Friday morning I gave a rousing lecture in the Grand Hotel to the San Marino Summer School about "Mars on Earth." After some discussion and goodbyes, I left the group behind about 1145 AM, so I could view the "First Castle," a short walk through the narrow alleys of the old city. The trip was well worthwhile. The battlements had been rebuilt over the centuries and certainly looked more impressive now in reconstruction then ever in the original. But one could get some sense of the place and its advantages. The castle stands at some 600 feet over Rimini's plain, about 6 miles from the Adriatic. Even on that hot day the wind raged constantly from the north and was chilly in the tower. Amazingly, one can climb to the very top, through three levels of keeps and observation passages. There one has a full view of all San Marino and the other two castles. The view is Disneyesque, or more properly, the classic Bavarian view, with a huge stone castle on an outcropping, surrounded by deep green trees, dominating all the landscape for miles around
After snapping nearly a roll of film (each level proving more sweeping and breathtaking than the last), I walked back down the hill of souvenir shops, panini "quick food" stops, and tourists (pushing strollers and handling tottlers). At 1246 PM I rejoined the group, having lunch in Hotel Titano, Restaurant Terazzo. There was one empty chair, which was happily offered and I happily took. The group was just ordering, to which I added a request for insalate mista. In moments I received an interesting eggplant appetizer (some sort of mousse wrapped in strips of eggplant with a red pepper sauce and basil leaves). Evidently this was the appetizer of Stefano, who had a plate of melon and proscuitto instead (very generously proportioned). Jean Sallantin from Montpelier spoke rather abruptly in his thick accent about how much he was inspired by "the Mars talk." He was in very happy spirits (not unusual for him) but when a Frenchman is moved philosophically and poetically, you know it. My salad arrived with some grapefruit, pine nuts, and strips of fresh parma cheese. The very pleasant diplomat-assisant woman from Hungary gave me a "Budapest" screen saver as a gift. (She said she was emailing it to everyone else, but my being so far away, who knows if I would receive it well enough....) All too quickly lunch was over for me; we were taking photos when the head waiter (who had twice asked if I was Italian earlier in the week, possibly because I spoke Italian without a French accent) announced that the car for Mr. Clancey had arrived.
We took a few more group photos, I shook hands all around, and dashed off at 110 PM. The taxi driver turned out to be the bus driver from the group's trip to Urbino the previous day. He muttered something while carrying my bag to his car; I didn't understand anything but the word "taxi," and don't think he was happy. (They are not supposed to bring cars into the city walls so close to the hotel.) As we drove away, I asked if he spoke English. No. French? No, only Italiano (he said in Italian). I grunted a reply and that was the end of our conversation.
He drove admirably well and fast to Rimini (all downhill). Remembering Princess Diana, I sat in the back seat fully belted. He pulled up right in front of the station door, and I made a clear motion to take the bag myself (feeling that this must have been what annoyed him at the start?). I wondered about giving a tip and didn't sense he was expecting it. I asked, "C'est tout?" and he nodded and smiled goodbye, saying some pleasantry (I hope) in Italian. It was 138 PM.
Inside Rimini station there were long lines before the ticket booths. I dragged my bag (with the handle broken since it arrived a day late in Bologna) to the middle of the floor and assessed the situation--the sign indicated my train would arrive in about 20 minutes at track 2. An information booth was to my right, but busy, and besides I knew the answer to my question. I started to wait in the ticket lines, then spotted the automatic ticket machine to the left. One was closed, the other just becoming available. Fortunately, it started with pictures of flags for choosing a language. I chose the British flag. Quickly I moved through the menu to pick my day, time, destination, and class (first of course) and was slowed only by a question about whether I was entitled to a discount (Reduct). I guessed not and moved on. Now, pay by cash, credit, or bank card? I chose cash. Then I found it gave no change. So I had to cancel and start over. This time I chose bank card. But my ATM card was identified as being a credit card (and the system wasn't currently accepting them). So I started over. This time I chose cash and decided to simply deposit two 10,000 lire bills for my 18,600 lire ticket (about $8). Of course the bills wouldn't go into the machine. After a few moments, the woman next to me said in English, "It's not easy." With that encouragement I kept trying and soon after the machine accepted two bills. (I probably had them turned around the wrong way.) I fumbled further to find the ticket (there were at least three doors for getting non-existent change, bills, etc). And there it was, my correctly printed ticket, first class to Bologna. I was somewhat puzzled by the notation, "1 via Faenza" (only first class from Faenza --apparently a city name?). Now more fumbling to find the right binario. Drag the bag down the steps through the passage and up the other side. The track is labeled for Bologna and I wait. The track is rather full of people of all sorts, mostly dressed well and warm. There are many bags. The train is late by 5 minutes and a few people seem annoyed (I heard something in Italian about a connection in Milano?). Confusingly, the first class cars were not at the front, but somewhere mixed in. By luck I found a non-smoking first class car not too far down the track and jumped aboard. There were lots of seats, I chose one in the sun. This wasn't the best idea as I was soon sneezing from the rye pollen blowing in the window at top speed (the hay had just been cut, rolled into huge wheels in the fields) and the warm sun made me sweat. I just closed my eyes and napped most of the way. Periodically the long green curtain blew into my face and once a card advertising some kind of discount snapped off its binding and blew throught the car, narrowly missing me. The trip was 115 Km and took about 1 hour and 20 minutes with a few stops. (One guy comes by, looking like someone out of an Italian movie--very dark, hair slicked back, black sun glasses, tight black T shirt and jeans.) The ticket master comes by and, as always, I feel a great accomplishment when he snaps the ticket and thanks me. Somehow I have managed to get the right ticket and sit in a proper seat of the right train. The little click says to me, "You are where you should be."
We stopped on the tracks outside of Bologna for at least 10 minutes apparently waiting for other (also late) trains. Like several other people, I stick my head out and look up and down. You see a few other heads and few other green curtains. After two trains whiz by, we slowly move forward again.
Bologna station was large and familiar from my extensive train travel in Italy (I've been from Germany to Venice, across to Florence and down to Rome several times). I found the bright light indicating the outside street, and immediately saw a bus across the way for the aeroport. Aside from mistakeningly at first giving the driver 1000 lire (and waiting for change), the 8000 lire trip was uneventful (I slowly started to cool off in the air conditioning). (I had sat next to a slight old man with pressed back white hair, very well dressed in a blue suit, whom I later found was going to Lisbon.) The trip took slightly longer than I expected, about 25 minutes, but I had been in Bologna just two weeks before and found it generally familiar and benign.
However, the airport was entirely unfamiliar. I must have landed two weeks earlier at a different, older terminal, for the departure area was entirely new to me. Much larger and more modern than I expected. My flight was not listed on the computerized screen. (Until recently, these were made of actual black cards with letters, and made a fascinating sound as they continuously flipped over while being updated. Today they are all computer displays.) I found an information booth, and as usual the woman spoke perfect English and seemed delighted to speak with me. (Perhaps a chance to really talk American.) She indicated that I was to check in at booths 19-21. There I found at least 100 people waiting with no Lufthansa attendants, and an overhead electronic sign indicating a Munich flight. I had heard someone speaking English to the Germans behind me, so I asked their opinion on my being able to check in (it was 3 hours early). The big guy (obviously not Italian) said something about "you take your chances." So I followed the line forward for the better part of an hour, and was then told that it was too early and yes, I did need to go to the exchange office on the other wall (I had changed my ticket from the 630 AM Saturday flight). This exchange was relatively uneventful (after I let an obviously time-pressed Dr. Sweitzer and his daughter or wife go in front of me). As an added bonus I wasn't charged for the exchange (I had been told to expect to pay $150).
(Side note on recognizing nationalities at the Bologna airport: Italian = black muscle shirt, one size too small; American = wearing baggy shorts and sandals, often white T shirt, one size too large; German = tall & thin, wearing glasses, hair is too short, shirt often disheveled; French = needs a haircut; Spanish or Portugese = how we used to dress for church; Australian = sleeves are rolled above the elbows, three buttons open, sunglasses pointing at sky.)
I sat and waited for the 5 PM opening of the same line I had been in before. I read my magazine and drank from the bottle of water I always carry. One unusual event did occur. A man started yelling to the clerk at the exchange booth, and suddenly a Lufthansa agent came running across the room in loud steps and ran up to this yelling man. "You must apologize!" she said. "You must apologize!" She just as quickly turned back and ran back to her check-in counter. Many people kept watching, but I went back to my reading. At 5 PM I got back into the Lufthansa lines and easily enough received my boarding pass for Frankfurt. After all this, it was getting close to 6 PM before I reached the gate. I bought some Perugina chocolate and read. (The clerk appeared disinterested, too busy placing price tags on little brown bears.) People were smoking all around me and my eyes were bloodshot and tearing. Someone behind me started sneezing, a smoking woman walked off to join a few other people standing around a trash can.
Around 7 PM we were taken on the bus to the waiting Lufthansa plane, which left 20 minutes late. Riding in buses onto the tarmac is very common in Europe. Usually there are few seats, so you stand. The group was perhaps half businessmen, perhaps a fourth American tourists, and the rest a mix of people perhaps visiting relatives.
On board LH3877 I found myself in the equivalent of "economy plus," perhaps because I had politely pointed out that I was traveling business class on the rest of my trip. We had the usual great European service, in this case a choice of fresh sandwiches (wrapped in paper, served on a tray, pick what you want) and complimentary beverages (wine, champagne, etc. all in economy for no charge). I choose the salami and a ginger ale. (Good, but crumbs landed all over.) Across the aisle were three Italian gays, who provided some amusing antics during the flight. (No, I finally determined, this is not how Italian men sit together on a flight.) The plane landed as usual for Lufthansa, far too hard and fast (we all jerk forwards in our seats). It was 825 PM and still rather bright.
The walk to the baggage was incredibly long, I guess almost a mile based on my speed and the time. The automated people walkers are of typically German design: You ride up a ramp and are jerked suddenly to the upright position, then whisked along a great speed for some 20 meters or so, then the ramp descends, which launches you running onto the stationary floor, leading you to surge forward to the next automated ramp. After about 15 minutes of this, I arrived at baggage claim where my bag was already waiting. I took a cart and passed through to the public area quickly without even showing my passport--once you are inside the EU, passport control is pretty much irrelevant.
Now I had to find the hotel! Wheeling through the greeting area, I failed to find the Sheraton on the map (I had stayed there some years before), so I asked for information: "Go up two flights and then go across." This was a thick German accent, which I have come to interpret as: "If you fail, it is your fault." Sure enough, I found the way through the skywalk, but the hotel entrance was blocked by a huge amount of red and white tape crossing from ceiling to floor and across in every which way. A sign said, "Diversion: Follow the signs to the long distance trains." This didn't sound promising. Just before me two Japanese had gone ahead and disappeared down the passage. I followed them, leaving my cart behind--two mistakes. I was soon outside in a bus and highway area with no hope of finding a door into the hotel that now loomed so obviously above me. Instead, I carried my broken bag (with my computer bag and heavy REI backpack) all the way around back into the terminal, to the first information booth where I started twenty minutes before. Sweating, and now without a cart, I confronted her, "It's closed." Oh, my fault of course. Did I go up the two flights? Did I go across? Yes, yes. Ah, but did I go across to the left, not the right? No. Okay, "You must go back up." Sure, and why didn't you mention that the regular entrance, the one pointed to by all the Sheraton signs, is closed? So I found another cart (they are standing around empty, free of charge, left in random places by previous users) and went back up the escalators (very clever how you can take your carts on the moving stairs). I found the signs to the long distance train station, navigated some halls, and finally was in front of the bright and shining new hotel reception room. The area had all been renovated-- expansive hard-looking solid white floor, tall dark wood around all the counters, and the huge walls of glass and black metal--the essence of modern German decor. Check in was relatively easy, though slow. One woman was getting extra attention from a trainee, prompting a supervisor to step forward and politely urge him to ditch this lady (or so I imagined) and help the next person in line (me).
Finding the room was now my next problem--due to the renovation, green signs indicated which elevators and passages to take (down one floor, through a long corridor, up to your room). I dragged my bag all the way. In my room I found a bottle of champagne and a certificate--"Congratulations for finding our reception, for navigating the halls, and discovering your room! Congratulations if you can find the breakfast room tomorrow! And sorry that the pool and fitness center are closed until the end of July! You, our most valued guest are welcome! Please take this champagne home to celebrate!" Yeah, right. I had been looking forward to a swim in the pool after a sweaty day of traveling. Fortunately, having carried 100 pounds of bags for several miles, I did not need any more exercise. I took a beer out of the minibar (cleverly computerized to charge my room immediately), ate the bottle of nuts, and watched CNN until falling sleep at 11 PM.
After a fairly uneventful shower at 8am (I couldn't figure out which of four knobs would turn it off), I enjoyed a fine breakfast buffet (the first eggs I had seen in two weeks) and leisurely read my PC Photo magazine with my coffee. After reading in my room a bit longer, I decided to pack up, check in at United, and spend the remaining time in the UA Business Class lounge. That was a bit opitimistic.
After checking out of the Sheraton (using Express to avoid the very long lines), I dragged my bag across the skywalks (all the carts had been moved back into the airport terminal--how did they expect us to get our luggage back, given that we had used those very same carts to bring the bags over the previous day?!). I used the familiar huge computerized display to locate my flight (1/2 hour delayed) and the check-in counters (495-505). I soon found a cart and wheeled over. There were hundreds of people there! The previous day, I soon found out, UA 901 (Frankfurt to SFO) had reached the North Sea and discovered the naviation system was malfunctioning. So they dumped the fuel, returned to Frankfurt, and put people up in hotels. So now here we all were--two flight 901s waiting together. My flight was delayed because of the crowded check-in conditions. The poor souls from yesterday were told they would depart sometime between 5 PM and 8 PM (up to 9 hours later) and were given coupons for a light meal. The lines were so bad, it took one hour and 40 minutes for me to reach the counter. I read "The Planetary Report" (great article on comets and asteroids) almost all the way through in the meantime. Around me the mix was roughly half returning Americans, the rest international. A Chinese man in front of was moving forwards erratically and my cart clipped his heels--he gave me the ugliest look. I simply gestured for him to get on with it. Oh well, one more step towards WWIII.
While waiting in line, I heard it all: The woman with the photocopied ticket that was unacceptable (her original was in a lost bag), the Indian guy on that flight yesterday who lost his bag when someone else took it, the guy issued the wrong ticket yesterday (and then told by the UA agent, "Sir, you have the ticket of another person!"), the American who had been given a meal voucher with the wrong date (which the restaurants would not accept), the American whose passport had now expired (who was told to go to USO). Plus a few people fighting of course over who would go next in line, "Life is too short to be so upset," said one woman, "Please go ahead."
Aside from the usual confusion about my ticket (the agent tried to collect miles for my upgrade a second time), my own check-in was uneventful. I moved into the shopping area to exchange my remaining Lire into US Dollars and then passed through security (hesitating to figure out all the signs for the three terminal sections A, B, C, and their hundreds of gates, some of which required passport control, some of which did not). In all, my passport was checked four times before I got on the plane. Finally, I was waiting for the plane, which was now delayed another 10 minutes because of some kind of continuing problem from a hailstorm in Denver. On board, I settled into 11B and then switched to the window, which I preferred, so a Chinese marketing woman from Oracle could talk to her colleague. We had dinner (I took the shrimp and glass noodles with soup), open snacks throughout the flight, and breakfast before landing. They must have refilled my water glass 20 times during the flight, which was nice. I took some good pictures of northwest Greenland. I had hoped to photograph Baffin Island, but most of the arctic was cloudy. California cleared as we reached Napa, and I snapped many good pictures of San Francisco, Sausalito, the Golden Gate Bridge, etc.
The new International terminal is very fine; finally you pass through passport control before getting baggage, just like the rest of the world. My limo driver was not visible, so I called. This took 10 minutes because the first phone was really a computer terminal and wouldn't recognize my card. The second phone would also not take my card, but I found 35 cents in my wallet. Soon we were driving to Portola Valley. I was home by 5 PM, just 37 hours after leaving San Marino. I was of course very happy to see Danielle, smell the dry incense of our summer lands, and relax in the evening sun.
Copyright © 2004 William J. Clancey. All Rights Reserved.