Rome to Florence by Train

En route to Florence

On May 2^nd this year, we said goodbye to our friends at the Hotel Farnese (lovely hotel if you’re staying in Rome, see them at http://www.hotelfarnese.com ) and set off in a private taxi for the Central Railway Station. Richard, our driver, parked a long way from the entry. After waiting inside for half an hour, I understood why he had chosen that cheaper spot and was grateful for his willingness to remain with us.

Susanne and I had no way of knowing where our train would come into the station, and at 10.40 am, with departure time still listed as 10.45 am, we started to panic, despite the assurances offered by our patient assistant.

Then, Platform 2 came up on the board; an arrow indicated that 2 was upstairs. Richard dashed up there, but within seconds he was back, grabbed the two larger cases and told us to follow him. Struggling to keep up, we charged through an archway, around the corner, pushed through a crowd of other confused travelers and, thanks to his Italian, found the gate to Platform 2 with about a minute to spare. There were no signs to guide us and no-one to help. I owed Richard a big tip.

Our tickets were checked at the entry gate and our driver was instructed to leave us. My stress levels exploded. I can’t carry more than about three kilos even when all is going well. Porters would have been a good idea but there was no sign of such help. My walking stick did the trick. No, I didn’t clobber anybody although I felt like it. Richard was permitted to accompany us. (Which was the main reason for hiring him, rather than an ordinary taxi.)

My son regularly travels around Italy and he had assured me that Italian trains pull into the stations at platform level. Three steps up for this one; there was no way that my sister and I could have loaded our luggage onto that train. Richard got them on for us but, with about thirty seconds to departure, there was no room left in the luggage rack. Fortunately I had paid him during our half hour wait, but didn’t have time to find the extra euros for his extra tip, before he had to get off the train or travel with us. Almost immediately the train started to move. Our cases have four wheels on the bottom, which is great, except that now I was chasing cases around the rear section of the carriage. I was about to give up when a female attendant appeared and demanded that I lift our cases and place them somewhere that they wouldn’t slide around.

‘Where?’ I asked, in my best Italian version of arm gestures and facial expressions which consisted of severely puckered brow, pointing to the packed luggage racks and miming a problem with my back and neck and my inability to lift things. I think I would have done well in silent movies. Eventually she laid the offending cases on their sides and I collapsed into my seat. We were on our way to Florence.

Irrigated fields. Photo by Susanne Fergusson

Vines on slopes

The train sped through the countryside, too fast for photos, even with the camera set for rapidly moving objects, so most of our images are blurred, but at least we have the records. Green fields, olive groves, vines marching in rows on the slopes, water flowing in channels between crops of unripened wheat, with clusters of houses that make up the country villages. Everywhere we looked the land was cultivated; no natural bush, but plenty of trees, and on the hills, either side of the railway line, were more buildings with grass and trees around them. Although they were far away, I picked out orange tiles on roofs and conjured up stone walls, with geraniums in pots and perhaps here and there a fountain, like the postcard picture villas we dream about holidaying in.