Roman Exidus Part I

What day is it? Thursday. It's been awhile since our last post... resting up after that week in Germany and Switzerland. Where were we. Rome.

Getting to Rome was a lot easier than getting out of Rome. After the burn of missing our ferry, not getting to see Mt. Etna and not having a car, we had decided in Cagliari to look instead into getting a car on the mainland. As it turned out, we found a rental for an entire week for like $200 euro or something. All we had to do was get to the airport and we were golden!

We will have you, automobile!

The day we were to leave, we got up early and headed for the main station. I think we got there around 10am. Our pick up was at noon. Plenty of time. All we had to do was catch a shuttle out to the airport. Once we got to the main station, we headed right to the tourist information desk to inquire where and how to embark upon this shuttle. It was the obvious place to ask for information, right? Well, the lady said there was a ticket place down the street, on the corner, and she waved in the general direction we were meant to take.

Easy peesy. We start walking. After about 10 minutes, we find a kiosk on a corner. "Avete bigliette de autobus?" we ask, which is singsong for, Do you have bus tickets. "Si," says the greasy Italian in the booth. "Per aeroporto?" we clarify. "No," says the greasy Italian in the booth. Uhhh... "Dove le bigliette for aeroporto?" I ask, which in retard Italian, means, "where are airport bus tickets?". The man just shrugs and goes back to his paper.

GD. We look at each other, and then just stand there, squinting in the sunlight and hoping that maybe the Italian lied and will change his mind. "Oh, aeroporto? Si si! I have-a tickets for aeroporto righta here-a!." But no. He sits deep in his paper stand, reading. If he is holding out on us, he gives no sign. We've no choice but to hoof it backto the tourist office to find out where we went wrong.

So, 10 sweaty minutes later, we are back where we started, but this time we espy another ticket window, just down from the tourist info window, that is selling airline tickets. So we get in that line, thinking that, if they sell airline tickets, they must be able to direct patrons to the airport as well. But apparently we were wrong to think that.

Fifteen minutes standing in line and it is finally our turn. "Can we buy shuttle tickets here?" Mike asks. No, she says. "Well, do you know where we can catch the airport shuttle?."

"I am sorry." she says. "We are a travel agency, not a tourist information service. You will have to ask at the tourist desk over there." She points it out, in case we can't read.

The tourist lady is not all that excited to see us again. After a few minutes of haggling with her, however, Mike somehow gets her to produce an actual printed schedule of shuttle services, along with the names, even, of these shuttles. This was our second lesson that in Europe, the locals are a little tight fisted with their tourist info. But, from her tight little fist to ours, we were making some progress.

So, Mike asks again. "Where do we buy tickets for these shuttles?" Again, the lady waves her hand around vaguely over her head. "Just there." she says. It has now been about an hour just getting a schedule for shuttles, so Mike is not giving up so easily this time. "Can you point exactly which direction?" he asks. Exasperated, she straightens her arm out, extends a pointer finger and lo and freaking behold, she is pointing directly to the newspaper and breath mints store in the Frakking station. We turn around and there it is. Biglietti, it says inside.

Now, don't laugh at us, cuz this one was not our fault. We go in and ask the lady for shuttle tickets. Si, si, she says, and hands over two tickets. Good lord, we think. Was it really that easy? But it wasn't. The schedule the tourist lady had given us had two shuttle lines, with shuttles leaving like every 30 minutes. The shuttle we had just paid for (which by the way, we still aren't sure where to actually catch this thing) didn't leave for another hour and a half. And now it's already after 1100, less than an hour to pick up time for our rental car.

Mike pulls out the schedule he had just wrested from the tourist information desk and shows it to the ticket lady. He asks if we can get an earlier shuttle and points to one of the departure times that is supposedly happening in half an hour. "That is for a different service." she says. "We sell only this service."

Mike just looks at her. He looks at me. Back at her. Shakes his head. Without a word, she opens the cash drawer and gives him his money back. He hands back the tickets and asks if she knows where these other lines depart from. And she actually has an answer. Apparently, we can find these shuttles over by Train Italia, just on the other side of the station. (It is a huge station).

So, out we go, once again. By now, we have pretty much given up on buying tickets from any kind of official ticket office. Those are like ROUS's in Rome. Now we are thinking we will focus all our energies on finding these shuttles. We have a piece of paper with a schedule printed on it, proving their existence. We walk up the sidewalk, sticking very close to the station, so as not to miss getting to the other side. We are able to get to this other side without a problem, but when we get there, we see no shuttles.

What I do see is a helpful looking stranger. Helpful, I hope, because they have suitcases and bags. Fellow travelers perhaps. I put on my best politely hopeful voice. "Bus de aeroport?" I ask. We show the paper and are rewarded with an affirmative. Si, si... the finger points further down the street. Encouraged, we head in the direction of the point.

After two or three more minutes walking, tho, there still are no shuttles in sight. We pass a nice fancy looking internet cafe, with a nice friendly looking counter/owner looking guy standing inside. Now, I usually do not like to talk to more than one stranger in any given day, but I really really wanted to get to that rental car. After that, I wouldn't have to talk to train people, or bus people, or ticket people for a whole entire week. Sacrifices could be made.

Me, politely hopeful: Bus de aeroporto?
Counter Guy, looking at schedule and speaking in, thank America, English: Yes! There are two shuttles, just that way. (His point matches that of the helpful stranger).
Me, relieved and encourage: Do you know if we can buy tickets on the bus?
Counter Guy, listening attentively: Yes, yes, no problem. Buy ticket on the bus.

This is seriously the most information we have gotten out of anybody all day, and with the least trouble. With a smile, even, wow! Not all Romans are lost, I say to Mike.

We keep walking, and after a minute, see a little wooden stand jutting onto the sidewalk. And lo, on it are big red letters on the stand reading: "AIRPORT SHUTTLE. BIGLIETTE." Finally. Shuttle tickets!!

We press our faces to the hole in the ticket window. Siting inside is a tiny white haired wrinkly little woman. She does not speak English. I don't think she could see very well, either. However, not to be discouraged, we show her our paper. "Dove le autobus de aeroporto?" We ask. (where is the bus?).

"Si, si", she creaks out. She lifts a bony arm and points back to where we had started. We frown and look back that way. We squint and stand on tiptoe. We step into the street, straining for a better view. We see no buses. We look at her. She smiles eagerly and wobbles her head in an affirmative motion. Then she points in another direction, completely different from what the helpful stranger and the internet guy had said.

Totally confused, we pause. Clearly, her stand says Shuttle tickets. Clearly, she is crazy and must not know what she is talking about. We decide to ignore her. We are not walking back to where we started, knowing there are absolutely no buses there. And we are definitely not walking off in some new direction. We are sticking with our route, and holding out that maybe what the internet guy says is true, and that we can buy tickets on the bus.

As it turns out, it is good we held true to the advice of strangers on the street instead of official employees of the ticket selling agencies. Just 100 feet or so beyond the crazy lady, we FINALLY see the shuttles with our very own eyes. Two giant tour buses are parked on the side of the road, seemingly at random, no station, no signs, no ticket booths anywhere in sight. Just lots of people with suitcases, milling around and putting their bags in the bus luggage bin. It looks like the place. We find the driver by his uniform and ask "Avete bigliette per aeroporto?" And hells yes, the answer is yes, he sells us two tickets on the spot and tells us the shuttle leaves in 10 minutes! We climb aboard and settle in, a mere two hours after our little adventure began at the center of tourist information.

We are on our way, but, as we find out, we ain't done yet.

I apologize for these long long wordy posts. But, traveling mishaps seem to keep finding me, and my friends seem to continue to be amused, so I hope you find these entertaining. I am glad to be able to do something for yous even though I am not back home with you guys! Tune in later for Part Two of Roman Exidus.