Travelling by train in Italy
It’s an oft-quoted notion that fascist dictator Mussolini made the trains run on time in Italy. In truth, it was a grandiose claim.
It’s an oft-quoted notion that fascist dictator Benito Mussolini made the trains run on time in Italy. In truth, it was a grandiose claim and one that never rang true.
My Florentine friend Marco says the railways were in a state of disrepair after World War I so infrastructure had to be improved and so it was, before Mussolini assumed the stage in 1922. We’re talking about trains because the day after our coffee catch-up, I will be bound from Roma Termini to Napoli Centrale aboard the speeding red arrow known as Frecciarossa. I tell him I’ve booked business class. “There’s a business class?” he asks. “Yes,” I reply, reasonably confidently. “A Sydney travel agent told me it would be preferable.” Marco hoots and shakes his head.
He warns me about the boarding process, which involves lugging cases up narrow stairs and through automatic doors between carriages that open and close in capricious fashion. There is never any stowage space left, he says, even if you’re among the first to get aboard. It’s peak summer and holidaymakers will be equipped with prams, backpacks, camping gear, possibly bar fridges and metal-cornered cases that look like a cross between an industrial coffee table and a steamer truck. Elbows are sharp and manners optional. Luckily, I have just a modest wheelie designed to sit neatly at my feet.
Frecciarossa 9519 leaves nine minutes late after multilingual announcements. The English version is courtesy of Margaret Thatcher, or at least a tape from an episode of Spitting Image. She advises in an unforgiving tone how Trenitalia passengers can file a claim, make a complaint and engage with customer service for satisfaction. “But we’ve barely left the station!” observe the Americans seated on the opposite aisle, peeping over matching Louis Vuitton hold-alls slung in their laps and possibly padlocked to the seats. We exchange smiles and they announce, “California!” A state of mind, I suppose. I reply “Sydney!”, which they then assume is my name.
Marco has already apprised me of strikes, tracks buckling in the heat, deragliamenti mishaps, “unreliable beasts such as goats” on the lines (a fib, surely), and passengers pushing emergency buttons when the espresso machine breaks down. I only half-believe him but keep an eye out for wildlife as summer-scorched scenery whooshes past.
An affable inspector in a uniform mimicking that of an airline captain arrives and scans tickets. Then the “free” business class cart trundles past and I nab coffee, sandwiches and very good limoncello biscuits. Local passengers in the adjoining carriage appear to be fully provisioned for the 90-minute journey. I spy sandwiches and small cakes and Nonna bundles being retrieved from bags on high. Bibs are being tucked in and bread rolls torn. I imagine I can smell pepperoni pizza. That’s what Marco would call the real business.
Service 9519 picks up speed to 360km/h and we arrive on the dot at Napoli Centrale. “Have a nice day, Sydney!”