Travel can sometimes feel like work.
Vacation isn’t work, but travel sometimes can be. And it can be stressful and straining. Vacations are about relaxing and sitting, playing golf or tennis or maybe swimming in the ocean or sunning yourself on the beach. Travel requires study. Planning. Precision. Patience.
You wake up early in Montepulciano to walk down the cobblestone hill from your last hotel to catch the bus to the train station a couple towns away, your rolling luggage making a statement on the bumpy streets so early in the morning as if to say, “Hey, we have to be somewhere while you are still sleeping.” According to the two schedules you were able to dig up, you have your choice of busses this morning. Of course only one of them is real. The other is some form of Italian practical joke played on tourists. The Blue line at 8:15 out of gate 7? The Blue line at 8:25 out of gate 14? This being Italy, the only bus that is actually going to your destination is the previously unidentified 8:20 Orange line out of gate 6. You know this because it is the one you had to run to and frantically flag down as it was leaving.
The train station in Chiusi is a haven compared to the bus that nearly took your life as it mercilessly shook you from left to right, going way to fast for these narrow roads and steep hills. Good thing you had that dentist appointment before you went, because they now have to use your last impressions and x-rays to reconstruct your mouth after you lurched forward and bit the hand rail in front of you as the bus slammed on its brakes to avoid a trash truck. Your travel tip: Seat belts.
The train you need is running 25 minutes behind because it has now started to rain. The ticket reservation system is down so neither the automatic ticket machine nor the very soft spoken ticket agent working behind the thick Plexiglas can print you the necessary documentation needed to avoid a fine or even to enable you to find a seat on a train that doesn’t legitimately belong to someone else. “Just get on train, ” she says softly. “Everything okay.” Okay.
The train is now 45 minutes late. You know this because the automated message blaring from the loud speakers at the train platform in three languages keeps telling you it is. You also know because you keep looking at your watch, hoping the train will arrive soon, but know it won’t before it stops raining. Good thing you have the time, though, because the two little old Italian women and one Asian fashionista trying to get to Paris all seem to need your help with train and platform management.
The train arrives and you run to get into first class. You pick a seat, stow your luggage above your head, pop in the headphones and chill, that is until the first stop on your journey when the person whose seat you are actually in tells you, very kindly, to get the fuck out of her seat and piss off. So, you grab your luggage, slowly, and find another seat in another compartment and try to chill. See. This travel thing is no problem.
The train is fast. You get to your next destination. Florence. You wade through the nameless, faceless people, clutching at your stomach because you got up to early to catch breakfast or a cappuccino at any of the local cafes at your previous spot. The taxi is quite helpful in getting you to your out-of-the-way flat in an appropriate timeframe and you get to your room, just in time for it not to be ready. Hey, that’s cool. You’ll just hang out and see what is what. Maybe grab a bite. Ah, but it’s riposo time and all the shops are closed for a few hours for them to rest and do what they need to do. So, you sit. You have now been in motion for over 6 hours. Your room’s ready, so you go in. Quick stuff management, gather your clothes, lock up the rest and hop down to the local laundry for a wash.
You seem to have blacked out somewhere along the way because as you come too, you are reigning blows down upon one of the wash vending machines because, even though you have been doing your own laundry for 25 years, you simply can’t figure out how to run a fucking washing machine. It is then that you, and the old ladies who are there trying to calm you as they fluff and fold, realize that this is not a vacation. You are traveling.
Cool thing is, the glass of vino and fresh tomatoes on garlic-kissed toasts at the local bar (free to all legitimate patrons who order said wine), the view of the sun setting slowly over the town, and the thought that you are in Florence and don’t have to get on another train, or bus, or plane or even do laundry for a few days makes everything all better.
