I promise a nice tip if he can do that but first we have to stop at an ATM. He
says no problem, we'll stop on the way. We do and I run in. Of course
it’s some old-timey ATM, where the card slides in in slow motion, between every
screen is please wait and a circle spins as the screen loads. You get
the idea. I now have major upper lip sweat breaking out awaiting the cash.
Equally slowly a fifty slides out, I grab the cash, my card and hop back in. My
driver buckles his seat belt. Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror and I
buckle mine. Let’s do this, we’re
both thinking. He steps on the accelerator; our heads are simultaneously pinned
to our headrests, aaaand we're off!
This guy drives like it’s
the final lap of the Daytona 500. He is weaving through Rome traffic, squeezing
in here, getting around there and edging slower drivers out of our way. We
whiz past the Colosseum, then I spy the dome of St. Peter's and I focus on
sightseeing memories, trying not to look at my watch. When we hit the highway
he floors it. I am LOVING his sense of urgency! He's tailgating, lane changing
and high beaming other motorists into submission until they let us pass.
When I'm in a rush I expect people to drive like that. It's like it's his flight. I see signs for the
airport but we see signs for JFK way before we're even close so I'm wondering
how far we actually are, but I'm certainly not going to ask as he's clearly breaking
his ass to get me there. It's 4:25 now. Suddenly I see an airport welcome
sign. Yay! I'm going to make it!
Then he asks me which
terminal. Crap, I should know this. I honestly did try to look that up on
the train using their free wifi and attempting online check-in, but it’s not
available on Croatia Air so I do not have that information. He asks where
I'm going. “Croatia,” I tell him. He
shoots me a confused look in the rearview.
“Eh?” “Cro..a..tia..,” I repeat,
slowly and clearly as though he’s slow-witted.
His face lights up. “Cro-ah-tee-yah!” he pronounces it. “Si!” I nod, smiling so hard it hurts my
cheeks. Now he seems to know where we’re headed. I'm hoping he's right. He slides up to
the curb, throws the car in Park and runs to the trunk, grabbing my bags and
snapping up my suitcase handle, readying it for me. The fare is sixty euro.
I thank him profusely, give him seventy and tell him to keep it. I'm
already wheeling away and he's calling, "Grazie!" enthusiastically.
I blow him kisses and shout, "Grazie! You rock!!”
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