Lost in Italy

     As we traveled on up the Autostrata, along the Italian Riveara, it ran along the mountainside above the crowded coastline. Often as not, we were in a tunnel. We have decided the Italians and the Norwegians are the world's leaders in tunnel building. But the Norwegian engineer we talked to this year said they brought  the Italians up to help with their twelve mile long tunnel and the like, and they soon went home. The rocks were too hard up there.

     Bypassing Genoa, we wound up on a major highway we thought was the Autostrata, but instead, it led to the coast. All lanes dead ended in a giant ferry terminal – to Sardenia! We had no visit planned there, but it was beginning to look like we would. It was Sunday, and the traffic was not heavy, so we parked and I walked to find help. I found a worker there, but he waved me off, would not even try to talk to me. I knew sometimes they were more helpful if you could throw in an Italian word or two, show that I was at least trying. So I went back to Barbara, and she gave me some Italian words. I went back to him, started throwing them in, but he just shook his head and walked off, saying in perfect English, "We're all Italians down here." I was getting the picture by then. He just didn't like anyone who was not Italian. I found a more friendly worker who, through very halting English, finally directed us out.

     Moving on down the coast, we decided to travel the tiny road along the coast, winding through one tiny village after another, and found a place to stay.

     We needed to change our departure date. We were getting tired, and running out of alotted  money.

     We found a library, but they were very unfriendly, saying, "Not a tourist info!" When we got across to them we just needed to use a computer, they became nicer and helpful. Barbara quickly mastered that Italian language computer, something I could just never have done. Left to my own devices, I would just have to live out my life here, being the village idiot and begging for pizza scraps. She managed to change the departure date, leaving out Spain altogether, and hanging out a week in Paris.

     To cut down on what we had to carry home, Barbara planned on mailing packages occasionally. Getting into a post office was like trying to get into Fort Knox. Bullet proof glass between them and us at all times, bomb proof chambers for all packages while they x-rayed them, long lines. When we finally got in front of an official-looking lady, Barbara just had to comment, "Our post office at home is just not like this!" The woman stuck a lecturing finger into the air, and said, "And therein lies the problem!"

     After buying a $4 coke in return for the opportunity to use the bathroom, we found lodging. Then be bought train tickets for Monaco tomorrow. Had we gotten a glimpse into what lay ahead, we probably would have just slept in that day.

     The train gave us a glimpse at the many congested little towns that lined the Riviera, finally moving into France, then Monaco. We spent a good day touring. It was a fantastic place, but not meant for pore' people like us. They were setting up the Grand Prix along beside the water. Police were everywhere. One policeman for every sixty residents. Barbara tried to get a picture of a grand car so exclusive that we didn't even recognize the name, with me standing beside it at a car dealership. Before I was anywhere near close enough to touch it, a man ran out, screaming at us, and ran us off.

     We caught our train back toward our house and our car, smooth as silk. We're world travelers now, and we know how to act the part. When it got to the border, it stopped. An announcement that we couldn't understand was made, and people were starting to get off. There was no train change on the way in, so we sat tight. After a few minutes, we began to realize we were the only people left. That's a bad sign, and just as that was sinking in, the train started back toward Monaco.

     When we got there, we ran back to the ticket agent, who spoke a little English. "You should have changed trains at the border."

     "Any more trains out today?"

     "One is leaving right now. You might catch it if you run. That's the last one."

     We ran. I quickly outdistanced Barbara. I was nearly there now. The train started to move. I was even with the engineer, and I waved frantically. The train slowed, and a door opened. Barbara was just now coming into sight, a long way back, huffing and puffing.  I put one foot on the train, and kept one on the ground, and held my position. If they shut that door now, they would have to squeeze me in it. Once we got on, we found a British couple, who were going past our village, and stuck with them like glue. So much for being big world travelers.

          

     As we realized we must be nearing our village, Barbara asked, "Now, what is the name of our village?" I didn't have a clue. It was beginning to get dark now. We moved close to the door, and strained to see something familiar. As the train slowed for a village, Barbara screamed, "There's our car!" She bolted for the door, ahead of me, and started pushing it open as soon as the train stopped. But she was on the wrong side, and she was about to step out onto a live track! Those trains run silently, are very fast, and are about a foot apart. Stepping out on the wrong side could mean instant, silent death. Several people tackled her, and pulled her back. Funny how we all remember things differently. According to Barbara, when she started to open that door, she realized her mistake, and closed it. Anyway, we were sure glad to see our cute little red car. We almost hugged and kissed it.

     The next day, we backtracked through all those little towns we had came through last night on the train, heading for France, and Avignon. It took a long time to get through by car, with car and motorcycle congestion just almost unbelievable. If there were toilets for all those people, we sure couldn't find them. The mountains usually rose steeply to our right, and we worked out our own toilet system. When we had a little scrap of flat land to the right, we pulled the car off the road to the mountain side, opened front and back doors, and we had a toilet. You just do what you have to do.

     Italian drivers are very aggressive. I just never knew when someone parked would just back right out in front of me. And, if I was not aggressive right back, I might just get crowded right off the road.