I Went to Venice and All I Got Was This Lousy Breakfast

Train travel is not as glamorous as I imagined.

I had images of mysterious black-clad woman, red lipstick from beneath a veil the only splash of color around, waiving goodbye with a white handkerchief as a puff of steam rose toward the station roof. I would then settle into my sleeper car, where hours later I would emerge refreshed and dapper, with all the romance, history and intrigue of Venice before me.

Today, this was not the case.

At precisely 2:28 am, I crammed into my second-class compartment with four other weary travelers in a space perhaps large enough for two. No lady saw me off at the grimy platform in Ljubljana, but an old Italian woman also piled into our pod of travel misery. She carried four suitcases that most certainly carried lead, bowling balls, an engine block, and the kitchen sink. Her voice suggested a life dedicated to cigarette and whiskey, and her personal perfume and constant coughing confirmed this suspicion. We were now six peas in a smelly pod, en route to Venice, enveloped in a constant supply of fresh coughs, sneezes and husky sighs.

Ah, Venice. That dreamland of singing gondoliers, paddling amorous couples through centuries of romance to the tune of “O Solo Mio.” This would be the compliment to my rail travel fantasy, but in reality I feared throngs of shuffling tour groups making easy prey for pickpockets. After five sleepless hours in the overnight train, I decided not to chance further annoyance during my hour and a half layover. I despise crowds, loathe rushing to get things in, and am running low on money. So instead I had this breakfast of a train station coffee and granola bar, which I had brought from home.

I checked out my surroundings. I noticed that the signs in the station state that smoking is prohibited. Nevertheless, some swarthy ruffian clad entirely in denim sat on the counter of the station McDonald’s, pulled out his smokes, and lit up.

The manager’s pleas to go elsewhere fell on deaf ears. The Smoker just sat there, staring straight ahead through his dark sunglasses, smoking his cigarette. When he reached the butt, he flicked it towards the manager’s door. Real cool, real tough. Nobody was going to mess with him.

Enter the burger flipper. The Flipper spoke to Smoker, who didn’t move an inch or say a peep. Flipper moved his hands in front of Smoker’s shades, to no effect. Flipper looked around for hidden cameras. Then he grabbed Smoker’s arm, to which something was shouted, and forced the offending non-patron to leave the premises. It was time to serve burgers.

I found this whole scene, my introduction to Italy, amusing as an observer. Many people had told me that train travel was much more “civilized” than by bus. After a couple of trips on each mode of transport here in Europe, I would have to say that the train is behind the bus in terms of comfort, price and “civilization.” Like a bad date with a potentially interesting person, I’m willing to give the train another chance. Maybe it’s me. I may not be not that civilized. But if this doesn’t work out, I might have to start making eyes at the bicycle. That’s my last chance. I’m getting desperate.

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