August 10, 2004
BARCELONA -- I made my way from southern Italy to the site of the 1992 summer Olympics, but it wasn't easy. Glancing at a mpa reveals that the two aren't really that close to each other. Travel options were as follows:
So then it was off to Rome for the next leg of investigation. I pulled into the now-familiar Termini station, got out on the correct side, and tromped back to Fawlty Towers, figuring I wouldn't be doing any more traveling that day. Finding no open rooms, I went back to the Yellow Hostel, which was also booked out. So, for my fourth night in Rome, I spent the night at my fourth Roman hostel, just across the street from Yellow. In fact it is a rather nice hotel during the year, but in the backpacker high season they convert some of their bigger rooms to dormitories, which I guess must be more profitable. I spent much of the rest of the day trying to track down a phantom ferry to Barcelona from Civitavecchia, a port near Rome, and determining that the timing of any flight I could still take would make things impossible. So, I resolved to go with my remaining option, the ferry from Genoa. At the Yellow Hostel (whose common room was shared by the hotel across the street for its dorm guests) I ran into another friend from Giovanni's hostel, who advised me that it might be best to walk up to the ticket office in Genoa and try to get the cut-rate "deck class" tickets that they only sell when all the normal tickets are sold. Thus absolved of any need for further planning, I frittered away the rest of the day.
It happened to be Sunday again by this time, so again there wasn't too much to do. I went to the original Forum in the late afternoon, which I had missed on my first pass through the city, and trekked out to a gelato shop that my friend I. recommended to me in Venice, singing the praises of the fig flavored stuff they sell. Honestly, I wasn't too impressed. Sorry I., but I guess de gustibus non est disputandem (and I apologize for my Latin if it is poor; I'm trying to get this from memory). I also tempted fate with a second coin in the Trevi Fountain. I returned early to the hotel, and had a discussion about Romania and its changes over the last decade -- one of my dorm-mates was there about 11 years ago, and I was there last summer, and apparently it's gotten significantly less corrupt over that time (which is not to say that there isn't plenty of corruption left over for the contemporary traveler) -- and slept in the next morning, as the ferry wasn't set to depart Genoa until 10 p.m.
On the five-hour train tride from Rome to Genoa, I listened to some Italians in my compartment complaining about how silly tourists are. I am not at such a point in my Italian skills that I can effectively eavesdrop on a conversation, but I caught the word "tourist" (which is the same in Italian) many times, and they named most of the big travel destinations and shook their heads and chuckled, so it wasn't too hard to figure out. I pretended not to understand anything and kept my nose in my book. About three and a half hours in, a hapless English family got on our express train, hoping it would stop in Cinque Terre (one of the "silly tourist" destinations mentioned in the previous hours). It didn't and in fact there must have been many such hapless tourists, because the conductor made a special announcement shortly after they got on, in both Italian and English, that the train was express, does not stop at Cinque Terre, and would anyone trying to go there please get off at the next stop in a half hour and try to get on the proper train next time. When the English family left, the one remaining Italian gave me a knowing chuckle -- this time I was in on the silly tourist joke.
I reached Genoa around 3 p.m., the hottest part of the day, and trekked along the waterfront to the ferry terminal. I bought the ticket (no deck class, but it occurred to me that it was very possible that there would be rain or at least cold wind, for which I am ill-equipped on this trip, so it's just as well), followed it by a McDonald's hamburger and a bag of oranges at the terminal, and then stashed my backpack at the left-luggage room for a few hours to try to explore the city a little bit. The port must not be in the most scenic part of town -- in an hour of walking, the most interesting thing I was able to turn up was an Internet café -- so I still have no real opinion on Genoa, despite having spent some seven hours there.
I was advised to board the ferry two hours before departure, so I responsibly turned up at 8 p.m. sharp (I had to reclaim my backpack before then anyway), and shuffled up through the ferry's garage to the reception area. This ferry, I must emphasize, is not some little paddle-wheel job like you imagine on the Mississippi. This ferry is basically a cruise ship, complete with hotel-like cabins, two restaurants, two bars, three decks of garage for vehicle storage, and a swimming pool. It also has two large rooms of Pullman seats for the poor backpacker masses. With all this, it was still not quite big enough to hold my attention until departure, much less during the trip. I did enjoy watching the nightime Italian coast roll away as we pulled out of the harbor, and the night sky in the middle of the sea is pretty spectacular. But all the movies were in Spanish with Catlan subtitles, the magic show was popular with the kids but not terribly inspired, and all in all my book was much more interesting. (By this point I had finished Anna Karenina and given it to yet another fellow traveller at Giovanni's hostel, and begun on Latro of the Mists.) When we got to Barcelona harbor at 3 p.m. the next day, an hour ahead of schedule, I was happy enough to have made the trip by boat, but certainly glad to get onto land. Spain, surely, would be big enough to occupy me for a good long time.