Back in Termini

I’m back in Roma Termini, but this time I’m comfortably reclining in a cozy Trenitalia lounge. I blame Trenitalia for the conditions of the rest of the Italian trains. You can’t ride Trenitalia on a Eurorail pass without paying a supplement. The Trenitalia trains seem to be about the quality of the German ICE trains. The ones we ride are more like local lines. No electricity, no heat (that’s a common Italian thing anyway), and typically overcrowded because no one wants to pay the Trenitalia fees.
Still, their lounge is nice, and the guy at the desk assured me that I wouldn’t be thrown out.
I’m sitting here guarding my bag and Tiff’s bag while she dashes to and fro after various souvenirs. With any luck, I’ll be getting a T-Shirt to wear. I think the one I’m in is starting to stink.
One flat-screen TV is ticking news in English and Italian. I’ve read most of it in a copy of the Herald Tribune that a man on the train kindly donated to me after overhearing me talk to Tiff. He’d read it all anyway. It’s got several great stories, mostly on the non-politically charged issues. Of course, even those carry a certain overtone to them, because everything we read or write today seems to relate in one way or another to the “War on Terrorism,” the war in Iraq, or the general conflict between Islamic Supremists and the world as a whole. That, or money.
I wrestle with this form of writing. After all, even those who don’t write about their generation are writing in it, and thus doomed to comparison. How will a critic evaluate my writing in fifty years, provided it ever gets to the point of critical analysis? Idon’t think it’ll be an issue here, anyway. This is a travelogue and a journal, but it isn’t the High Literature that the academics concern themselves with, nor is it the entertainment of the masses. No, this is a purely selfish venture, with the added bonus of a close readership in my circle of friends, family, and acquaintances. Maybe stories will spring from it some day. I hope they will. This hefty collection of ramblings could drop out a gem or two, if properly mined. But that’s a while off yet.
The other TV is showing us heathens and travelers a rather nice Mass in a pretty Romanesque church. Even the protestants can appreciate the music and art of these productions, I imagine. I can’t offer any insight into the message, since it’s all in Italian and (of course) occasional Latin.
I don’t know if I mentioned the book I’ve been reading yet. It’s Paer Lagerkvist’s Barabbas. That’s an umlauted “a” in Paer, by the way. The man’s name is not “pear.” The book, a tattered 1951 copy translated from Swedish by Alan Blair, celebrates the winning of a Nobel Prize and the transition to a film starring Anthony Quinn. I’m unfamiliar with the film, which is usually a good thing when gauging the value of a novel.
I really hope the rest of this journey doesn’t destroy that 53 year old book. Not only because was it a good read; it doesn’t belong to me. It’s borrowed from the Program. Griffin doesn’t seem to worried about it, all those books are donated anyway, but I prefer to return the things I borrow relatively unscathed. I prefer to avoid wandering through monsoons as well, but that just wasn’t in my luck this week. It’s sunny now that we’re spending the day on trains again.
Once Tiff and I arrive in Florence, we have to run. We forgot the Monday rule, that which all who travel Europe should write across their foreheads. ALL MUSEUMS CLOSE ON MONDAYS. It’s an unpleasant fact, but it does help the various states and countries keep them beautiful.
So we arrive in Florence at 3:30, rush to the TI (Tourist Information) to grab a map, hurry through the old city to where our hotel is, then rush north about a half a kilometer to see the David. His museum closes at 7, but I imagine we won’t get there until about 5 (maybe 4:30, if we’re lucky), then we have lines to get through and general bad luck to account for. I’m learning to factor bad luck into the plans simply because if I don’t, it strikes. If I do, we sometimes end up with moments of less stress where we can look around and say “that went well,” then have a little added enjoyment.
The guy next to me has an internet signal, but I cannot figure out from where. There’s no wireless signal here. Ah, wait, there it is. They have phone outlets in that corner. I have no dialup provider and no Italian phone adapter anyway, so I’ll have to once again live without. Our hostel in Florence isn’t likely to provide any. The Italian hostels would charge for air if they could find a legal way to limit its availability. The one in Florence is a slight step up from the one in Naples because it at least has private rooms. It came with a trade off, though. The bathroom is across the hall.
I want to talk to you more, but I’m not sure there’s more to say. I’m becoming quite the backpacker, though not as much of a wilderness trekker as I’d like. My pack’s too heavy to carry more than about 8km (roughly 4 miles), and it’s a few hours work to make it that far. On the bright side, I don’t look like the massive tour group that just staggered into the lounge where I’m typing. The practically collapsed once in side, and now the dull roar of English in drowning out the soft mumblings of the televised Mass. They look and sound like a high school group, but it’s hard to tell.
Security decided to slip in and make sure nobody decided to help relieve these poor tourists of any of the weight in their packs. Good for them. Tiff’s back now too! Time to go, apparently she’s found an earlier train.