Chris and Ken’s Weblog

It was disgusting. Unlike the masses of 16-21 year-old Romans partying the White Night (La Notte Bianca) away, we were all tucked into bed trying very hard to get at least 5 hours of REM sleep. Ian’s flight back to the states (via Zurich) was departing from Fiumicino Airport at 6:00 a.m., necessitating a ridiculously early 4:00 a.m. arrival time at the airport. Our flight to Venice from Ciampino wasn’t leaving much later. With no public transportation at that hour, we’d hired two cars that were scheduled to arrive at 3:45 a.m. and 4:00 a.m., respectively.

Now I admit that on any given Saturday night, in any respectable city, 3:45 a.m. is very late, not very early. I mean, really, why go to bed, especially when you are on vacation? It must be said, in the spirit of full disclosure, that we are pathetic lightweights, even while on vacation.

We had been advised that Campo de’ Fiori was a popular night spot of the feste crowd. Nevertheless, we were completely unprepared for the scene outside our apartment, Casa Paradiso that “morning/night”. Businesses were still open, empty bottles were everywhere and thousands of White-Nighters were still out and about. A few of them were relieving themselves right outside our door, boldly going where many had gone before. Others were emptying bodily fluids in a more forceful, decidedly less pleasant way. Did I mention disgusting? Well that’s putting it mildly.

The stream of liquid referenced in the title was running from the piazza, in front of the building’s entrance, and out to the main street. Ian warned me of it’s composition. No explanation needed. I already mentioned the few who were contributing to the cause right in front of me. Again, the word disgusting may not be man enough for the job, but you get the picture.

Campo de’ Fiore at a generally more pleasant hour
Rome, Italy

Obviously, the first car was late, as Ian’s driver was unable to get through the crowd-filled streets. The poor guy was clearly frustrated and apologized repeatedly while waving his arms in the air in that charming Italian way. Probably trying to salvage his tip. No worries, there, my friend. Once more, no explanation needed.

~cb~

We rarely take buses when we travel. In fact, this recent trip to Rome is the first time I can recall that Chris and I have ever taken a bus. Now, for Chris’ brother Paul, his wife Sandy, and their three boys, taking the bus around the city makes a lot of sense, since young kids ride for free. And walking around a city as big and chaotic as Rome is a lot to ask of the older boys Anthony and Alex, let alone five year-old Michael.

So why do we hate buses, having had such limited experience with them? Let me count the ways….

Case in point (Exhibit A in our indictment of buses today) is the story of what happened on our day trip to Florence. Everything had fallen into place perfectly for us that day. We’d arrived at Termini, the main train station in Rome, with just enough time to purchase our train tickets from one of the automated machines and board the EuroStar for the 9:45 a.m. departure and the hour and thirty-five minute journey to Florence.

After an eventful day in which we saw the Mercato Centrale, Michelangelo’s David, Palazzo della Signoria, Ponte Vecchio, and Piazza della Repubblica, our timing was just as fortuitous at the Santa Maria Novella train station in Florence. Upon returning to Rome, we exited Termini and walked out to the bus lanes to find a route that would take us back to our apartment. After some perusing of the signage, we boarded the number 170 bus. The third stop on the 170 line was Piazza Venezia, an easy 10-minute walk from our apartment near Campo de’ Fiore.

To our bewilderment, our bus had barely left Termini when the doors opened and at least fifteen passengers near the front of the bus exited. A few minutes later, we discovered why. It was La Notte Bianca (White Night), a local celebration where upwards of two million Romans hit the streets to party. And bus 170 was not running its normal route that evening since Piazza Venezia was closed off to traffic.

Without any other information, we had no choice but to jump off at the next stop, along with a dozen or more other passengers. Finding our bearings, we realized we were still a mile or more east of the Colosseum, but, unable to locate another bus stop that would take us to a familiar destination, we ended up walking back to our apartment. Not a major setback really, although bothering with the bus at all cost us a good 45 minutes.

So, the situation begs the question: if bus 170 wasn’t running the 170 route, then why display any number at all? Or at least why not make an announcement that the route was changed, and the bus would not be stopping at Piazza Venezia, easily one of the busiest bus stops in all of Rome? Even with our group’s rudimentary understanding of Italian, we, along with many other passengers, would have gotten the message.

Our second bus mishap proved to be much more devastating. After arriving in Venice for a one-night stay, we purchased a pair of shuttle bus passes at Treviso Airport for the round trip ride to (and from) the city center. After a truly enjoyable stay in Venice, we set out the next evening for our return to Rome.

Tre Barche
Venice, Italy

Arriving at the bus station, we asked the clerk at the ticket window which bus went to the airport. “A5,” he told us. It took no time at all to locate the bus with “A5-Aeroporto” prominently displayed on its electronic marquee. The bus got underway and, after perhaps ten minutes, as Chris read her book, I saw something that would mark the beginning of a horrible odyssey: a road sign indicated an imminent split in the highway. The route to Treviso veered off to the left. The city of Trieste was straight ahead. Our bus continued straight.

We weren’t going to Treviso at all: we were headed to an airport 20 miles from Trieste, all because the clerk at the bus station didn’t have the decency to ask which airport we wanted. (But make no mistake, it was our fault too, and we learned a valuable lesson: you must always ask specific, detailed questions, i.e., “Which bus to Treviso Airport?”)

We jumped off at the next stop, then waited a half hour before another bus arrived to take us back to Venice. By the time we arrived back at the bus station, we had no chance of making our flight to Rome.

Our nightmare had just begun. The night of September 10, 2007 will likely go down in the annals as the worst night of our lives….

~kp~