Trenitalia

This happened on day 9 of our 10 day italy trip.  Honestly, I don't think this paper explains the pain, but it is the best I can do.

                  I was starving and huddled under a sheet watching six other girls all colder and hungrier than I trying to sleep against cold metal armrests.  It was 1 a.m. in the Campo Marte, Florence train station, and a bed wasn’t a possibility for another five hours.  This definitely hadn’t been in our 10 day Italy trip plans.

                  We were supposed to be sleeping in our hotel in Venice already.  We were supposed to have arrived there at 10:30, three hours earlier.  But one confusing schedule, one late train, one grouchy customer service woman, one broken train, one frantic train change, one slow train, and one misread ticket had led to a seven hours of frantic rescheduling, two urgent half English-half charade conversations, five different trains, seven girls surrounded by four homeless and intoxicated Italians, and at one point—one crying me.  I was exhausted, but relieved that finally we had a train coming to take us to our final destination.  After we got on this 2 a.m. train, it would be over.  We could just sleep in our own car on the train, run and eat breakfast at our hotel (that we had to pay for anyway), and then go out to enjoy the floating city.  I casually talked with another midnight traveler as I shivered under my thin cover.  Things would be fine.  The girls would be comfortable and warm soon.  We just needed the train to come on time. 

It did come on time.  I was confident the ordeal was over as I walked up the stairs to the platform, my overstuffed backpack slung over my halter tankini.  Things were going to be fine.  I was relaxed.  I was relieved

                  Then the train door opened.

                  The second the two panels slid to opposite sides I was hit with a wave of heat and human odor.  My mind flashed to horrible memories of campground bathrooms, circus tents, and state fairs.  I could taste the sweat and human waste in the air as I hurried to shut my mouth.  This was our train.  This was our train for the next four hours. 

                  “I saw a compartment in this car.”  Krystle said as we all shuffled through the doors, up the steps, and into the disease infested steel trap.  I wanted a compartment so desperately.  If we could just all get a room together, then we could lie down and sleep off this disaster.  We marched slowly down the 2-foot wide hallway in single file.  There were no empty rooms.

                  “We are going to have to split up.”  I whispered over my shoulder to the group, trying not to wake the sleeping passengers.  I started looking frantically through curtains and dirty windows.  I didn’t want to stomach what I had started to fear as we boarded:  there was not a single empty compartment, nor was there a single empty seat.  Gypsies and immigrants sprawled over all square footage of the compartments and even onto the floor.  Families were crammed into boxes, babies screaming over the noise and rough carpet seating.  I saw young couples spooning, trying to utlize what small space they were allotted in a compartment of six.  “Let’s head the other way,” I suggested.  We all held our elbows to our sides and tried to turn 180 with mountains on our backs.  After the maneuver we were only greeted with more sweaty, tired and dirty passengers looking through compartment windows.  We couldn’t move back, and there wasn’t room to move forward.  We weren’t going anywhere.  We were stuck in this hall for the next four hours.

                  Trenitalia doesn’t really bother making sure they sell the same number of tickets as there are seats on a train.  If you really want a seat you pay for a reservation.  We had paid for a reservation: paid for a reservation on the train that would get us to Venice at 10:30.  But on this train we were all on our own.  We all pulled out the plastic squares from the train wall (designed specifically for the morons that don’t pay for train reservations) and plopped down on the one-foot by one-foot boards.  We were all silent.                   

Maria sat in front of me, still in her one-piece polka dot bathing suit.  She had to pee.  She’d been holding it since Vernazza eight hours earlier, but no way was she going to strip down to use a toilet in this brothel.  She sat holding her backpack just waiting out the disaster.  Every so often her knees would bob—a sign of her ever-expanding bladder. 

                  Behind me was Krystle.  Wrapped in a pashmina she had intended to give her mother as a souvenir and wearing socks with her Chaco’s, she sat leaning against the train wall.  She’d been quite optimistic the entire evening, but I could see waning stamina in her face.  Beyond Krystle sat Jana.  Her knees came up to her chin as she sat shaking in her purple sundress.  Those seats weren’t really made for humans, especially tall ones like Jana.  She sat in pain as she perched on her allotted square footage of train space.  She was avoiding eye contact with me. 

                  Behind them was Ambree, Whitney and Kayla.  All squatting on tiny squares.  All struggling, unsuccessfully to find any kind of position that would let them shut their eyes.  Whitney had tears coming out of hers, Kayla’s looked terrified at all of the strangers walking in and out of compartments, and Ambrees looked questioningly into every compartment looking for a seat we might have missed.

                  Seven girls, seven squares.  Lined up like prisoners, refugees, salem witches, or hostages.  We all sat helpless—unable  to sleep, but unable to face the situation awake.  Our vacation was not supposed to include this.  We were supposed to be in Venice soaking up sun and flirting with gondoliers.  Instead we were smashed in a dirty forgotten Italian train with the armpit of European travelers.

                  Around five in the morning a seat opened up in a compartment.  Through the night the other girls had eventually migrated to the emptying seats and drifted off to tortured sleep.  I got a few precious moments of unconsciousness before the conductor shouted our arrival at the Venizia Maestre station.  I grabbed my bag and tiptoed around other pitiful passengers.

                  I counted all the girls as we lined up to leave.  Seven tired girls.  We were all there, all there ready to head into the now light morning.  Visions of gondoliers and romantic canals gone, all we could hope for was a bed—and a bathroom. 

                  The train doors slid open, and this time we were greeted with clean morning air.  I stumbled out the door onto the platform.  Now we just needed to find the bus.