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It had started out as a nicely relaxed day. I was happy. I was in Florence, with over 24 hours until I had to be in Marseilles. Plenty of time, I thought. Someone special (I’ll just call her the SS, short for Someone Special) was due to meet me upon her arrival in Marseilles airport on a Monday afternoon. We had been separated for five weeks, and during this time we had planned our vacation in southern France. The previous two days I had spent in Florence and Pisa, feeling pretty chuffed about my scheduling and budgeting as well as the sights. Everything had been going to plan. Just had to get to Marseilles.
The simplest option would have been to fly. But the purist (not necessarily the environmentalist) in me said that flying over Europe was akin to cheating, let alone too easy. The express train was simple enough, but meant that upon arrival I would have to wait twelve hours, some of it in darkness. The bus was cheaper and, according to the schedule, departed Florence at 10.45pm and arrived in Marseilles in mid-morning, which seemed like a no-brainer.
Eurolines is one of those bus companies that always seem to run on time. So I was a little surprised that I was still waiting for the 10:45 bus at 11:45. When I bought the ticket, the station attendant said, “Bus stops out there,” indicating the tree-lined parking lot outside the window. I confirmed this twice, pointing both times at the same patch of asphalt.
So, after spending the afternoon and evening hanging around the train station (during which time the dread-locked security guy kicked me out of the cafeteria for reading and not eating), I dutifully went to the parking lot at 10:30. I was a little anxious – the lot was dark and dirty, and crazies and drunks were lurking – so with some apprehension I waited. And waited. A bus did go by around 11pm, but it did just that – went by – and with some haste. It wasn’t mine, surely?
Forty-five minutes later I realized it must have been. I was incensed. I’d paid $80 for the ticket and waited all day, only to have the bus zoom past and not even slow down. I couldn’t get my money back, as the bus station was shut by that time, and I didn’t have the luxury of time to wait around so I could yell at someone.
The first train heading in the right direction left at midnight, headed for Genoa via Pisa. I tried to sleep onboard, but couldn’t. After two hours of looking at dark countryside from a dirty, empty train, the train arrived in Pisa’s train station. I had been there the day before and had scribbled in my notebook, “concrete monstrosity” – meaning it in a playful sort of way. This time I meant it in a different light. There was a ninety-minute wait for the connection, which I spent lying on a concrete bench on the platform. A few weeks earlier, I’d bedded down on a hard steel bench in Bari’s ferry terminal, en route between Croatia and Greece. So this was nothing new, but it was horribly uncomfortable nonetheless.
The train to Genoa left on time, and the trip was uneventful. Again, I didn’t sleep and when I got to Genoa at sunrise I realized I wasn’t going to. It promised to be a warm day and I was on the right track, figuratively and literally. Or so I thought.
I read the station schedule incorrectly. Of course, when I read “Nizza”, I thought it must mean Nice, only spelt in Italian – like Firenze or Roma or Napoli. Hurriedly I bought a ticket, for the train was due to leave in five minutes. One look at the scheduling and I would have seen my mistake.
Two hours later I did. Nizza Monferrato is a small, quaint farming community halfway between Genoa and Milan, and not at all where I wanted to be. Suddenly I was incensed again, this time at myself.
The station was small, blisteringly hot and completely devoid of passengers. The stationmaster was big, cold and spoke little English. “Il treno?” I asked him.
“Er, no-no. Luniere!” he said. No. It’s Monday.
Evidently no trains went anywhere from this tin-pot town on Mondays. I asked, “Bus?”
“To Acqui Terme,” he said, “One hour.”
What good was this? Acqui Terme was another tiny town.
“I need a train,” I said.
“Si. Il treno. From Acqui Terme.”
It was half an hour until the bus left, so I poked about Nizza. Not much of a place – local bakery, local post office, few locals out and about. Understandable on such a hot day. I must have looked like a lost Aussie, with my loaded pack, messed-up hair, bloodshot eyes and worried expression. I got a few stares – clearly this place was not on the tourist trail.
So much so that I had to flag the bus down when it came. It was a small community bus, the sort locals use to go shopping or to get to town. There were two other people on board aside from the driver, both of them old. I took a seat near the back and looked at the country as we drove along. Back roads through green farms, the type the SS and I wanted to see in Provence. It was nice, but I was fretting too much to enjoy it.
The same was true of the train from Acqui Terme to Genoa. Gorgeous scenery, from forests to waterfalls, and not a cloud in the sky. The interior of the train was not so gorgeous, however. It was full of noisy school kids, plus a loud man with a dog. The dog was the best behaved of the lot. When we got to Genoa I wanted to scream in frustration and annoyance, but I kept my cool. Instead, I phoned the SS to explain the situation. Still waiting for her flight in London, she was bemused that I had chosen not to fly, but okay with me being a few hours later than planned. What was three hours after five weeks, right? Her reassurance made me feel a bit better. Only a bit, mind you.
I made sure I got the right train, and took a seat by the window in a clean compartment. I’d been traveling for twelve hours and was one-third of the way to where I wanted to be. But I had to relax. The train went mostly by a coastline that is simply stunning when bathed in sunshine. Even though the area is mostly built-up, it’s still very pretty. The only dark part was, oddly enough, Monaco, where the train passed underground. Are we mere mortals not allowed to gaze on the abodes of the rich? Or is there simply no room, or too few taxes, to run a track above ground?
Anyway, the train got to Nice at 4pm local time, about the time the SS’s plane landed in Marseilles. The Gare du Nord was heaving with people. Everyone, it seemed, was starting his or her summer vacation. I was then dealt a crushing blow – a train had just left for Marseilles, only five minutes prior to my arrival in Nice. Wondering aloud why the hell they weren’t timed to coincide, and why my luck was so bad, I had no option but to wait. The next train left in ninety minutes. So I sat, with glum expression, on my bag, on the platform, amongst a crowd of happy faces.
My happy face returned momentarily when my train arrived. It was new, non-compartmentalized, and the seats looked like business class airline seats. I was kind of relaxed to take a seat, until the seat next to me was claimed. The man who sat there was a large black gentleman in a shiny new suit, carrying a briefcase. I hadn’t slept, showered, or changed my clothes in 36 hours, so I started to feel awkward as well as anxious.
I willed the train to move faster as it zoomed along. It was going flat-out as it was, but still I wanted to be in Marseilles instead of on a train. Luckily I had seen the coastline two years before, as I paid it no attention, instead closing my eyes and hoping telepathy would take over. Sorry I’m late, so sorry I took so long, girl you look gorgeous, do I really smell that bad? Can this train hurry the fuck up? I did rummage in my bag to produce the present I had bought for her in Santorini, hoping it would be some consolation.
The Gare du Marseilles was undergoing renovations. Lots of plain wood, temporary barriers and steel walkways erected all over. No signs were in English of course, which made finding the airport bus a little difficult. With my usual impeccable judgment, I departed the station on foot, in completely the wrong direction. Ten minutes passed before I found my way back into the station and then to an empty bus with “Airport Navette” stenciled on it. To the driver I said, “Ticket? From you?”
He indicated a booth some distance away and said, “Non. There.”
The ticket booth was closed. I swore loudly, not for the first time that day. After staring incomprehensibly at a ticket machine, I fumbled some coins into it and thankfully it produced a ticket.
On returning to the bus, I found that two cheery English ladies had boarded. I surrendered my ticket to the driver and flopped into a seat, unwilling to divulge my accent or nationality to the other passengers or the driver. I was not in the mood for the barrage of questions this usually presents.
Wow, did that bus go fast! Either the driver sensed my anxiety or he had some of his own. Can’t say I blamed him. Marseilles looked disgusting that day. We passed a lot of high-rise apartment buildings with laundry hung outside, presumably to add some colour and aesthetic appeal to a boxy and ugly town.
Finally, nine and a half hours later than I had originally intended, I arrived at Marseilles airport, just on dusk. The place was deserted, all the booths were shut, and cleaners had begun piling chairs upside-down on tables. In the furthest corner, speaking to a hotel reservations desk clerk about single rooms, was a familiar shape. Sighing with relief, I walked over and stood behind her.
“Sorry I’m a little late,” I understated.
Her restraint was commendable. In fact, it was incredible. She looked like she didn’t quite recognize me at first (maybe I wouldn’t have, either), then she smiled and it lit up her face, as always. It nearly brought tears to mine. I’m not sure exactly what she thought, being hugged by a smelly, scruffy, dog-tired version of me, but I like to think it was one of the happiest moments of her life. It certainly was that for me.
Related Posts
- Following E M Forster’s footsteps through Florence
- Florence with your future mother in law (perhaps)
- When the train is the strain
Copyright © 2009 Raymond Thew
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