I left my family in Brescia for the second time on the Monday morning (and this time remembered to stamp my ticket). I had to spend most of the day on Italy's collection of slow trains and I wasn't looking forward to it. I had much to ponder and several changes to make.
I went to Milan (again - who's counting - I make it four times) and despite a person waking me up whilst taking a nap at Milano Centrale, everything was going swimmingly until we got to Genova. I'd been the same route the previous week and I knew I had to change at one of the stations in Genova. The first time I'd gone all the way to the terminus and hopped on my other train no problems. What I hadn't realised was that train had been delayed. This train was not. And I missed it.
Bother.
Well get the next one - you may be saying. It wasn't as easy as that. I had to get to Sanremo for a certain time so that I could get the bus up to Baiardo. Even this wasn't as simple as it sounds. I was meeting one of my friends from Sanremo and we were going up to Baiardo together. Though I would have been ok spending the night in Sanremo, my friend had to go back to Baiardo to collect her stuff as we were both flying out the following afternoon.
Things were about to get tricky.
I hurtled through the station to ask someone when the next train would be, the nice lady at the ticket office told me I should have got off on the stop before. I explained that I knew this and that telling me what I should have done is little use as it's not going to help me get the last bus to Baiardo. (I didn't actually say that, but I would have done if I'd had more time.)
Anyway, she gave me an alternative route via some other place on a train that, for anyone's money, looked more like a bus. I changed in another place I'd never heard of and then again in another place with a population of about four before I was on the train to Sanremo. I was clock-watching avidly - counting down the stops: 'We're not gonna make it!' 'Yes we are!' 'No we're not!' That was a very entertaining conversation I had with myself for about two hours.
I saw the second to last stop and started to get ready. It took ages to get to the next stop and then we went in what was by then a very familiar tunnel - for some reason we'd skipped the previous stop and gone straight to Sanremo. Good job I was paying attention.
I ran down the walkway.
This took some time.
I arrived at the waiting area to greet my friend and we legged it to the bus stop. Ten minutes later we were on the bus to Baiardo and I was glad I had an hour on the bus to calm down.
Now at this juncture I want to share something about the bus to Baiardo. When it's not full of tutors and others affiliated to the company, it's speckled with locals. I don't know what it is about these locals, but several of them seemed a couple of basil leaves short of a ragu.
I was busy catching up with my friend and telling her all about the time that during hide and seek one morning at camp, we'd gone and lost three children at which point it had ceased to be a fun game. Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the locals take their top off.
'It's ok,' I thought, 'it is hot in here.'
I carried on and told my friend about the morning we tried Olly, Olly Octopus on tarmac and in about four rounds we ended up with six injured children. This local caught my eye again.
'Hang on,' I thought, 'he's wearing a bra!'
It transpired this local was a woman. Awkward. Still. No matter and I went on to tell my friend about how my kids had written me a thank you message on my blackboard and had spelt it 'thank yuo'.
'OH MY GOODNESS! THE WOMAN HAS TAKEN HER BRA OFF!'
She was literally changing completely on the bus. I mean what kind of situation means that you have to change the majority of your clothes on a public bus!?
Needless to say that when we got to Baiardo I'd had my fill of Italian public transport...
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