TRAVEL FOR TWO: A Tale of Stupidity in Four Acts
Roger Zubrinich and Judy Peters like to travel. A lot. Prior to the pandemic, the couple would escape the Australian winter and head to Europe for the summer, traipsing through countries via a hire car.
With overseas travel now something of a dream, Roger has decided to revisit some of their destinations in writing. This week, Roger and Judy encounter difficulties leaving Nice, leading to a tale of stupidity in four acts.
The fellow behind the reception desk of the hotel was middle-aged, balding and sartorially challenged. He was leaning on the desk reading a newspaper when I arrived. Unused spectacles attached to a cord dangled from his neck. A fashion accessory it seemed. I loudly cleared my throat, as you do, to attract attention. He looked up; disinterest personified.
When I tried to explain that we wanted to organise a late checkout it was instantly clear that he spoke little English. Thus began a variation on the eternal mime of the linguistically challenged. I traced a full circle from 12 to 12 on my watch, held up the room key and proffered it to him. He shook his head and pointed to the 10 on his watch. I insisted on the 12 on mine. He shook his head even more vigorously, pointed to the 10 on his and then gestured upwards.
His meaning was clear. The hotel checkout time was 10 am. There was no provision for a late checkout; an immutable determination ordained by a higher authority.
It was the morning of the day we were due to take a night train from Nice to Venice. Before breakfast I’d opened the hotel room curtains to a bleak sky. The city had lost its sparkle – literally. So, at the absolutely non-negotiable checkout time, we wheeled our cases from the foyer of the hotel into the street. The leaden sky and the atmosphere were turgid with moisture.
Our first imperative was to free ourselves of luggage by storing it in lockers at the Nice-Ville railway station on Avenue Thiers. By the time we arrived there drops of rain as big as small coins were unloading from above. Our train didn’t leave until 10.30 that evening. The day promised to be long and dismal. And it was.
Our Stupidity: Act One
We sheltered under the decorative iron awning at the pleasingly fussy front facade of the station, did a dog shake to rid ourselves of some of the rain that had settled on us, and entered the crowded main hall. We threaded and pushed our way past people with many a polite ‘Merci’ and ‘Merci beaucoup’ to appease any aggravation until we found two empty and adjacent luggage lockers.
We slid the necessary coins into the coin slots and deposited our cases. Each of the lockers issued a slip of paper with a combination to punch in when we wished to retrieve our possessions. Except that the printing was so faint even holding the slips directly under a light gave us no confidence that we could accurately discern the numbers, which was something of a problem since we’d already closed the locker doors that had shut with assertive clicks.
While we were squinting at the faint hieroglyphics on the paper we were interrupted by a heavily accented voice.
‘Can I be of assistance?’ it said.
I turned to see a squat man in a creased shirt, his thin silvery hair closely cropped, and his companion, an ungainly young woman grasping with both hands the handle of a bulging wheelie case. Her unencumbered middle-aged companion slipped between us with oiled precision and plucked one of the paper slips from my hand. My surprised reaction was to notice the dirt under his fingernails. His companion pushed through, and both, with their backs to us, studied the wisp of paper.
I belatedly forced my way between them, reached over, carefully removed the paper from his hand, thanked him insincerely for his consideration and hurried towards the exit. Our dubious companions followed. The squeaking wheels of her case and his voice were equally persistent.
‘We can help you sir,’ he insisted as he walked, his voice moving from wheedling to more aggressive. At the exit door I turned to him, demanded he leave us alone and waved my arms in a shooing motion in case he misunderstood my meaning. We stared at each other for a couple of seconds, before he turned and gestured at his companion to follow him, muttering in a language that I didn’t recognise.
Outside the station the rain was sheeting across the road, the sky was a bellicose grey, spray danced in car headlights, and a 10.30 pm departure for Venice seemed like an eternity away. As far away as our original plan to spend a leisurely day having coffee, checking out the Roman baths at Cimiez, and enjoying a long alfresco lunch near the sea. We did have coffee, numerous times just so we could find shelter, and a non-alfresco lunch, after which we shivered under umbrellas and trees in Jardine Albert 1st while we worked out how we best could survive the hours till departure.
After a bit of desultory conversation accompanied by the clatter of rain on the canopy of leaves above us, a vaguely discomforting thought eventually shaped into a question.
‘Do you think the pair at the station read the combination to our locker?’ I ventured.
Judy shrugged. ‘It’s possible.’
Oh fuck!
We clutched our umbrellas and hurried from the park down Avenue Jean Medecin towards the railway station. In panicked urgency we posed an ongoing threat of collision to the more leisurely pedestrians who had little more to contemplate than avoiding getting their feet wet in the persistent downpour.
And eventually, immersed in a hubbub of travellers and amplified timetable announcements, we were standing sodden and apprehensive in front of the rows of lockers again. We were relieved to see that the doors to both lockers were closed and with some difficulty deciphered the faded locker numbers on the paper slips. After a couple of unsuccessful attempts to open one, and feeling increasingly tense with each failed attempt, almost gleefully, the locker door clicked loudly.
We shared a moment’s hesitation then pulled open the door. Revealed were a case and cabin bag as we’d left them. After a further couple of minutes of twiddling and tweaking the other locker door popped open and it too was occupied by our possessions. Huge relief. Disaster averted. And not a bar in sight.
Note to a couple of travelling morons: If you suspect someone of knowing the combination to a station locker holding your luggage don’t walk away. Change lockers immediately and keep the combination secure, you idiots.
Our Stupidity: Act Two
We spent the remainder of the afternoon sheltering in the station, on hard seats, attempting to read. Streams of travellers hurrying to catch trains or exit the station subjected us to a constant buffeting and it was with relief, at around 6.30 pm, we left to eat at a Vietnamese restaurant we’d visited when we first arrived. Outside the rain was still tumbling down.
The restaurant not only smelled good, it felt good. It was a dry and warm. A genuine sanctuary. We had plenty of time to fill before our train departed so we read the menus slowly. Very slowly. We ordered food and ate slowly. Very slowly. Delicious cold rolls, corn soup, chicken and cashew stir fry and rice-flour pancakes.
We ordered water and a bottle of Chablis. We drank slowly. Very slowly.
And eventually we had to leave, to seek closure to a miserable day. Walking hunched beneath umbrellas in the rain, inevitably, given our consumption of liquid during the day and the suggestive nudge of water dropping from above, we simultaneously experienced an increasingly pressing need to pee.
The station promised relief, until we discovered that the toilets there were locked. Disbelieving and a little panicked, we rushed to the ticket office where we encountered the objectionable individual who had sold us train tickets to Venice a couple of days earlier.
‘Can you unlock the toilets?’
‘Non.’
‘Are there toilets anywhere here that are open?’
‘Non.’
‘Are there some close by?’
Shrug.
After a desperate excursion to find a public toilet we spotted a big yellow sign. M for McDonalds it said. M for Micturition we read. We rushed to it and feigned nonchalance as we walked to the menu board above the serving counter, hoping to appear to be serious customers to anyone observing. Then, after a respectable interval, we wandered towards the toilets. We’d done this often enough before as have countless other travellers caught short. Everyone knows McDonalds restaurants are the toilets of last resort in the absence of other options.
It seemed, however, that this particular McDonalds had seen its fair share of distressed faux customers because we quickly encountered a toilet monitor hovering near them. Could we display our order receipt? Well, no. And so, we were expelled, red-faced and still desperate.
Eventually we found one of those automated silver cylindrical devices that induce hysteria in claustrophobes and appear ready to blast into space with their unwitting occupants trapped inside.
We returned to the station disconsolate and desperate for the day to end.
Note to a couple of travelling morons: If you spend the day drinking litres of coffee and water in an area where toilet facilities are in short supply, and top up with more water and a bottle of wine in the evening, use any available facilities at every opportunity; like at Vietnamese restaurants, you idiots.
Our Stupidity: Act Three
We checked the departure time of our train on the information board in the main hall and noted that it did not have a restaurant car, so we purchased some survival rations from a kiosk that opened out on one of the station platforms: chocolate and potato crisps to see us through the night. The rain was clattering on the glassed roof above.
We boarded the train and found our compartment. First-class. An unusual extravagance but given the length of the overnight ride we were able to justify the expense to ourselves. The carriage was of an older variety that had a corridor running the whole length down the right-hand side with the compartments opening off it.
Two young women had already taken up residence. They had appropriated both long facing seats on opposite sides of the window by stretching out horizontally for their full length. When we entered struggling with luggage neither moved except for their faces, which immediately changed to convey frowning displeasure.
‘We would like to sit,’ I said, enunciating each word carefully and with hand gestures indicated they should make room for us, which they eventually did with bad grace. They had a brief conversation in German and then studiously ignored us. Once I’d stowed our cases in the racks above us and tried to settle – Judy and I sitting opposite each other – I noted that the compartment smelled of stale food, dirty socks and cloying body odour. The reluctance of our companions extended to personal hygiene.
While we waited for the train to leave I went in search of a toilet. As I used the facility I surveyed the décor and noticed a sign above the sink proclaiming that the water was ‘non-potabile’. I hadn’t noticed any water dispensers in the carriage, hence the instant realisation: we were facing an eight-hour journey without water.
After a quick check that confirmed the absence of drinkable water in the carriage and an equally quick word to Judy to which she had no time to reply, I fled from the train and sprinted to the kiosk that we’d visited earlier. By my estimate the train was due to depart in ten minutes and I hoped that Italian trains were as notorious for tardy departures as they were for late arrivals.
And for good reason. As I sprinted – if that’s the word for a panicked scramble – the consequences of missing the train came to me in an adrenalin inspired rush. My travel documents were on the train – passport, tickets and travellers’ cheques – not to mention luggage with clothes and all the other necessary paraphernalia. In addition, I had the details of the hotel we’d booked in Venice scribbled on a piece of paper in my back pocket. Judy didn’t. My scramble became a hamstring-stretching run.
The woman at the kiosk was completing a transaction with an elderly customer when I arrived, panting like an overweight Labrador. I hopped from one foot to the other. Eight minutes and counting. My turn. I purchased four bottles of water.
Six minutes. I sprinted back to the train and puffed past the uniformed railway guard who clutched a flag and sported a whistle in his mouth next to a cigarette. Our carriage was in about the middle of the long, segmented centipede of a train, and seemed half a kilometre a way.
At the four-minute mark I reached the carriage and found the door closed. Pressing the hydraulic release button had no effect and I sprinted to the door at the other end of the carriage. It was open. Less than three minutes remained when I clambered up the metal steps, rushed past the toilet that had precipitated the episode and collapsed in our compartment, sweating and struggling for breath. I triumphantly waved the bag containing the water bottles at Judy who, judging from her face, was still processing the implications of me having missed the train.
Simultaneously, as our malodorous cabin companions ceased their muted conversation long enough to favour me with a look reserved for fools, the guard’s whistle sounded shrilly.
Note to a couple of travelling morons: Potato crisps and chocolate are not survival rations for a long journey. Bottles of water are, you idiots.
Their Stupidity: Act Four
About forty minutes after the train lurched into motion with a hissing of decompressing air and the familiar clanking jolt as the locomotive overcame the stubborn inertia of the carriages, we heard a curt knock at the compartment door. We’d been sitting back, listening to the rhythm of the wheels on the rails and looking past the grumpy girls who’d collared the window seats, at the night lights of the Cote d’Azur. After a short hesitation the door slid open with a rushing thud to reveal a train conductor. His taciturn presence was underscored by his black uniform and cap.
‘Biglietti,’ he demanded.
His command wrenched us from a motion-induced torpor. We pulled our backpacks from the overhead luggage racks and searched for the tickets. The contents spilled onto the seats as we went through the various pockets and crevices that were filled with haphazardly placed bits and pieces. Of course, the tickets weren’t there but in Judy’s handbag where they’d resided since they’d been purchased. With servile relief I took them from her while she reassembled our luggage and provided them to the conductor.
Not one to forego an opportunity to enjoy servility and humiliation in others, he examined the tickets slowly and in every possible way short of holding them up to the light to check for a watermark.
Finally, he punched the tickets with his silver puncher, unwillingly handed them back with a muttered, ‘Grazie’, and then turned his attention to the co-occupants of our cabin. They clearly wished he hadn’t. Their former belligerence had been replaced with nervous discomfort. Having been declared innocent I watched with interest.
The ensuing debacle was analogous to a European Cup soccer match involving a fifth division German team overseen by an Italian referee. He scrutinised their tickets with the same provocative determination with which he had ours, eyeballed the German team members, took a deep breath, and then launched into a brief tirade in Italian. Their verbal return pass was feeble and unconvincing, and though we didn’t understand a word, his final move was clear in intent. They’d been unequivocally red-carded. ‘Out,’ he gestured. And off they trudged, backpacks in hand. It seemed that they didn’t have first-class tickets and had been summarily despatched to the cattle-class benches.
Their exit from our compartment was the last we smelled of them.
After the excitement we stretched out on the seats that were entirely ours to occupy, and dozed until the compartment door again opened noisily, this time for an immigration official. We’d crossed the border into Italy. Our passports were stamped after the inevitable intimidating scrutiny.
Following that interruption, we were awake enough to watch the lights of Genoa pass by and then we slept until the train stopped at Mestre outside of Venice. There, the movement of people boarding and disembarking denied sleep. All trains from Mestre to Venice doubled as local transport between the two stops. We moved to the corridor, as many others did, to watch our arrival over the Ponte della Liberta. Goodbye Nice. Hello Venice.
Note to a couple of travelling morons: It is certain that on a long train journey, sooner rather than later an official person in uniform will check the validity of your train tickets (if you have them), you idiots.