May 9 – Day 6: The dreaded sciopero

We awoke early Fri. morning to have some breakfast of apples, cheese, and apple foccacia prior to our checkout and taxi ride back to Castelfranco Veneto train station. This was to be the start of a long and interesting journey en route to the Cinque Terre – one that we probably soon would not forget. Our new driver Giorgio, who had come in Rosario’s place, loaded our bags into his minivan cab and we piled in. Again, I got plenty of use out of my rudimentary Italian since after informing Giorgio of our train schedule, he informed us that there was a sciopero - nationwide train strike – this morning from 9:00 to 13:00. Four hours of canceled trains, not long enough to bring the country to its knees, but enough to mess up several people’s travel plans. I had heard and read about these dreaded strikes (Italians assume they will happen just like the sun will rise), but what perfect timing on Trenitalia’s part to have one on our big rail travel day. Per-fetto. Luckily, after much back and forth with Giorgio regarding our train, whether we wanted us driven to Padova or elsewhere to try and catch another train, etc. etc. we pulled into Castelfranco station with plenty of time to spare. Our 8:34 regionale to Venezia Mestre was even delayed 5 minutes. So, we got into Mestre with little fanfare.

That’s when the proverbial cow poop hit the fan. Our train to Milan wasn’t on the departures board. We queued up with numerous other people, assuming our original train had been canceled. The first agent we interacted with was a complete jerk to put it mildly (this is a family-friendly blog). Since we had bought our tickets in Venezia Santa Lucia, he claimed he couldn’t do anything, was extremely uncooperative, and in the end, obliged to only change our first ticket to Milan, saying when you get there, deal with your connection to Monterosso (Cinque Terre). Feeling flustered as I do when travel goes awry, we left the ticket line to regroup and have a cappuccino (next to a McDonald’s, pretty funny). Our next viable train to Milan left four hours later at 14:42, so we had a while to kill.

Feeling needy for more info, I went to a different desk and asked to see if I could get our second ticket changed for later that day. The gentleman studied our situation and finally endorsed the back of our Milano-Monterosso ticket, told us the train we wanted, and said to go back to the ticket agents inside as soon as possible. Here. In Mestre, not Milan. So, back in line I stood, hoping I wouldn’t have to speak to the same jackass. Luckily, I didn’t and got a much more helpful agent (“why didn’t the first agent change both tickets? Mio dio“). Again, he studies our tickets and itinerary with much care and intensity before agreeing to go ahead and issue a new second ticket.

This was becoming an Italian comedy of errors, as his ticket printer decided to jam up while printer our ticket. The nice agent cut his hand while trying to unjam it, and about three other guys came over to assist. Finally, we had our fully reissued tickets and were satisfied that we would be on our way, at least sometime today. Oh, and maybe we should ask or check the papers before our next train ride to see if there’s an impending strike! Did I mention the scioperi are announced in the Italian newspapers, radio, AND TV?!

While sitting waiting wishing for our train to Milano, I struck up an Italian conversation with a young college girl who was also waiting for her train back to school in Venezia. I just asked how often the strikes occurred, and I guess my Italian was good enough to converse about Asolo, Venice, what it’s like in the U.S. compared to Italy, even politics (“No one in Italy speaks out against the politicians”, “the trains only go on strikes for a few hours, they don’t have the guts to strike for four days”). She didn’t believe I had only taken Italian once a week, 2 hours a night, for 9 months, as she said she’d studied English for 5 years, and it wasn’t as good as my Italian. That made me feel pretty good hearing that from another native Italian speaker, who was studying economics at Ca’ Foscari University in Venice – where we had happened to stop for a spritz earlier in the week. What a great way to spend 30 minutes at Mestre station.

We also saw many of the feather-capped gents (Gli Alpini) who were also in Asolo for some sort of celebration. Kirstin could only describe them as sort of grown-up Boy Scouts, decked out with medals of honor and so forth. We never did figure out exactly why they were there, other than celebrating some sort of northern Italian/Austrian/German alpine heritage. (We found out later thanks to Wikipedia about the true heritage of the Alpini – the elite Italian army corps stationed in the north). Our first train Venezia Mestre-Milano Centrale was thankfully empty and event-free. Milano Centrale is a complete zoo of a station, and luckily we spent only an hour there.

Our next train Milano-Monterosso was 180 degrees opposite: packed, crowded, hot, oversold (I think a number of passengers just bought tickets knowing they were going to stand). Plus, I need to describe the cast of characters seated around us. Working businessmen, the guy on his cellphone headset from Milan to Genoa (about 1 hr. 40 min.), the guy next to Kirstin about to nod off on her shoulder, the stinky long-haired hippie dude next to me who reeked of alcohol and B.O. (he had a reserved seat) who borrowed reading glasses from the aforementioned dude, young girls yelling “Eh?” into their cells, the list goes on and on. Anyhow, passengers played musical chairs the whole ride to Genoa and then the train pretty much emptied. I think they must’ve been mostly day commuters.

At long last, we arrived in beautiful Monterosso and were so happy to exit the train. We chatted up another couple from L.A. who had a very similar itinerary, used TripAdvisor and Rick Steves for research, and the gent even worked as a civil engineer for competitor TetraTech in Pasadena and knew people at my company Kennedy/Jenks in our L.A. office. Very small world, especially here in Italy. While we waited for the milk-run train to Manarola, we each took turns dashing out of the station to glimpse the Cinque Terre, smell the salt air, and listen to the waves crashing. A short regionale ride and we had finally arrived in Manarola, around 10 PM – we left Asolo at 7:45 AM.

Dazed and confused dragging our bags at night through the crooked streets of Manarola, I ducked in to ask where and how to find Claudio, the proprietor of A Casa 5 Terre where we were staying. Turns out he was having a glass of wine right next to where we were standing and had left us a voicemail – perhaps back home in Portland? He urged us to drop our bags at his door, sit down, have a glass of rosso from La Spezia, and relax. We had finally arrived in the Cinque Terre. Over some prosciutto, cheese, and tasty stuffed mussels, we exchanged stories and chatted with Claudio who spoke excellent English and told us about living and working in Manarola. He was a most gracious host, a local known to other residents, and he wanted us to “stop think and just enjoy”. In fact, he though we should spend a fourth night here and skip Lucca altogether!

It was getting late, we settled our bill and he showed us up, up, up to our room with a view, Maria #2 at 70 Via Baluardo. We’d have to wait ’til morning to see it, but I was sure the view was awesome. The room was simple with a kitchenette, dining table, bathroom with open shower (no walls or curtains, kinda splashy), and creaky bed that could probably stand replacing. Despite the minor suggestions, we felt at home and had our best night’s sleep thus far in Italy. Who wouldn’t after 15 hours of travel across Italy and 70 steps up to our waterfront room?

Buona notte, sogni d’oro.

(Good night, sweet dreams.)