We waved goodbye to Sébastien in Geneva and walked down a bit of a hallway, passports in hand, ready to enter the French controlled sector of the train station. Passport control is in place because France is a part of the European Union but Switzerland is not. However, the control was really a bit of a non-event. We had the passports open and flashed the identification page at a couple of border control officers as we proceeded along the passage; no peering at our photos followed by a good long look at us personally, just a nod as we walked by.
We were soon at the platform where our very fast train was standing, rapidly filling with passengers for the trip to Nice. We had first class seats which, though quite comfortable, really did not seem to justify the additional cost. However, we had reserved window seats so we got to have a first class view of the wonderful passing scenery of country France. The train just trundled along for a time but, as we reached the outskirts of Geneva, it unobtrusively started picking up speed. I wondered when we would start travelling at the 280kph that I understood it travelled when I noticed just how fast we were catching up to vehicles travelling along the highway adjacent to the train line. They would appear then, just as quickly, disappear in the distance behind us. We were indeed travelling very fast but, other than through this view of the traffic, we had no sense of it.
It was a fabulous journey; our eyes were glued to the scenery passing by our windows. There was an occasional stop along the way at places such as Lyon, Avignon, Marseilles, and Toulon until we reached the Mediterranean coast when our huge beast was tamed and became a standard country type train, travelling at more traditional speeds and stopping at each town we passed through. The excitement we felt as we steadily rolled towards Nice was gaining momentum when it suddenly dawned on us that we were, after two weeks in Europe, now truly alone with no support from wonderful friends who had met us when we arrived in new places and made our stay such a memorable event.
By the time we arrived in Nice, evening had set in. We had a mud map of the location of the hotel that Rob had booked over the internet but, no matter how many times we turned it over, we could not find our way. Bit surprising really as Rob does have a very good sense of direction and usually has no difficulty in such situations. I think that it was because of the nervous excitement we were both feeling. Anyway, Rob finally gave in and went into a shop to ask directions. The hotel turned out to be about a block and a half away from were we were and just one block from the train station.
The district did cater for the young tourists and had it not been for Rob’s guiding hand, I could have had a very interesting evening browsing through some of the shops with covered windows that we passed by. We were not totally sure that we had made the right choice of accommodation when we read some of the notices in the hotel foyer but we booked in just the same. Dam it all, we were on holidays and people had warned us that because European buildings were generally older than we have in Oz, we should not expect the same standard of hotel accommodation that we enjoy at home.
The first thing we noticed when we found our room was the slight aroma of burnt cigarettes, in spite of the fact that it was a no smoking room. The bedside lights in the room were a couple of half oyster fittings on the wall behind the bedhead. They were placed at just the right height for me to be able to look down into and afforded me a clear view of a number of exposed wires and interspersed amongst them a large volume of cigarette ash. They were ideal receptacles for spent cigarettes when no ashtrays were provided by management and would not easily be seen into by cleaners who, I suspect, would not have been as tall as me.
Our next step was to open the window and solid shutter to have a look at the sights of the city. Unfortunately our view was of a very small air well, about a metre square, which ran up the centre of the building. You could tell by the state of the bare walls that we looked out on that the building was indeed, very old. Our final surprise awaited us when we checked out the ensuite. The shower was of a normal width but was only about 35cms (18 inches) deep and there was no screen or curtain. There was a shower wand and we deduced, one should stand in this little alcove with the shower head pointing at the body from the front so that surplus water would splash against the back wall and, hopefully, disappear down the shower drain hole rather than fill up the ensuite. After turning off the water, one could then soap oneself up before repeating the hosing down process, much like when one has a top and tail wash on a camping trip. As they say on the TV, “And that’s not all”. Just next to the shower alcove was the toilet suite. It was in an even smaller recess in this altogether too small a room. Between the front of the toilet bowl and the wall was a space of about 15cms (6 inches). It was physically impossible for an adult to sit straight on so it had to be ridden side saddle which was not very comfortable.
One of the lessons I learnt from staying in hotel rooms during my many business trips away from home was to check out the escape route in the event of an emergency. Rest assured, we paid special attention to this before retiring for the night. Hey, after all it was Europe and we had been warned just how a *** hotel could disappoint and, for sure, it created the background to a great deal of pleasure when we checked into our ***** hotel in Paris; but more about that later. In spite of the shortcomings of our Nice room, the bed was comfortable and, after a walk around the town and a very nice dinner (in a restaurant where the waitress had to take orders to the restaurant over the road then go back, collect and return with the sometimes substantial trays of food ordered by her patrons) we both had a good night’s sleep.
Next day, we had a few hours to kill before boarding the train for the continuation of our journey so we walked through the city to the shores of the Mediterranean. Our train would be stopping in Monaco but we would not have time to get out so we had to make sure we could say we had been on a Mediterranean beach and walked in the water. The small sample of the city of Nice that we were able to see along the way was very attractive. The streets were wide, the buildings clean and the parks, one with a huge carousel, were pretty and well maintained.
The view from the beach was pretty spectacular with huge condominiums perched on every vantage point and little fishing boats working just offshore. It was indeed enchanting but it has to be said that the beach itself was quite unattractive. There were stones in lieu of sand. Being October, there were no swimmers and, in fact, very few beachgoers; however, it was early on a Sunday morning and the locals had probably not yet surfaced - in spite of it being a brilliantly clear day. The adjacent view is looking west. To the east, in the distance, was the shoreline of Monaco and in the middle, in the brilliantly blue Mediterranean, were a number of huge cruise ships, silhouetted in the early morning sunlight. Robs photo file at http://picasaweb.google.com/rovin.richos has more pictures.
We meandered back through the city towards the hotel and on the way called into the catholic cathedral. We had not yet been introduced to the multitude and grandeur of European cathedrals. Towards the end of our tour we, like most of our fellow passengers on the cruise ship, would say to our local tour guides, “Not ABC” - which translates to “not another bloody cathedral!!!” What was interesting was that Sunday morning mass was under way and was being said in Latin in the old rite, something we Micks have not seen in decades here in Oz. Anyway, we could only stop for a moment as we had to make our way back to the hotel to make ready to go to the train station.
As we exited the church, we were confronted by a beggar. Not confronted in the sense that we were approached, but more that she was sitting on the floor at the doorway in a most suppliant manner, pleading we assume, for we could not speak the language, for monetary assistance. As we realised later in the course of our travels, this was not an unusual situation. It became hard for us to determine the really bad cases as we had heard of people appearing to be hideously deformed suddenly becoming whole at the end of the day when it was time to go home. It must be said also that, upon closer scrutiny, a sceptic may have felt that the mostly covered faces of some of the deformed old women begging in the streets could have belonged to strapping young men.
Before we got back to the hotel we came across another beggar, this time a reasonably dressed young woman with babe in arms. She made no sound but simply sat staring vacantly into her own world, whatever that may have been.
Back at the hotel, we collected our luggage and headed to the train station. Whereas we had previously travelled in Swiss and French trains, this was to be an Italian job for, just down the track, was the Italian border and we were headed for Pisa. After our previous excellent experiences we were a little disappointed with the Italian trains, in spite of the fact that we were travelling first class. They appeared much older than what we had become used to and, it has to be said, the cleanliness left a lot to be desired. It was difficult to take pictures out of the windows as they were rather dirty. At one stage along the way, I directed Rob to the loo which I assumed was for boys and girls. Although we found out later that it was actually for boys, Rob went there but could not bring herself to use it because of the state it was in. She went looking for an alternative which turned out to be the girls’ room which, she said, was not much better. In spite of this disappointment, the journey to Pisa was spectacular.
The houses we saw as we passed through Monte Carlo and along the Monaco coast were very flash and the views of the ocean and the now close up cruise ships was quite marvellous. After leaving Monte Carlo and over the Italian border we followed the Mediterranean coastline for a long time, at some points on viaducts that actually passed over the water. Out the other side of the carriage were never-ending clusters of residential unit blocks. Many of the units had washing, hanging on lines accessed through windows, just like you see in the movies. Sometimes the clothes looked like they would have been better off left unwashed because of the grime being picked up from the walls of the buildings that the breezes flicked them onto. Eventually we reached the countryside where there were houses in lieu of apartments and it seemed that every house had a large vegie patch out the back. It was oh so quaint and provided us a glimpse of the background to early Italian emigrants becoming market gardeners when they reached our shores.
Our next view was of towering mountains, many of which appeared badly wounded. It took us a while to realise this was where the very beautiful Italian marble comes from. As a matter of fact we didn’t realise it until we passed some of the many marble factories situated adjacent to the railway line that had hundreds and hundreds of metres of finished marble slabs stockpiled in their yards. It must be fascinating wandering through such places and seeing the different colours and designs created by Mother Nature.
Before reaching Pisa we had to change trains at Genoa and as it was about lunch time we were somewhat hungry. Our problem however was that we only had Swiss Francs in notes, a couple of Euros in coin but a swag of Euro travellers cheques. Being a Sunday, none of the Change Bureaus were open and none of the shops that were open would accept travellers cheques. We had not got into the swing of carrying various denominations with us. Rob asked a policeman where we might find a change bureau open and after a long consultation with his colleagues, he directed us to a place about a kilometre away. We went where he said but could not find anywhere to stock up on currency. This is just a long way of saying that we were hungry but all we could buy with our few Euro coins was a kiddies box of chicken nuggets. I think I had three and Rob two.
The accommodation that Rob had booked for us in Pisa was a bed and breakfast. She had found it on the net, just like she had the hotel in Nice. This one sounded good and as there were several very complementary reviews of the place she had risked it. Our host was Georgio who had sent us an email a few days earlier telling us he would pick us up at the train station. We would be able to spot him, he said, as he would be in the Volvo parked on the other side of the Plaza outside the station. As we emerged from the station building with several other travellers all we could see were cars, including several Volvos, and people everywhere. We had no idea what to do next so just stood on the footpath, hopefully looking lost. It wasn’t long before we heard this question which sounded only very vaguely like, “Robyn Richardson?” We both answered “Yes!” “Hi I’m Georgio” said the enquirer. “Sorry there was so much traffic I had to park down the road.” With that he grabbed Rob’s bag and we headed off to where he was parked. He loaded us up and he took us to his home, the B & B, but not before he gave us a brief familiarisation tour of the neighbourhood so we would be able to find our way around should we wish to leave the sanctuary of our room. He showed us the “other” leaning tower of Pisa which we had never heard of. We laughed when he first mentioned it but, sure enough, about 500 metres from his home, we saw the local church whose steeple has a precarious lean. He also showed us a couple of restaurants where we might go for dinner - places where the locals eat and off the regular tourist track. He even offered to lend us some money to buy our dinner until we could get to a change bureau but we were able to assure him that if the restaurants accepted Visa, we would be OK. Both Georgio and his B & B were fabulous.
The roadway on which the B & B is located is of normal width at first but for a strip of about 100 metres, along which the B & B stands, it narrows to about 3 meters with semi-detached stone houses on either side. How quaint was that! At night, this section is very well lit with bright yellow street lights that are actually attached to the buildings. Georgio assured us that the district was very safe, both day and night.
The B & B accommodation was in a separate building, adjacent to Georgio’s own private quarters. Downstairs was a communal eatery with a fully stocked coffee making machine, refrigerator for milk and cold water and bikkie jar; whilst upstairs were a double bedroom and a triple bedroom. The rooms were quite spacious and the private ensuites modern, clean and of adequate proportion. There was even a bit of a district view when we opened the window and shutters. Because it was late in the season, we were the only guests so we had Georgio’s full attention. We couldn’t move without him hurrying over to make sure everything was OK and to check if there was anything he could do for us. In other circumstances it might have been a bit overwhelming but we really didn’t mind. Georgio’s English was pretty basic but at least we could communicate with him.
The Arno River is only about 50 metres from the B & B so we went for a bit of a pre dinner walk in the park that runs for quite a long way along its shores. We probably walked for 1½ to 2 kilometres in one direction before we came to the end. When we got back we showered, dressed very casually and meandered up to the pizza restaurant that Georgio had recommended. The food was great and many of the locals did come in for a meal even though it was Sunday night. The owner, a very tall sombre man, was there doing nothing much more than watching the patrons as they ate. Georgio later asked us what we thought of him and when we mentioned he never smiled the whole time we were there said with a slight grin, “He does not appear to but he smiles on the inside”.
It all seemed so surreal to us, the fact that we had done so much in the 1½ days since we said goodbye to Sébastien in Geneva.
The stopover in Pisa was only to have a look at the leaning tower so our travel plans were to catch the train the following day that would take us to Roma Termini. We thought we would be able to do the tourist bit in 10 minutes but Georgio was shocked and insisted we would need all the time we had in the morning and even then, probably not see everything. He therefore suggested that he prepare us an early breakfast and we bring our packed suitcases down into the eatery. At eight o’clock he would drive us to the leaning tower plaza and drop us off. He would then go back home, load our luggage into the car, visit his son in hospital - he had been knocked off his motorcycle an hour or so before we had arrived in town - then, at 12.00pm, be at the gates of the plaza to pick us up and take us to the station in time for our train. We took his advice and sure enough ran out of time. However we did have a good look around, climbed the 300 steps that circle the tower to its very top, toured the cathedral, visited the baptistery where we were able to experience its incredible acoustics when a guide stood under its overhead dome and chanted a prayer and finally, bought a couple of little things in one of the many souvenir stalls that line the plaza. Georgio had given us very strict instructions on what not to buy in these places, but more particularly from the Sudanese vendors that pester the tourists outside the gates of the plaza. He particularly did not want us to buy any top name watches that they would offer at startlingly low (for the brand) prices.
It really was a wonderful morning, topped off by the baptistery chant that was spine tingling stuff. Because of the incredible amount of traffic Georgio was about 15 minutes late in picking us up but we didn’t mind as we were being greatly entertained by the pedestrians who risked certain death negotiating the traffic and the vehicles that performed incredible manoeuvres that would, in Oz, certainly cost the driver many dollars as well as penalty points. All the while there was very little agro amongst the participants who seemed to acknowledge that in the same position, they too would suddenly do a U-turn in front of a stream of oncoming traffic thereby almost causing a multiple car pileup or whatever.
Georgio did get us to the station in adequate time to catch our train. It soon arrived and we clambered aboard. There was a great deal of luggage scattered the length of the narrow corridor we had to negotiate to reach our little six seater compartment. It wasn’t easy but we made it. Unfortunately there was just room for one bag so I had to leave my rather large one in the corridor thus making negotiation even more difficult. There were already four people in our compartment, a priest and a young family of three. We realised immediately that our seats were occupied and (politely) indicated to the young couple in them that they were ours. They didn’t seem too impressed and indicated that we could sit in their seats. However, because ours were window seats that we had booked before leaving Oz so that we could enjoy the passing scenery and theirs were corridor seats with no views, we rejected their offer. Of course we were not too popular and with the priest reading his prayer book, quite a bit of the trip was undertaken in stony silence. Eventually, however, the priest started making a little small-talk in his very faltering English. When he asked us where we were from and we replied, “Sydney, Australia” you could actually feel the ice starting to thaw.
The priest told us he lived in the Vatican and mentioned that Papa (the Pope) had recently been to Sydney and was very impressed. He said that he, himself, had only been to Australia once but had flown straight to Canberra for a high level meeting then returned directly to Rome. We reckon that he must have been a bit of a big-wig in the church. During this time, mum and dad were animatedly talking to their daughter and drawing her attention to us. Finally, she looked at us very shyly and said very slowly, “My uncle lives in Melbourne.” Mum and dad were very proud and said she had just recently started learning English in school and the opportunity to talk to us was greatly appreciated. After that, conversation flowed freely.
The B & B in Rome that Rob had booked was very close to the Vatican, about 50metres from San Pietro train station. We mentioned we were contemplating catching a local train there but our latest best friends all agreed it would be far better for us to take a taxi. We did and, at the nominated address, found ourselves outside an apartment block about 8 stories high. This was not our idea of what a B & B should look like but we pressed the security buzzer whereupon a voice answered, “Ah, you made it. Open the door when I press the release and walk to the lift. Enter it, close the doors and press the 4 button. Whatever you do, do not touch the doors again until the lift comes to a complete halt. The door to my apartment is immediately to your right when you exit the lift.”
The lift was very tiny indeed, barely big enough for the two of us and our luggage. The access door was a standard internal room door while the internal doors were narrow wood and glass jobs that swung inwards, thus being very hard to close because of the extremely limited space. Neither of us had ever seen anything like it before. What had we got ourselves into and was that a Yank accent that answered when we pressed the security buzzer? This could be an interesting stay!