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| O voi che siete
in piccoletta barca
-- Dante
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| Dateline: | Tuesday 6.7.1999 ?:?? |
| Location: | m/s Torres, Tirrenia Line, Tunis-Trapani |
Leave it to the Italians to complicate something as simple as passport control. The way it works (if I dare use that word) is that people in groups of ~100 are herded into a large room and their passports are collected. Then a row of guards scans them with cellphone-connected portable scanners, examines the results, stamps the passports and returns them to their owners by calling out names! I eventually got mine back and followed some other confused people while they looked for the way out, eventually ending up on the car deck. Oops. A cop noticed my plight, glanced once again at my passport and waved me through an open door. I walked out the gangway onto land, alone. No customs checks, no nothing. Back in Europe!
But only barely. I took a 2-hour express from Trapani, a nice if fishy little town based on the little I saw of it on my hike to the station, to Palermo, an absolute shithole based on the little I've seen so far. Lonely Planet politically describes Palermo as being in "a remarkable state of decay", which is a nice way of saying there's still bomb damage visible in the center -- from World War II! The "attractions" are so filth-encrusted I had difficulty recognizing them as such and I almost walked past the center by accident. A bunch of even more lost-looking tourists was wondering about their location out loud... at Quattro Canti, the central point of the city! But I can't blame them, the Palermitans' exquisite care for their heritage is probably best shown by the shoes floating in the Quattro Canti fountain...
Oh well, at least the place is cheap. I'm currently waiting for a 3-course meal (with wine) for the measly price of £13,000. I was willing to spend even more, but all of Lonely Planet's recommendations were either perversely located or perversely priced (£20,000 for pasta? Err...)
<discontinuity>
Aaah... for 15,000 (I took dessert) that was quite amazing, even if the wine was mediocre, the funghi canned and the prosciutto just ordinary ham. The meal (apologies for not copying down the Italian version): penne with creamy ham-mushroom sauce, bizarre but extraordinarily tasty beef-cheese sausages deep-fried with butter and fresh oregano (?) leaves; green salad with olive oil and salt dressing; fresh bread; 1/4 L of wine and huge chunks of melon. And, at the station, a cone of lemoncello to top it off. Ecstasy!
But who stole my alcohol tolerance? A quarter of wine and I'm funk as druck. The heat is, unbelievably, even worse than in Tunisia: the temperature seems to be lower, but the humidity, the humidity! After gasping my way to the Cathedral (not-bad-but...) I gave up and headed for Stazione Centrale's air-conditioned (woo-hoo!) waiting room, a kilo of fresh nectarines (£990!) in tow.
Only to find more real-life Baroque grotesqueness. I went to the station's toilet, but all the stalls were occupied, except one whose door was partly open. So I head over and open the door... and find a green-clad Italian imp, jacking off with a turgid cock in hand, and who actually grinned when I discovered him. I slammed the door and turned around, only to find two more pervs doing their thing(s) at the urinals. WTF!?!
At this moment I just want to get the hell out of here. 24 hours and I'll be in Geneva, 48 and I should be in Berlin.
Dateline: Tuesday 6.7.1999 18:38 Location: E1920 "Trinacria", Palermo-Milano
This is, quite possibly, the longest intranational route in Europe: a cool 18 hours (17:00 to 11:00 the next morning) from the tip of the boot to the top of the legging. (Although another train plying the same route takes an extra 1.5 hours to complete it.) Still, this does effectively replace two couchettes, which suits me just fine. Unfortunately the train is packed full of gravel-voiced opinionated Sisilian grannies, screaming babies and everything in between -- and of course nobody speaks a language other than Italian, whose Sisilian dialect I find utterly incomprehensible. Sigh...
ExtrrailingDateline: Wednesday 7.7.1999 13:27 Location: IC 326, Milano-Geneva
I seem to be taking extrrailing rather literally. What would you do after a 19-hour (Ferrovia del Stato was an hour late, surprise surprise) trip? Why, if you were me, you'd stand in line for 45 minutes only to find that, despite what the timetable says, reservations are both impossible and unnecessary; devour salad and pasta in 15 minutes; and hop on yet another 4½-hour train! Joy! All this so I can... take another 12-hour ride tomorrow and get to Berlin on time. And yes, this is the 3rd time I've changed trains at Milano Centrale and I still haven't ventured outside the station. Ah well. At least I'll be able to take a shower, wash my mouldering clothes and sleep the night on the floor.
I see mountains! I see SNOW! Everything is green and the weather is cool! Ooh, am I glad to be out of the Mediterranean...
Every now and then, including right now, you get one of those moments that makes it all worthwhile.
"Goddamn! Here I am, sitting in a swanky Swiss train rocketing through the amazing Alps, a gigantic slice of delicious Italian pizza in my hand, about to meet some friends tonight and head to the best party of the year with practically all my friends! I'm stuffed, healthy, wealthy (enough); no work, no deadlines, no stress... and the sun is shining. This is what it's all about!"
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