Dayus Horribilus

Marseilles from Notre-Dame de la Garde

Lovely islands just off the coast of Marseilles, in the Mediterranean Sea

I guess it had to happen eventually but yesterday was our dayus horribilus. It began at around 11.00 am when we arrived at Saint Charles station, Marseilles to wait for our 12.30 train to Nice, which would eventually connect with the train to Ventimiglia and then onto Genoa, getting us in around 7.00 pm. Only problem was, our train was not listed on the departures board. Indeed, as Alison was about to discover, our train no longer existed. Due to a strike by French workers, our train had been cancelled. There would be another train an hour later, but this would mean that our Italian connection would be missed. Now, have you ever tried explaining to a Frenchman why this seemingly small event would mean that we would most likely be stranded? It is hard for me to convey it via words, but picture a shrug of the shoulders, a look of complete disinterest, and a totally fake attempt at something approaching mild concern. To be blunt, they couldn’t give a damn, particularly in relation to any trains being missed on the Italian side of the border!

And so it was, our new train duly departed one hour late, and we missed our new connecting train from Nice by five minutes, which then meant we missed our train in Ventimiglia to Genoa. Of course (lucky for us, I guess), there was another train in two hours, but the Italians were not in the least concerned about the reason why we missed our booked train, all they knew was that if we wanted to board the next train, we would need to buy new tickets – which of course we did. As if that wasn’t enough, when our train finally was ready to depart, it sat at the station, no reason why, other than this was Italy and nothing could possibly run on time.

As annoying and frustrating as all this might sound, we had just one other little concern plaguing us the whole while. Our accommodation in Genoa had already told us that check-in closed by 8.00 pm, and under no circumstances could it ever happen past 9.00 pm, as they did not even live at the place. When we heard of our first train cancellation, I quickly found a McDonalds and sent off an email telling them we’d be an hour late, but still there in time. Little did we know that one hour late became two, became three. So, at around 10.00 pm, our train pulled into Genoa Principe Station, in light rain. One of the first things you notice different about city stations in Australia to Italy is they don’t have many escalators, so we had to carry our five bags firstly down steps then up steps, out to street level, then more steps, up a hill, along the road…..

But, at pretty close to 11.00 pm, after having been either in trains or waiting for trains for just on twelve hours, we arrived tired and exhausted to be greeted by – you guess it, locked doors and no note. It was around this time that I decided to take a pee on the tyre of some Italian car parked nearby and I would have done the same to a French one, had I been able to find one (if you think that sounds bad, you won’t believe what Alison suggested we do). We were just about to give up (no, not on life altogether, but I think the thought did briefly cross our minds), go back to the station and find another hotel for the night when I found a couple approaching our hotel. ‘Ciao, do you speak any English’? ‘A little’, was the reply. Well, the little proved to be very good, good enough for them to understand our predicament. In fact, fate is a funny thing, they were in the apartment next to ours and knew we were expected. They then went inside, called the owners and duly re-appeared with our key – all was saved. This morning we shared breakfast with our saviours, a lovely couple around our age who had been holidaying in Italy from France. So endeth our twenty-four hours from hell, but you know what they say, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger (although the sight of two middle-age Australians sobbing into their laps in a deserted Italian street late at night probably doesn’t imply strength, mainly just pathos).

Galleria Garibaldi, Genoa (that's Alison in the red coat - travel has really aged her)

Genoese bus (with some old building in the background)

 

Piazza De Ferrari, Genoa

The view from our apartment over the Genoa Port.

Our hotel in Genoa - I wonder what the poor people are up to.

Genoa is full on this sort of architecture (apparently the cars are solid marble).