Giorgio’s residence in Bolzano is huge. He and his family live on the ground floor, while five apartments are rented out to guests upstairs. A large impregnable steel door guards the entrance to the first floor. Security’s good, I think. No one will be able to break in through that.
We settle in to our room, have a coffee, check some emails, and gear up to start exploring the town.
Well it would be nice to explore the town if only we could get out. The steel door is locked, there is no key, and all manner of pulling, pushing and looking for hidden releases is in vain. I look around for a fire escape or alternative exit, but there are none. The phone by the door doesn’t work. I txt Georgio - no reply. We knock on all the doors to see if another guest can work some magic. No one around. After 20 minutes we spot a car pulling up, and Pauline waves frantically from the window. It’s Georgio’s wife, and she lets us out. “I’m terribly sorry”, she says. “This door should never have been locked from the outside. Perhaps someone did as they left”.
There’s a little sign on the outside of the door next to the key which says, “Please do not lock this door”. Great. And great security. And the ability to open the door from the inside? A key? An emergency release or exit? She shrugs. This is Italy.
But we put our frustration behind us and set off to explore Bolzano. can’t let things like this get us down.
But you can tell immediately that this is a poorer country than its northern neighbours. Graffiti is more omnipresent. There’s more grunge. It’s late autumn but the footpaths aren’t swept, making them very slippery.
Monday morning, 17 November, and it’s time to leave for Venice. I choose to take our suitcases with us from the apartment rather than return for them. Our accommodation doesn’t give me a good feeling.
But given we’re in Italy for two weeks and wifi is uncommon at many of the accommodation spots, I want to buy a pre-paid data SIM for my TP-Link 3G/Wifi gateway - say 1Gb should be just right for the remainder of the trip. That would cost about $20 in NZ, say 13 euros. I try the TIM shop first. We overcome the communication barrier - yes he can sell me a 4Gb data SIM valid for three months. That’ll be 42 euros. 42 euros! Extortionate. I hadn’t realised the mafia had infiltrated Italy Telecoms.
There’s a Vodafone shop on the other side of the piaza. Yes, he can sell a data SIM. The smallest is 15Gb for 50 euros. I groan inwardly - should have got the one at the TIM shop. But I’m here now so I’ll take it, and pull out my plastic. Sorry - cash only. I have 35 euros in my wallet, and Pauline’s on the other side of town taking photos.
Back to the TIM shop. Sorry - our activation system is broken. He shrugs. With 50 euros in my hot little hand, back to the Vodafone shop. The queue is out the door, and our train leaves in half an hour. There’s no way I can sort this before it leaves. Perhaps I’ll try again in Venice, but I’m not confident. Despite being close to Slovenia and Croatia, Venice is still in Italy.
Pauline encourages me to stay calm.
Our two month global Eurail pass allows us to travel first class, and it’s been great. Fewer passengers, more room, complimentary nibbles and drinks. Reservations are recommended on the busier routes, but not compulsory. Hop on any train you want. Services are frequent, on time, and there’s plenty of spare capacity except in peak times. It’s different in Italy.
Here reservations are compulsory. But we can only reserve second class seats, and we’re told to talk to the guard on the train to change to first class. We settle in to our seats, and talk to the guard. That’ll be an extra 20 euros. More extortion. We decide the mafia has infiltrated Italian Rail too and decide to stay shoehorned into where we are.
We arrive in Verona to change trains, and have a half hour wait for our connection to Venice. This will get us in there in good time - in daylight and before the forecast afternoon rain starts.
But there are problems - the train we’ve reserved seats on is delayed for an hour. Another train is ready to depart for Venice, but we can’t hop on because we don’t have reserved seats for that train.
I look after the bags while Pauline goes to check to see if we can swap our seats. Why yes - that’ll be 22 euros, but you booked these seats in Austria, so you’ll have to go to the OBB counter over there. Pauline queues up. So you want to change your reservation on the Italian train? You’ll have to go to the Italian counter over there, indicating to where Pauline had just come from. Pauline has a minor meltdown, and the kindly man at the window suggests she goes to the Customer Care office around the corner. There is no Customer Care office.
Probably just as well for international relations. “So let me understand this. Our train is late, this is Italian Rail’s problem, not ours. To swap to another train that will gets to our destination quicker will cost US money? Where is the customer service??”. I can imagine Pauline having a major meltdown. This is Italy.
Our two month global Eurail pass allows us to travel first class, and it’s been great. Fewer passengers, more room, complimentary nibbles and drinks. Reservations are recommended on the busier routes, but not compulsory. Hop on any train you want. Services are frequent, on time, and there’s plenty of spare capacity except in peak times. It’s different in Italy.
Here reservations are compulsory. But we can only reserve second class seats, and we’re told to talk to the guard on the train to change to first class. We settle in to our seats, and talk to the guard. That’ll be an extra 20 euros. More extortion. We decide the mafia has infiltrated Italian Rail too and decide to stay shoehorned into where we are.
We arrive in Verona to change trains, and have a half hour wait for our connection to Venice. This will get us in there in good time - in daylight and before the forecast afternoon rain starts.
But there are problems - the train we’ve reserved seats on is delayed for an hour. Another train is ready to depart for Venice, but we can’t hop on because we don’t have reserved seats for that train.
I look after the bags while Pauline goes to check to see if we can swap our seats. Why yes - that’ll be 22 euros, but you booked these seats in Austria, so you’ll have to go to the OBB counter over there. Pauline queues up. So you want to change your reservation on the Italian train? You’ll have to go to the Italian counter over there, indicating to where Pauline had just come from. Pauline has a minor meltdown, and the kindly man at the window suggests she goes to the Customer Care office around the corner. There is no Customer Care office.
Probably just as well for international relations. “So let me understand this. Our train is late, this is Italian Rail’s problem, not ours. To swap to another train that will gets to our destination quicker will cost US money? Where is the customer service??”. I can imagine Pauline having a major meltdown. This is Italy.
I encourage Pauline to stay calm.
Two trains have departed for Venice and finally our train arrives 75 minutes late. We collapse into our second class seats, and talk darkly about turning around and heading for Switzerland, Austria, Germany - anywhere but Italy.
I understand now why Italians yearn for the return of Mussolini. Despite his faults, at least the trains ran on time.
It’s dusk and pissing down as we arrive in Venice, now 90 minutes late. Fortunately we’ve booked close to the station, but in inimitable Italian fashion the directions to our accommodation are haphazard, and we waste 10 minutes in the rain trudging up and down little lanes with inconsistent street numbering and faded lettering.
Finally we find Yaya’s apartment and settle in. She doesn’t advertise wireless, but just perhaps there might be a signal? Yes, but it’s so weak the iPhone can’t find it, and the MacBook Air can barely latch on. The signal drops continuously, and the MacBook helpfully suggests I move closer to the WAP. I figure the WAP is buried under the abutment of the Bridge of Sighs, and resign myself to using expensive roaming data for now. This is Italy.
But tomorrow is another day, and the rain is forecast to stop. Venice has a reputation for being a magical romantic city, Pauline’s been hanging out to get here, and it is our honeymoon after all. It might be Italy, but things can only get better from here. Can’t they?
Two trains have departed for Venice and finally our train arrives 75 minutes late. We collapse into our second class seats, and talk darkly about turning around and heading for Switzerland, Austria, Germany - anywhere but Italy.
I understand now why Italians yearn for the return of Mussolini. Despite his faults, at least the trains ran on time.
It’s dusk and pissing down as we arrive in Venice, now 90 minutes late. Fortunately we’ve booked close to the station, but in inimitable Italian fashion the directions to our accommodation are haphazard, and we waste 10 minutes in the rain trudging up and down little lanes with inconsistent street numbering and faded lettering.
Finally we find Yaya’s apartment and settle in. She doesn’t advertise wireless, but just perhaps there might be a signal? Yes, but it’s so weak the iPhone can’t find it, and the MacBook Air can barely latch on. The signal drops continuously, and the MacBook helpfully suggests I move closer to the WAP. I figure the WAP is buried under the abutment of the Bridge of Sighs, and resign myself to using expensive roaming data for now. This is Italy.
But tomorrow is another day, and the rain is forecast to stop. Venice has a reputation for being a magical romantic city, Pauline’s been hanging out to get here, and it is our honeymoon after all. It might be Italy, but things can only get better from here. Can’t they?
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