(Today, God willing, we arrive in Rome. So, for a change in pace, I thought I would post our experience from when we were first – and last – in Rome, 5 years ago…)

Fri 28^th June   
Today I woke up nervous.
I always wake up nervous on travelling days. As we are travelling, on average, every third or fourth day, I have more than the usual number of nervous wake-ups.
It’s not so bad if we are travelling late (like after 4 pm) – then I still have time to get to the terminal/ station/ dock my usual 6 hours in advance (just to make sure I don’t miss my plane/ train/ bus/ boat).
Don’t blame me; it’s genetic. Some are like my good friend, Gavin, an astute businessman who works on the “just-in-time” principle; and some are like me. My parents always used to get to the station in time to catch the train before the one before the one they intended to catch – just to make sure they were on time. So, with Freud, I blame my parents.
I’m O.K. once I am on the plane/ train/ bus/ boat, and I’ve checked for the 7^th time that it is the right plane/ train/ bus/ boat, and we’re on our way. It’s the bits at each end that make me nervous.

Two days ago (Wednesday morning) we docked at Civitavecchia (the port for Rome), which is a long way from Rome – more than an hour’s drive on a high speed road. We had been told by the cruise personnel that taxis were hard to come by (which they are not; they are like bees around a honey pot when you disembark) and would charge €250 (i.e. ~ $350 AUD) to take you to Rome: alternatively the cruise would supply a bus at a mere €90 per person.
We decided to try Trenitalia (the Italian rail system).

After emerging from the port area we were confronted by a roadside stall selling train tickets (hmmm). We bought two tickets – it cost us just €11 for those two tickets to get to Rome by rail.
At the station, a few blocks down the street, it seemed that the tickets were kosher; but before travelling you had to find the special machine on platform 1 and “validate” your ticket – apparently this is very important and you can face dire consequences (we never found out how “dire”) if you travel with an unvalidated ticket.
Platform 1 looked good as the sign said the train to Rome departed from there. Just to check (I suffer from CDO – I like to keep things in alphabetical order) I went and found a station attendant and asked if it was the right platform: “No,” she assured me, “the next train to Rome leaves from platform 5.” “Are you sure?” (I had to check) “the sign says platform 1”. “No, definitely platform 5, go NOW.”
So I joined others on my way to platform 5. There are no escalators at Civitavecchia and we had already had to lug our heavy suitcases up a long flight of stairs to platform 1. (The wheels on our suitcases are great – but no use on stairs.) So it was down the stairs again, through a tunnel, and up the stairs on the other side to platform 5.
Again we (and others) checked with the station attendant there if this was where to catch the train to Rome. “No, of course not, you must be on platform 1.” This led to an even longer exchange as we tried to convince her the train would come in on platform 5 – but to no avail; neither she (nor, as it turned out, the train to Rome) was interested in berthing at platform 5.
So, it was back (down the stairs, through the tunnel, up the stairs) to platform 1.

The train came in 20 minutes early, and the sign (which up till then had boldly declared there would be at least two other trains before the Rome train on that platform) suddenly changed its mind to say this one was going to Rome. So naturally, I had to ask the first station attendant I had approached if this one was really going to Rome. She gave me a withering look, and assured me it was.
With nothing better to do we boarded – but I looked at my watch every minute till we left, since I was sure that if it left early, we would be on the wrong train.
Thankfully it left late, and it was the right train.

The trip itself was pleasant enough – apart from an irate matron who boarded the train and made us remove our heavy suitcases from one of the seats where we had parked them. (There was nowhere else to put them apart from the aisles.) There were other empty seats so I can only assume she had to sit in that seat “as a matter of principle”. When the ticket collector came by she launched into a rapid diatribe against us and our remaining suit case on the other seat, gesticulating and pointing accusingly at the offending suitcase. The ticket collector just smiled at her and shrugged his shoulders, and moved on. This made her even more irate, so she took up her offensive case against our offending case with a passenger nearby. Apart from this the trip was quite pleasant, and took an hour.
And so, like Paul, we arrived in Rome.

That day (Wednesday) we booked our train tickets for today – from Rome to Manarola in the Cinque Terre, changing trains at La Spezia.
Booking tickets is itself an interesting experience. We tried to do this before we left Australia. It worked O.K. for Switzerland, but we were repeatedly told the Italians were “in the process of revising their train timetable – maybe soon”. “Soon” was not up till the day before we left; so we book them here.
We were at a little hotel in Rome around the corner from Termini (Rome’s Central Station), so we went there on Wednesday to book our tickets for today. The crowds were thick; you take a queue ticket and wait your turn. After ½ hour our turn came: “No, you took the wrong ticket. This is just Information; we don’t sell the train ticket. Go to the other machine and get different queue ticket from there.”
We went to the other machine; this time we waited 45 minutes – lots of people want to buy train tickets apparently. Eventually our turn came – and finally, triumphant, as though we had just won Lotto (though we don’t buy Lotto tickets) we emerged from Termini, the proud parents of two tickets to Manarola via La Spezia.

Today (Friday, a travel day) I woke up nervous. We had booked an early train to try and get to Manarola not too late – the journey to La Spezia is itself 4 hours; then we change to a branch line for the short journey to Manarola.
Back at Termini you don’t know which platform to go to (there are about 30); so you watch the Departure Board till they tell you which platform the train will be on. We had heard one story from a young American couple who reckoned the platform for the train they were catching was so far away from the Board that, when the platform number finally came up, it was with just a few minutes to spare and some of their friends missed the train because they couldn’t get there in time.

As we kept our eyes glued to the huge board way above our heads, a young, well-dressed Italian woman came up to us to explain to us in broken Italian-English how the system worked; by this time we had figured out how the system works for ourselves, but we thanked her for her concern and kindness. After a while we moved down the station to the next Departure Board, unaware that she had us in her sights and was following us.
But when our platform number appeared (with 20 minutes to spare) she appeared again too, and kindly led us through the crowds to the right platform. Then showed us how to validate our ticket (did I mention that this is very important?), led us to our carriage, and even showed us to our seats. By this stage I was getting nervous as I felt this was above and beyond the call of duty – but decided to offer her €5 for helping us; “No,” I thought in a moment of rash generosity, “I’ll offer her €10 – she’ll be embarrassed of course, and refuse; but I should offer.” I offered her €10; she looked at me and, in her broken English explained it was not enough: “After all you are two people; and you have bags.” (“So do you,” I thought, “bags of gall.”)
So (I regret this now) I gave her another €10 (that’s close to $30 which, I now realise, was way too much for 10 minutes’ “work”). She looked aggrieved and insulted, and again said, “No, not enough. You are two people and have bags.” I told her I would give her no more; she stood there in the aisle and argued, even as we sat in our seats. I thought, “Unless you have a ticket to La Spezia, you’re the one going to be in trouble, not me.” Apparently she didn’t have a ticket to La Spezia, and eventually gave up and disembarked.

Romans always seem ready to help – some for the love of it; but more often than not (at least, the ones who found us) expecting to be reimbursed exorbitant amounts of cash. Yesterday, walking around Rome, we had one sweet old man, at the romantic Spanish Steps, come up and give Eileen a rose “because you are beautiful”. “No, we don’t want a rose.” “Don’t worry, it is a gift.” “Grazie.” “Now, you” (that’s me, Ken) “give me some euros.” “No, you said it was a gift.” “Yes, it is. But I give your girl a rose; you buy it for her – and you get lucky tonight.” “No thanks, I am lucky enough; here have the rose back.” “No keep it anyway, it is a gift.” “Grazie.” “Now, you” (that’s me, Ken) “give me some euros.” etc etc.

Apparently everyone gets lucky if he buys his wife a gift. We bought a painting – an “original” by the street artist himself (it must’ve been an original because, when asked, he told us it was; he even proved it by signing the back of it for us while we stood there.) He wanted €30. Eileen liked the painting, but not that much. He insisted I should buy it for her and I would “get lucky” that night. Eventually we did (i.e. buy it), but for €15 – not bad for an “original”. That is “lucky”.

Anyway, back to Trenitalia: I’m O.K. once we are on our way, and I know we are on the right train; and the train trip up the west coast of Italy was thoroughly enjoyable.
Until we arrived at La Spezia. There, we had a hard time finding out which platform to go to. I hunted around while Eileen minded our bags. I found a station attendant. An American woman travelling to the Cinque Terre had found the same attendant who (rather grumpily) was explaining which platform to go to.
I asked the woman what she had found out: “Did the train stop at Manarola?” She assured me all trains stop at each of the five towns that make up the Cinque Terre. Trusting her, Eileen and I boarded the train (after validating our tickets, of course). Manarola is the second of the five towns.

The train did indeed reach the first town (a good sign; at least we were on the right line) and stopped. Unfortunately, the next station whizzed by; and the next; and the next – finally coming to rest at the last of the five towns. Ouch.
We got off while we could. Had to buy new tickets to get back to Manarola (“otherwise you could be heavily fined”) – and, of course, validated them. Went for lunch (as the next train was almost an hour away) but got back in good time (of course) to make sure we didn’t miss the train.
Then we found an Australian (from Brisbane) travelling with his son who was not only going back to Manarola, but was even staying at the village in the hinterland (Volastra) where we were heading. He was just the most helpful, even lifting Eileen’s heavy bag on and off the train. We were very thankful to meet them – and he didn’t ask for any euros (nor did we offer).
The train came. We arrived, at last, at Manarola.

So here we are in bellisima Volastra, way above the sea and Manarola far below.