Italy vs. England: Trains
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| Credit: Flickr//PeterThoeny |
I have had to make the journey from London to Bristol and back again at least twice a term and have spent more time than I would wish upon anyone on the London Underground, as well as making various cross-country journeys to visit friends, relatives and universities, so I have no hesitation in labelling myself as "experienced" when it comes to railway problems. From a fatality at Swindon adding four hours onto my journey to missing expensive, non-refundable trains due to the closure of vital tube lines, UK trains have caused me a lot of stress. Comparably, I haven't had to rely on the rail services in Italy a great deal. Most of my visits to Italy have been on family holidays, meaning that the burden of getting us from place to place has fallen on my father, who can navigate his way through motorways full of people who should never have been informed of the invention of the automobile with skill that even I, a non-driver, can admire. Since arriving in Pavia I have used the trains to get to a few far-off places but these journeys have almost all been smooth and uneventful. Up until last weekend, the most aggravating Italian train journey I had had to deal with was a trip from Lucca to Pisa during which the driver stopped for fifteen minutes at every station to have a chat with the conductor. Even then they held our connection to Florence for us to make up for the delay. It was remarkably civilised, and nothing like the time I brought myself to the brink of an embolism running through Euston train station because the Victoria Line had shut down and I was about to miss a £40 train to Manchester. In light of this, I did not feel that comparing UK and Italian trains was fair just yet.
On the weekend of October 5th I decided to use the train to visit a friend in Padua (known as Padova in Italy). I now feel that a comparison is fair.
I came across many issues on my train and the first one was the lack of seats. It isn't possible to reserve a seat on the cheap Treni Regionali that leave from Milan and I made the foolish error of assuming that they wouldn't sell more tickets than they had seats on a train that takes three hours to reach its destination. By the time I ambled over to the correct platform after enjoying a hot drink and some free WiFi, the train was absolutely rammed. By this point we weren't fighting over seats but the least objectionable place to stand. Unwilling to stand on a moving train and risk falling into the laps of seated passengers every time the train turned a corner, I plonked myself down on the floor between the carriages near the toilet, followed by a couple of others who realised that this was a preferable option to wobbling around in the aisle. One of them, a friendly older man with an impressive grasp of English and an even more impressive beard, described it as "our little cosy corner". As the bumpy train floor bruised my tailbone and the smell of the toilet assaulted my nasal passages, I questioned his understanding of the word "cosy".
This was endured for around an hour until enough people left that he and I were both able to grab seats. I settled down for what I thought would be an uneventful and maybe even enjoyable couple of hours. Sadly this was not to be - an unspecified malfunction had added a 40 minute delay to the journey. We all shrugged our shoulders, contacted the necessary people to let them know our new time of arrival, and carried on as normal. I'm used to delays. Delays are child's play in the world of travel problems. The worst, however, was still to come. We were suddenly instructed to leave the train and head outside the station where we would be greeted by the most dreaded obstacle of all travellers: Rail Replacement Buses.
I have already mentioned that there were more people on this train than there were seats. This was not a small train. It had at least fifteen carriages and most of them were full. The buses stood no chance. Two were waiting for us when we arrived, one of which was single decker, and they filled up within about half a second. My British queuing instinct was quickly elbowed out of me by hundreds of angry Italians, most of whom had suitcases, who trampled on each other in a desperate quest for a seat. I was tempted to get the heaviest thing I could out of my bag and start whacking people out of the way as well but I held back, not for concern for my fellow passengers but because I wasn't sure where the bus was actually going and I wanted to reach Padua that evening.
The buses left. The next ones eventually turned up. There was another scuffle to get on. A child was led off in tears and then, after a few moments, led back on again followed by smug-looking parents. Threats were made. Police turned up. I stood in the car park watching this shambolic display and wondered if anybody had the faintest idea what was going on. They didn't. Half of us didn't even know which station the bus was taking us to. Eventually someone yelled out that another train heading to Venice (and, on its way, Padua) was pulling into Platform Three. Around fifty tired, angry travellers with invalid tickets stampeded across the station and jumped onto this train in their hoards, not caring that their tickets were only valid on the cheaper, slower trains that were no longer running. I followed them. They seemed to know what they were doing more than the staff did. When I finally arrived in Padua I was two hours late, hungry and physically drained - not unlike how I feel after dragging a term's worth of clothes in a suitcase from west to east London.
I guess there's something to be said for the "you get what you pay for" mantra in this situation, but I'm not 100% sure that Italian trains really are much cheaper than their British counterparts. The option to take a cheaper slow train over the expensive but faster and more reliable frecce is a useful one, but the addition of having to validate (i.e. stamp) your ticket in order to travel has created a fun new pitfall that hapless foreigners all to often blunder into. Maybe this isn't an issue for Italians but, as a displaced Briton, I've spent quite a few journeys feeling sick with fear that I've forgotten some bizarre but vital ritual that's going to end up costing me a month's rent. There are also no cheaper-in-advance tickets in Italy, so you pay the same amount whether you buy the ticket two months before the train leaves or two minutes. This adds a certain level of flexibility to the journey that is extremely useful for people who have a habit of over-sleeping and taking too long to style their hair. It also means that it's impossible for me to really assess whether trains actually cost less in Italy - I have bought a return from Stevenage to Edinburgh for £26 and I have also bought a single from Bristol to Hertford for £60. One has to appreciate a level on consistency in a country renowned for its erraticism.
Maybe this is because almost all of my recent train travel has involved London, but the Italians win hands down in terms of the kindness of my fellow passengers. If it hadn't been for the lovely couple from Como whom I got chatting to after I finally managed to find a seat, I fear I may have ended up on a bus to Rome and spent my weekend sleeping rough and paying hefty travel fines. Upon realising that, though I was competent enough at Italian to talk to them about my studies, music and food, I was nowhere near able to understand the instructions that were garbled at us through a muffled loudspeaker (and I use the term "loud" very loosely here), they effectively adopted me and not only guided me through the entire bus fiasco but seemed happy to do it. I was also assisted by a very friendly Aeronautical Engineering student from Universita di Torino who was heading back home to Venice for a weekend and informed me with a weary smile that this was the seventh time this had happened to him in the five years he had been making this journey. His misfortune turned out to be our gain as he seemed to be the only person in the entire station who knew what was going on, including the members of staff. He was also an excellent English speaker who could clearly tell that stress and tiredness was taking its toll on my Italian skills so, Cristiano, if you ever read this, you made a lost English girl's train journey significantly more bearable. Grazie mille.
I realise that this choosing this subject matter has catapulted my blog into the "hopeless and nerdy" corner of the internet but, lame as it may sound, something about having to grapple with an all-too familiar situation in a not-so familiar environment is almost comforting (only almost, mind you). Having contended with delays, replacement buses and completely clueless staff in one long, tiring journey, I can conclude that, in some ways, life in the UK and life in Italy really aren't that different after all.
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