September 8, 2008
It was Kim’s idea. She’d read about a festival that was occurring in a town north of us named Vercelli. The festival was described as having food booths as well as folks dressed in medieval costumes. So, given our ideal location we decided to take a day trip and check it out. At first, we thought that we could take a bus but as we investigated, it looked like we would need to take a train; one of the very small “regionale” trains that go to the smaller towns. So with enthusiasm and anticipation, we headed out and were treated to the beauty of the Piedmont landscape: rolling hills in the distance with fields of corn, wheat and rice. Given the irrigation needs and the flooded fields, there are always many birds flying and swooping and I never tire of seeing the different variety of what look like cranes and Blue Heron.
Vercelli is the rice capital of Europe; 60% of European rice comes from Vercelli and its northern neighbor town, Novara. Rice was introduced in Sicily by the Arabs and the many canals which feed the fields were dug in the 15th century. The story goes that this rice was a greatly guarded commodity for many years until 1787. In that year, Mr. Thomas Jefferson came for a visit and smuggled out a few bags of this granular gold where he took them to South Carolina and thus began the American rice industry.
Across the aisle from us, Kim spied two women who were reading an English dictionary. Kim initiated a conversation and it turned out that they are from the Phillipines; one has been here for several years and the other had just arrived. The woman who has been here the longest spoke very good English and told us she was headed to Milan to sign her friend up for work. As soon as she learned that we were living in Alessandria “just to have the life experience” she quickly announced, “You must be very rich; do you have any work for my friend”? We let her know that we didn’t but she again asked wondering if we were sure.
As we continued our ride through the small little towns, we remained alert for a town where we would have to change trains and make the Vercelli connection. At one point I asked aloud if this upcoming town was “the one” and quietly the young man next to us said, in perfect English, “no”, adding that he knew so because he too was headed for Vercelli. This young man, Alberto, is 28 years old and is from the Dominican Republic; he’s been living in Italy for 4 years now and told us his story about his family and plans for his future. He lives in Genoa and travels to Vercelli on the weekends to be with his wife and their three year old daughter. He proudly showed us their pictures and spoke of his goal to earn enough money to be able to return to “my country” and begin his own business as the boss (1€ = 50 Pesos). Currently, he works long hard hours in a bakery owned by his brother in law—“they call bakers white artists” he tells us proudly. He goes on to talk, very realistically, about his other talents (his excellent English opens tourism employment doors and he also knows the construction business). As I remarked that he seemed to be a very talented, intelligent young man, he answered “Yes, and it is all due to my parents”. Now, could he have said anything sweeter? (Kim, of course, said she hoped her daughter would say the same thing someday…) We transferred trains together and continued our talking until we reached Vercelli where we said our goodbyes to this Spanish, Italian, and English speaking young man and watched him walk away to greet his waiting family.
Vercelli is a nice town that reminds us of Alessandria with its pedestrian walkways but has more greenery and flowers than Alessandria. Of course, we arrived during the rest hours when most everything (including the Tourist Information) was closed. We began walking around to orient ourselves but also to see where the festival might be; we assumed it might be in the older section and perhaps near the huge 13th century Basilica di Sant’Andrea that greets you as you depart the train station. With no immediate luck, we had ourselves a leisurely lunch to wait out the rest period and then once again began our exploration. What did we discover besides the fact that most things were still closed (including their big museum that was in theory, supposed to be open)—was a sign announcing that “our” festival was not scheduled to begin until 19:00, oh about 3 or 4 hours from now. And, not meaning to be judgmental, since we saw no evidence of tents or preparation, we didn’t hold out too much hope for their festival and for what had been my fantasy image—jousting, food booths, music……
‘Twas not our fate to enjoy a fair and so we made the best of it by walking the meandering streets, sitting in the main piazza eating gelato, and looking at the various stalls of products. By around 4:30 we decided to head back and catch the 5:40 and on our way we took more time at the basilica. For quite awhile, we were the only ones inside and we viewed beautiful inlaid wood work scenes in the choir section behind the main altar. For a few minutes I didn’t see where Kim was and I just stood looking around this massive room, alone, feeling chills from the history encompassing me.
With that, it was time to arrive at the train station for our departure but, wouldn’t you know it, there was no train and instead of leaving at 5:40, it had already departed at 5:26 (17:26). So, with that information, all one can do is wait until the next train (in an hour and a half) and wander a bit more—this time to a nice park nearby where we discussed all the ways that Alessandria “should” improve itself.
Finally it’s train time. What is the problem? All we have to do is backtrack—go to Mortara, switch trains and back home to Alessandria…. A few details about the train stations: often, they don’t list the stops on the overhead reader board, just the final destination. And in this station they didn’t even have that- just departures from the morning. The in-between stops are listed on a huge 6 x 5 poster with ALL the destinations and arrivals. More often than not, we look at the arrival poster when we should be looking at the departure poster. Somehow (occasionally God works with us instead of only for Sara Palin) we made it to our connecting station but again, there was nothing listing Alessandria. And, when one is quickly looking because they’re worried about missing their connection, sometimes rash decisions are made or we listen to people we shouldn’t. I asked a young woman waiting on a bench which binario was the train to Alessandria and she sounded so sure when she replied, cinque (5); so with that “official” confirmation we raced there. We saw a train conductor (he had a blue hat on so he must be the conductor) also racing to binario 5 and we took that as all the confirmation we needed. He jumped onto the first car of the train and we hurriedly got on in the back- the last car. Kim commented that the reader board next to the train was blank and asked if I didn’t think that odd? We no sooner sat down when there was a whistle and swoosh, the doors closed and the train began to move.
Once on the train, we were completely alone in our car. I rationalized that everyone must be further up. So, for about ten minutes, we reveled in the air conditioned car as the country side moved by and we headed north… hmmmm, I began thinking, the sun is setting on my left, that means we are going north and I’m pretty sure that Alessandria should be south. Kim was busily taking pictures of the landscape at twilight, trying to catch the beauty of the westerly sunset on the brilliant yellow and green rice fields while I was obsessing about whether we were going in the wrong direction. Hmmmm, still no one around and the train wasn’t stopping at any of the towns we passed. It was then I announced to Kim that “This kind of feels like one of those old Twilight Zones…” and when she quickly agreed, we looked at each other and burst out in nervous, ooops laughter.
So, what to do, what to do? Here comes the beauty of different personality and coping styles. Kim thought we should “Just stay on; it’ll stop eventually and we can get off then”. I said that I thought we’d best head up front and see what we could find…to let someone know that we are here. I won out only because I started leaving and Kim scurried after me…”Don’t leave me; don’t leave me!” So, forward we moved, pulling open the sliding doors between each car (and it seemed there were a zillion) and letting each of them slam behind us with a thunk! “You two are something else” the train seemed to yell as it eerily roared and sped down the tracks. I kept thinking to myself, “How did we do this and what will happen?” but had no answers as I continued opening and closing doors, seeing no one, laughing, and wondering what I would blog.
Eventually there were no more doors. We had arrived at the lead car and through a small Plexiglas window I saw two men sitting at the controls. For a second, I was taken in by all the dials and lights (have I mentioned I am a daughter of an engineer?) and tentatively knocked. No response; no looking back. So again, I knocked, harder and louder and as I looked behind me, I saw Kim standing, hidden in a corner yelling at me, “You can’t knock on that door!! He has to drive! Stop knocking! Finally, one of the two engineers slowly turned and looked at me but then turned back and kept driving; nothing. In hindsight he probably thought he was hallucinating. I just started laughing and tried knocking again. After what was really, probably, only a few seconds (but seemed like an eternity) the door opened and two men were looking at me just a tad bit annoyed.
Okay, first things first. “Io non parlo Italiano; sono Americana”. (and can you guess what that means??) Well, apparently it meant nothing to them because they both just started speaking in rapid sentences saying that this train is out of service (I do understand more of the language these days, but they didn’t have to tell me that because I already had figured that out). One driver was really annoyed and kept yelling at me- how did we get on the train? Kim stepped forward and uttered the word “Mortara” and he kept saying they hadn’t stopped at Mortara. I just didn’t know what else to say because here we were and what was the point of going on in this ridiculous vein. Again, I told him I didn’t speak Italian and again, he just kept ranting at me. Finally, his colleague said to him, “Hey, they don’t speak Italian; chill”. We were then told that they were NOT going to Alessandria but to Novara (in quite the opposite direction) and that no train would be going to Alessandria until tomorrow. “Um, okay. Can we get off there?” “Oh, you bet you can” they seemed to say.
So, we walked back to another car and sat down and laughed; there’s really nothing else you can do in these situations. Meanwhile Kim showed me her failed attempt at taking a picture of me talking with the engineers; it’s of the floor. (It’s probably a good thing these guys didn’t see her or we would have had to practice the jump and roll out of a speeding train that Kim had fantasized about doing a half hour earlier…). A few minutes later, the engineer who’d told the other guy to chill (okay, whatever the corresponding Italian is) appeared carrying a palm pilot and looking up the schedule. He told us that in Novara, about 10 minutes up the track, we could get off, catch another local train back to Mortara and transfer to an Alessandria bound train.. That all sounded really familiar but we just kept saying “thank you, thank you, sorry, sorry, sorry”.
The wheels began to screech as the train began to slow; we had arrived in Novara. Mr. Nice Engineer came and got us and tried to open the doors; they would not open. He kept yelling at the other engineer and they kept trying. This only added to the tension; eventually, they opened the opposite door and we were off of the train. Mr. Nice personally escorted us across the tracks and to the track where our return train was waiting. He again reviewed our directions with us in broken English and we all shook hands. Looking over my shoulder to wave goodbye, I could have sworn he crossed himself.
The rest of the story ends with us making it home 10 hours after we left the apartment for what we imagined would be a few hours at a fair. Yes we had made the correct train connection but there were still a couple of minor details: the cars were so brightly lit at 10 pm that you couldn’t see out to see the name of the train station- the windows were like mirrors; and they didn’t announce which town we were in when we stopped so there Kim and I were with our faces plastered to the windows trying to see out. Kim and I reminisced and got semi-hysterical about a similar experience we had on our first trip to Italy together 15+ years ago when we were barely 40. She wondered aloud if we’d still be doing this kind of dumb stuff when we’re 80 and we both agreed yes, more than likely we would (that is, unless some furious train engineer throws us overboard before we ever see that ripe old age!).
When we finally arrived in Alessandria, I heaved a sigh of relief. “We’re home”, I said. And we were.
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