Trains

New Delhi

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July 27-30
The hotel arranged to have us taken to the railway station in their car for the 6am train to Delhi, so at 5am the streets are full already and workers are queued up at the tea stalls for breakfast. In Africa the pace was slow and men sat around doing nothing. Here, sure, some are lying on just a small dirty piece of cloth on the sidewalks asleep but most men are up and about-energetic and eager for the day’s work-meager as it will be. Interestingly you seldom see women on the sidewalks. As the train pulled into the station I looked at it dubiously, but it turned out to be ok. It was not the cleanest train ever but had air conditioning-the most important thing in this heat.

On the outskirts of Delhi I sleepily watch the plastic and cloth shacks and the naked children whiz by but come alert when I catch a glimpse of a young man seemingly out of place in his nice new yellow shirt and new-looking grey slacks sitting on a stool and leaning on his arms high on a bank above the railroad tracks…maybe he is dreaming…maybe he’ll be going to school…or to work in the new hotel in New Delhi this new day…

Four hours later we stumble out of the train station behind the only two other young but tired looking white tourists who keep glancing back at us…I guessed French or Italian…and probably wondering who else from the west besides them is nuts enough to be in India in the summer. It is 106 degrees on this day. We have not seen one American in India.

The taxi ride to the hotel and subsequent auto-rickshaw rides in the insane traffic looking at alternative hotels all afternoon does me in. We finally choose the Ajante Hotel primarily because it has a restaurant and high speed internet downstairs. For two days I refuse to leave my air conditioned room except for brief forays into the internet cafe. Bob braves the heat, noise and traffic to explore the city by himself, getting lost of course and having to take a rickshaw back to the hotel.

Images of Egypt

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All we have to offer regarding Egypt are images.Very little understanding. We were open; wanted to understand, feeling generous and happy. Smiling. Saying hello to everyone. Thinking we were making friends…now we have only flashes of ambiguous feeling…

When Americans think of poverty they think of India…or Africa. Poverty here is endemic…makes Mexico look like downtown San Francisco…tourism is all they have and after the massacre of tourists in 1997 in Luxor, tourism in Egypt was decimated. The sellers are desperate to sell and the consequent harassment of tourists is unparalled by anything we have ever experienced.

As if this were not enough, Egypt being essentially a police state anyway, has added to the misery. There are police everywhere trying to protect you and individual travel between most cities are not allowed unless as part of a caravan accompanied by a police car and with a policeman in each car. Tourists are only allowed to travel on three of several trains a day from Luxor to Cairo and there are always 5-6 policemen accompanying the first class (misnomer) cars.

On the train returning from Luxor north to Cairo a young Dutch couple was sitting behind us. The fellow had gotten up to stand at the end of the car for awhile but was immediately yelled at and sent back to his seat by the police. As he was continuing to utter expletives, I turned around and said “You have to laugh or you will go crazy in this country!” With a look that could kill he said, “Oh, I am wayyyyy behond that” as he shot himself in the head with his finger. An alternative would be to fly from Cairo to Aswan or Luxor and back.

Tourism has come back up in Luxor since the massacre and we felt completely safe but the country is still reeling from the effects of the massacre and 9/11.

In an interview of several high-end hotel employees in “HE” magazine (Egypt’s GQ) one manager said “for the money they pay us, we insulate our guests from everything they want to be insulated from.” I read this when we first arrived and scoffed at the people who don’t want to be exposed to the ordinary person on the street in a country. After all, isn’t this why we are traveling-to find out how the heart beats on the streets? However next time I visit the middle east I will join a tour group.

Stuck In A Train In Napflion

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Train Trip to Nafplion

The next morning we walked to Syntagma Plaza to took the metro to the port at Piraeus for departure to some of the Greek islands by ferry. But we had just missed the ferry and since the train station was next to the metro we walked over and bought a $3 ticket to Nafplion 100 km down the coastline of the Peloponnese peninsula of Greece. Bob said he felt like he was on a train ride in Disneyland because the wheels had such a narrow gauge and the train jerked toy-like back and forth around the curves.

When the train stopped at the end of the run Bob debarked while I finished writing in my notebook and gathered up my baggage to follow him out. But just as I got to the door it slammed shut! Knowing how fast these trains had been arriving and leaving I urgently began banging on the window on the other side of the train where I saw a man standing-but he just stood and shrugged his shoulders! Then I turned back to the debarking side and saw the conductor so I banged on that window too. He looked up and laughed-apparently thinking it quite funny that I was stuck inside the train-and with some difficulty and after some seconds he finally got the driver of the train to reopen the doors. Bob, meanwhile, half a block ahead was oblivious of the whole thing! Some travel buddy!

But we were soon all laughing again when, as I walked up to Bob, a very funny Greek lady took all my baggage off my back and put it on Bob and told him to carry it for me. When he refused she repeated the gesture. Finally Bob-unable to communicate his displeasure- dropped my luggage and walked off. She ran after him insisting that he pay me one euro for making me carry my own baggage-to no avail of course. We laughed again as we waved goodbye-thinking that we liked this country!

Nafplion
Looking at the map I saw names I recognized from the Bible-and from Ancient History and Lit in school-Mycenae, Corinth, Olympia. Nafplio on the east coast of the Peloponnese, is tucked up against a Venetian fort high up an acropolis, the Palamidhi, and is approached by 899 stone-hewn steps.

Charming as the town was all the signs were in English which is a tell-tale sign that everything is adjusted for the tourist. We walked around for awhile and sat at the Napoli di Romania Cafe on the Boubulinas and watched the sun go down over the Guld while I drank a double Ouzo and Bob had a Cafe Frappe. You could see some ruins on an island a short distance out into the Gulf that later became a hotel for a time. A guidebook says that Melina Mercuri claims she consummated her first marriage there…

About 8 pm, when we walked into a totally empty restaurant, we thought it was closed. But it was open and exactly at 9pm Greek residents started rolling in for dinner. By the time we left at 10:30 pm the restaurant was full of noisy Greeks talking, eating laughing and listening to Bouzouki music.

The train back to Ireus was a riot-full of noisy young Greek soldiers going to Athens on leave. There were not enough seats; four German tourists had to stand but seemed to be thoroughly entertained by the bedlam.

St. Peter’s House

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The Vatican City, one of the most sacred places in Christendom, attests to a great history and a formidable spiritual venture. A unique collection of artistic and architectural masterpieces lie within the boundaries of this small state. At its centre is St Peter’s Basilica, with its double colonnade and a circular piazza in front and bordered by palaces and gardens. The basilica, erected over the tomb of St Peter the Apostle, is the largest religious building in the world, the fruit of the combined genius of Bramante, Raphael, Michelangelo, Bernini and Maderna. It is an UNESCO World Heritage Site.

In 1965 I had missed seeing the Vatican because I refused to stand in line three hours. So we took the Metro across the Tiber River to the stop near the Vatican and noticed that the trains in Rome are completely covered-every square inch-in graffiti-so much so that Bob thought that the local government had commissioned it! Not!

After 23 years of Catholic education for Bob and 16 for me, we approached the Vatican in complete ignorance-we knew next to nothing about the Vatican or the Pope-probably says something about being Catholic…or Polish. The Polish never did like being told what to do-and neither did Bob’s ancestors-German immigrants to the Ukraine.

We learned that the Vatican occupies 108 and one half acres within the confines of Rome. It is a separate city with it’s own postal service and does a brisk business selling its postcards and stamps that must be mailed in their own mailboxes. Seeing this made it hard to picture the Catholic church that once wheeled and dealed as the mightiest power in Europe.

St. Peter’s Basilica and the Cupula
St. Peter’s is called planning for the “long term. Planning for the short term is Oregon’s Governor Barbara Roberts being given a hard time because she wants to put a nice rug and some cherry wood furniture in the Archives building! I said as much to a Canadian standing next to me at the top of the Cupula (the dome on the top of the basilica) after climbing 350 stairs and suffering claustrophobia from the slanted walls. I told my Canadian friend that I thought the world was trying to tell us that our values are in the wrong place. His answer brought me up short “Yes, we are so practical yet because we are such a young society. We are still developing and building. Other ancient societies have already had their chance to learn what is important in life.” So now, while we name buildings after politicians and businessmen, Rome names it’s airport after Leonardo da Vinci!

The confessional area was lined with priests hearing confessions in many languages. Bob tried to find out if it was customary to give an offering. I asked him if he was planning on going…he said he didn’t need it at which I shot him the big poof of air that the French taught me how to do.

Meanwhile, Bob was watching the sun coming in one of the windows high in the nave magically illuminating all of one particular statue-the one of St. Helen. He wondered aloud if St. Helen “had something to say” to him-probably, he said brightly, “to keep up the good work!”

Sistine Chapel
Would take weeks or months to absorb everything in the Vatican museum and all the rooms of art (Bob was pretty energized by the modern religious art). In the half hour we were in the Sistine Chapel, Vatican monitors shushed us every 2-3 minutes which really raised Bob’s hackles! He said it reminded him of Sister Mary Barbara! But I said I thought the noise may be damaging to the art. Besides, I told him it shouldn’t be a circus in there. I just got a harumph in reply.

Before taking the Metro back to the hotel we stopped at a small cafeteria run by three energetic young guys who served up pizza, rice stuffed tomatoes in a great pomodoro sauce with those tiny noodles and a veal dish with another kind of pomodoro sauce at our streetside table. Either we were very hungry or this was the best food in Italy!

Rome

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“Italy will return to the splendors of Rome, said the major. I don’t like Rome, I said. It is hot and full of fleas. You don’t like Rome? Yes, I love Rome. Rome is the mother of nations. I will never forget Romulus suckling the Tiber. What? Nothing. Let’s all go to Rome. Let’s go to Rome tonight and never come back. Rome is a beautiful city, said the major.” Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell To Arms.

Took one of those plush high speed TGV trains from Florence to Rome-one and a half hours. Wish the U.S. could have a similar system. A nice young guy in Bayonne, France who, while selling me some wonderful French perfume, told me about his three months he spent in the states and Canada-by traveling and sleeping on buses!

In Rome we checked in Pensione Cortorillo near the Termini (train station). This time there is a lift to the fifth floor. However, it was about 3 feet by 3 feet square. Bob thought he was going to be smart so he turned around and backed in with his backpack on. I walked in face first flat up against him. The inner doors (like French doors) barely closed behind me. Ok, good to go. Press the button nothing happens. Then Bob realizes that there is an outer door. So I have to back up through the door, turn around and back in so I can close the outer door. We get to the fifth floor. The lift stops. I look down through the metal grate of the lift and see the next floor about 12 feet down. Bob can’t see anything but now we can hear voices so I am thinking that since I can hear them maybe they will hear us holler for help. After some few seconds (which is long enough for many different thoughts to race through your head) Bob manages to turn his head far enough to see that behind him is another metal grate door and through it he sees the hotel proprietor waving frantically and yelling for Bob to open the door behind him which he does with great difficulty. Saved from eternal imprisonment in Rome.

The Vatican City, one of the most sacred places in Christendom, attests to a great history and a formidable spiritual venture. A unique collection of artistic and architectural masterpieces lie within the boundaries of this small state. At its centre is St Peter’s Basilica, with its double colonnade and a circular piazza in front and bordered by palaces and gardens. The basilica, erected over the tomb of St Peter the Apostle, is the largest religious building in the world, the fruit of the combined genius of Bramante, Raphael, Michelangelo, Bernini and Maderna.
We took a two-hour bus tour to get an overview of this city full of marble domes, Roman ruins with pieces lying willy nilly about, noseless and penusless statues and motorcycle dust. The tour was narrated in English but we only understood about half of it because of the Italian accent.

I had wanted very much to see the Trevi Fountain across from which was a delightful guesthouse where Barbara and I, in 1965, could look out on the fountain from our second floor window. We weren’t looking, unfortunately, when every last single bit of our luggage, and film, was stolen out of the trunk of my little red Spitfire Triumph that night. Legend has it that a traveler who throws a coin into the Fontana di Trevi, with its rumble of cascading water emerging from the back wall of the Palazzo, is ensured a speedy return to Rome and one who tosses two will fall in love in Rome. Well, in 1965 the first coin didn’t ensure such a speedy return but the second coin worked-my travel partner was charmed by a young Italian and spent a week longer in Rome while I went on toward Berlin by myself.

Rome is sensory overload of 2000 years of world history, art, architecture, politics and literature. We were exhausted after trying to absorb Florence and now Rome so we retreated gratefully to our room for a nap-falling asleep to the sound of music from “The Doors” and laughter from the young backpackers that filled the pension.

Serendipity Florence

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Well, we are in Florence, by serendipity, on April 5, 2002. By that I mean that we were on the train from Cinque Terre on the Italian Riviera headed to Siena when we realized we would be going through Florence to get there. I had actually been pulling for Assisi where my favorite saint is buried and where son Joshua had spent several months living-studying the language and the food. But I told Bob it was a sin not to see Florence so we decided to jump.

Bob left me in the train station in charge of the baggage and a USA Today and took off looking for a hotel. Actually was touching for an hour observing the old men sitting here and then after a few minutes changing places there-taking up seats, as in every European train station, with no place else they would rather go. Maybe old men need train stations to sit and remember…and dream while they watch…who? I imagined the old women probably home gossiping together about how the youngsters in town were all going to hell.

Last night we ate at a modern hip restaurant-very noisy-with lots of “cool” people in black leather jackets-mostly Italians. We had the pasta sampler-5 different kinds so we are getting our fill of pasta! Today we ate lunch at a small down home Trattoria-pasta for the Primeri course and grilled steak for me and veal with sauce for Bob for Segundi course.

I am left with one single strong impression about these European countries. The people know who they are and they love being who they are. The Italians, especially, may suffer their pain in private but in public they love being with each other, talking laughing eating! Americans imagine everyone in the world wants to be American. Not true.

Cinque Terre

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Took a train to the Cinque Terre (Five Lands..or villages) area on the northern Italian Riviera.

The Ligurian coast between Cinque Terre and Portovenere is a cultural landscape of great scenic and cultural value. The layout and disposition of the small towns and the shaping of the surrounding landscape, overcoming the disadvantages of a steep, uneven terrain, encapsulate the continuous history of human settlement in this region over the past millennium. The area is an UNESCO World Heritage Site.

The towns, jutting out into the Mediterranean and straight up the hills on the coast are connected by walking trails through eighteen kilometers of sheer rocky coastline with terraced hills and vineyards sloping steeply down to the sea. The five little villages are built into the rocks between the beach and the hills. You can hike, swim, drink red wine, and watch blazing Mediterranean sunsets far away from the tourist throngs in the Italian cities and the French Riviera. Centuries old footpaths and mule tracks wind about 500 to 1,000 feet above the sea, leading through olive groves and vineyards, orchards and chestnut woods.

Each village has its own character, they are a few minutes apart by train. The main railway between Rome and Paris runs along the coast, mainly in tunnels. Bob compares the trail to the Nepali Trail on the island of Kauai in Hawaii. Extremely picturesque and very charming.

Vernazza is many peoples favorite village, dominated by the Round Tower and by the ruins of the medieval fortifications. It has a small harbor next to the village square.

Monterosso is pretty split into two by the tunnel and the mountains. If you are walking down from Vernazza, the old town is the first beached section and is well worth a walk around as it is loaded with lots of small, character-filled streets.

Famous for its vineyards and olive groves, Corniglia stands on the principal road over a rocky cliff dropping to the sea; it is the only village far from the sea but it can be reached by some steps.

Founded during the 12th century, Manarola probably is the most characteristic village of the Cinque Terre; the old church of San Lorenzo is in baroque style.

From Manarola starts the picturesque trail called ” Via dell’ Amore “, carved out of the rock above the sea, that joins Manarola to Riomaggiore. We stayed in Riomaggiore…the least touristed of the towns. Bob keeps calling it Rigamoroni!

The local internet was owned by a family that also rents out rooms. The woman was an American married to an Italian whose family has lived in the town for over a hundred years. I asked her how these towns supported
themselves before tourism. She said that tourism has actually been pretty good for about 30 years but not to the extent that it is now (especially since Rick Steves has reported that it is one of the off-the-beaten-track areas of Europe!!)

Years ago the men would leave on ships for months at a time-dealing in contraband-which they apparently could get away with due to its geographic isolation from the rest of the country. We continued talking-about my trip to Europe in 1965 and that the countries were very poor-even found dirt floors in rural France. She said that yes, after WWII the US pumped a lot of money into the Marshall Plan to reconstruct Europe but it took another 20-30 years for it all to trickle down and affect the living standards of the people generally.

We stayed in a private apartment owned by a nice old gentleman who “selected” us at the train station. The apartment hung on the side of a hill about 600 feet above the Mediterranean-couldn’t take your eyes off the view!

Avignon France

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Took the train from Barcelona to Avignon in the Provence area in the south of France. Stayed at Hotel Mignon on rue Joseph-Vernet. Cute little French hotel room but the smallest loo yet! Sitting on the stool, you find your knees sticking out the door!

We tried to eat at Christian Etienne’s famous restaurant so I could report to Josh but they were full up. They referred us to another restaurant with a respected chef, the Piedoie where we had a wonderful dinner at half the price.

At another fine restaurant a woman had her dog sitting on her lap during the meal. Must be acceptable in France.

Avignon is an old Roman city with narrow winding streets and is entirely enclosed by ancient Roman walls. The highlight is the Palace of the Popes-so called because the Vatican moved it’s center from Rome to Avignon for a time. Attached to the Palace is the Church of Notre Dame. Bob went to Easter mass there the morning we left. Capturing some of the incredible music on the camcorder, he reported that the chief celebrant was a cardinal…if a big red hat means anything.

In the 14th century, this city in the South of France was the seat of the papacy. The Palais des Papes, an austere-looking fortress lavishly decorated by Simone Martini and Matteo Giovanetti, dominates the city, the surrounding ramparts and the remains of a 12th-century bridge over the Rhone. Beneath this outstanding example of Gothic architecture, the Petit Palais and the Romanesque Cathedral of Notre-Dame-des-Doms complete an exceptional group of monuments that testify to the leading role played by Avignon in 14th-century Christian Europe. Avignon is an UNESCO World Heritage Site.

The New Young Brits

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In the train, before crawling into my compartment, I stood out in the hall and had a great conversation with a bright energetic young Brit (Richard) attending Cambridge. He had been traveling by himself on college break all through Morocco. (There were thousands of European students on college break traveling all over Europe during this time.)

He explained, when asked, that in Britain at these schools you pick a subject and then only study that subject-and his subject was Modern History. He was full of questions about my 1965 trip to Europe and about my activities during the Viet Nam War. He was fully aware that in the U. S. more Viet Nam veterans have committed suicide since the war than all the 40,000 men who died during that war.

At first I thought Richard was French because he was speaking so fluently in French with someone else in another compartment but he explained that he grew up bilingual.

My generation in America has grown up with a view of Britain as the great colonialist country but perhaps it’s citizens have learned a great deal from it’s own history and Britain now has one of the most culturally sophisticated generations in the English speaking world. The upcoming generations of Americans would do well to learn from them-indeed it must especially if we are to learn how to get along with the rest of the world. But it won’t happen without exposure to other cultures on a pretty broad scale and at a pretty young age. For example, Richard’s first travel experience was at the age of 15 when he was sent to India alone by his parents for several months. What parents do you know that would allow their 15 year old children the same experience-alone? Richard said that words cannot describe the feeling you have when you step off the plane for the first time in Bombay-and you only have a first experience one time-he noted-and you never forget it.

He left me thinking that if this generation of youngsters will be in charge of the world in the next 20 years we will be ok.

The next morning we took a ferry from Tangiers to Algeciras; ate at a great family run Tapas Bar around the corner from the train station-snails in tomato sauce, Potato Ruso, fried calimari, seafood salad in mayonnaise sauce and beer and then took the train from Algeciras to Madrid. Arrived 10pm in Madrid and picked up another night train to Barcelona. Same kind of sleeping compartments as night before in Morocco but hey-we’re old hands at this now! Even got to sleep in middle beds in the compartment and no one shut the window!

Spanish Trains

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Spanish trains have compartments with room for six people. Luckily ours had two young Swiss girls that we recruited, a young guy from Japan that was studying Spanish in Salamanca for a few months but going to Portugal for a break, a guy from France and us.

I remembered that when my friend Barbara and I traveled on a second class train in 1965 in Spain (once was all it took) the train was full of drunk soldiers who kept bothering us so I crawled up into the luggage rack and fell asleep-I guess leaving Barb to fend for herself!

We, in our compartment, had a lengthy discussion about Spanish culture as we had observed it in Salamanca. The Japanese guy was genuinely shocked by the young kids that were running around the streets at 4:30 in the morning-which was funny because I had been thinking just the opposite-that the Spanish loved the young and made a place in society for them…well what do I know anyway!