The Call of an Unexpected Journey
I had no notion as to the full extent of what I was getting myself into when I bought an InterRail pass. I only knew I needed to go somewhere and experience something different. I had never been stricken with the travel bug before; it wasn’t my thing. Yet the isolation of the COVID lockdowns unexpectedly revealed a new side of me. Sure, I had been places, but in times past, the thought of lugging a backpack around on trains would have been only off-putting.
I heard the call from Italy and answered with my wallet. Trains were nothing new to me, I’d taken two trains daily as a child to get to school and back. I knew the pitfalls of rural trains and shouldn’t have been too surprised when the very first train of my trip was delayed. I was well-practised in the art of killing time at train stations. I watched, sipping my coffee, as the delay timer ticked on and on.
Fuck.
First train and already my entire route from Toulouse to Rome had been thrown off. Silly me, I only left a whole hour between switching trains at Marseille and going on to Genoa for any delays. I should have known better.
Fortunately, there was a delightful caveat to my predicament: a short stop in Cannes. The train journey from Toulouse down to Narbonne and then along the southern coast of France is very enjoyable. Nothing but gorgeous views of beached coastline set against the azure blue of the Mediterranean ocean bathed in golden sunlight. I couldn’t have wished for a more glorious cliché if I tried.
They say you should always look on the bright side of life. I had no plan to be in Cannes, and the delay certainly took the wind out of my sails. I was looking at a very long journey to Rome, yet the moment I sat at a table in the picturesque seaside town with a chilled beer, I couldn’t help but smile.
Detour in Savona
If the French Riviera is a diamond on the Mediterranean coastline, then Liguria is certainly gold. My very first dose of Italian views left me feeling spoiled. Initially, I intended to see Genoa before making my way down to Rome overnight, but the delay pushed me toward a different town: Savona.
Upon arriving in Savona, I was hit with another unwelcome surprise: my phone network didn’t work in Italy. After a lengthy conversation with Lyca Mobile, it turned out that despite being told the contrary, I needed a different SIM card. This was entirely useless information for someone travelling in a foreign country for the next two weeks. I decided to confine myself to WIFI only for the rest of the trip, which, in the end, had its upsides.
With the sun setting I humped down to the seaport centre of Savona from the station looking for WIFI, food and beer. I knew nothing about Savona, and it was far too late, and I was far too tired to trek about the place. I ended up on a road along the coastline, and by what felt like a miracle, I found an open bar called Soleil.
I must have had “Englishman” written across my forehead because as I entered, I was greeted with a “Hello, what can I get you?” It turned out that Sharon was the owner who had studied in the UK and kindly gave me the WIFI password. She pointed me in the direction of some restaurants, but not before chastising me for pronouncing her name the English way and not the Italian way with a rolled ‘r’.
I vacuumed up the only late-night food I could find, burger and chips, and made my way back through the town after a final beer. Most of the station was closed off, so I settled myself into a cushy spot on the floor beneath a train timetable. My train to Milan Centrale was at 5 a.m. I set an alarm and guarded my belongings as the town’s resident vagrants took refuge inside the station’s tunnels leading to the platforms.
I awoke not to the sound of my phone going off but to the sound of trains leaving town.
Bugger.
I’d slept right through my alarm. Despite the rough start, I was relieved to be in one piece and with all my belongings intact. It might seem an exaggeration to feel this way, but I wasn’t exactly accustomed to sleeping amongst the homeless. I got on the next train to Milan, and changed there for Rome. Finally, half a day later than I planned, I would arrive at my first destination, the historic capital of Italy.
The Eternal City
I arrived in Rome completely knackered beyond belief, but I wanted to see the city; this was no time for sleep. I settled into my Airbnb, and the host kindly gave me a tourist map and circled the most obvious attractions. I set out in earnest to make the most of my first day there.
I found walking through the city intensely invigorating. My eyes widened like a child seeing an ice cream for the first time. The grandeur of the Colosseum and the labyrinth streets leading from one landmark to the next made me instantly forget just how much my legs were aching. Forgetting I even had a map, I had already seen the Forum, the Trevi Fountain and the Pantheon just by aimlessly wandering without a care in the world.
It was mid-afternoon by the time I’d frolicked and absorbed all I could to stave off the need for a nap. A need that I now succumbed to, but not before I enjoyed a pint in the sun. I needed to slow down. I have always enjoyed people-watching. It’s a lonesome activity and dull for most, but in the right spot at the right time, there’s a lot of joy to be had.
I happened on Piazza Navona. A perfect spot to sit, sip a cool beer, absorb the summer’s heat and watch the world go by. In the centre of the piazza sits the Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi (Fountain of the Four Rivers) outlined by the Museum of Rome, the Church of Sant-Agnese and the Palazzo Pamphilj.
I was caught in a trance, soaking in the history of the place where I now sat. A trance I was quickly snapped out of as a very large one-litre tankard of beer was plopped in front of me. I said I wanted a big one, and the waiter clearly had a sense of humour. Never before had I been so pleased to have ordered something without knowing it. It was exactly what I needed and, you might say, a sign from the gods. The waiter plopped down the platter of Italian delicacies I ordered and, upon seeing the smile on my face, said, “So you like the beer, sir?”
I awoke from my nap famished. If there was one constant point of happiness on this trip, it was the food. I have been to Italy many times since this trip, and the food is always impeccable. But this was my first time, so I wanted proper Italian pasta and proper Italian pizza. I found a restaurant close to where I was staying called Ristorante Pizzeria Imperiale and dove right in. I ordered a large glass of red, bruschetta, Arrabbiata pasta, and a Diavola pizza to finish. I was fattened up and ready for bed.
A Schedule of My Own
One clear advantage of travelling by yourself is that you determine the schedule, or in my case, don’t have one at all. After a much-needed lie-in and a strong coffee with breakfast, I hopped on the metro at Vitorio Emmanuel and journeyed over to Vatican City. I’m looking at it from the outside, and quite frankly, I couldn’t have been less bothered. I knew the inside was majestic, but there was no way I was going to stand in a queue for god knows how long in 35-degree heat. It would just have to be an experience to be had another time.
I spent the rest of my two days in Rome sauntering and eating without a care in the world. I had forgone the use of the tourist map and allowed myself to float in and out of the eternal city's tightly knit streets. I would happen on a monument and take the time to absorb as much of its essence as I could. At night, I would take the tram to Trastevere for drinks and food. This area is crammed with tourists and locals most nights and all night, but don’t let it put you off. Rome is as enchanting by night as it is by day.
Despite the difficulties getting to Italy from France, I was not downcast to be travelling by train to Sicily. I don’t quite know how to explain it, but the thought of going through the chaos again excited me. It made getting to my final destination so much more gratifying. I lugged my overfilled backpack towards Roma Termini and set out on the long twelve-hour journey to Palermo.
Regione Sicilia
As much as I yearned to escape COVID isolation and the general misery that came with it, I also hankered for the feeling of sand filtering between my toes. Of the places in Italy I wanted to visit most, Sicily was at the top of my list. Palermo offered a good mixture of both seaside fun and culture. I made my way to Villa San Giovanni, a town north of Reggio Calabria, to take a ferry across to Messina in Sicily. There were, of course, delays.
By the time I reached Villa San Giovanni, it was already dark, and the ferry timetable seemed more of a suggestion than a rule. Before I’d even gotten across the water, I knew I’d face another night sleeping at a train station. One thing did go in my favour: the boat had WIFI. I learned I could at least use the GPRS on my phone to navigate a map and drop a pin on a 24-hour café I found in Messina. I just had to pray that despite the oppressive times, it would still be open.
I remember the air feeling different when I stepped foot in Sicily. It was warmer, drier, and, after a long day, relieving. The streets of Messina were completely desolate. I didn’t happen upon a soul until I got to the café. Upon entering, I was met with warm Sicilian smiles and a place to sit. They could clearly see the desperate need for sustenance on my face as the waiter plopped my first-ever arancini in front of me and the most refreshing beer I’d ever tasted: Messina Cristalli di Sale. I was then offered a couple of delightfully light and tasty Cannoli along, of course, with a second beer.
After killing as much time as I could without getting drunk at the café, I set off for the now-closed Messina Centrale. I was beginning to realise that by the end of my trip, I would be an expert in the nightly comforts of train stations.
A City of Contrasts
Everything in Sicily moves at its own pace. The train ride from Messina to Palermo was a slow, pleasant crawl along the northern coast, laden with views of rolling green hills and sparkling blue water. Towns and villages lay draped, clinging to the hillsides of the island’s rough texture. A passing view of stunning places such as Cefalu served to ignite a fever of travel excitement as I got closer to Palermo.
I was not struck by Palermo’s charm at first, or rather, its charm was incredibly hard to see. I was staying in Monetgrappa, which had good access to public transport and was a manageable walk to the centre. The city so far felt shabby, and it looked it. Piles of trash littered the streets, the roads were so worn I could slide along them in my flip-flops, and collapsed buildings intertwined with the ones that were still liveable.
“In Sicily, the bus will come when it wants to.” Cinzia the Airbnb host said, unloading a valuable dose of local wisdom. I wanted to rest but figured I could do that on the beach, and I wanted the beach more than anything. I hopped on the first bus headed to Mondello.
Mondello quickly became my favourite part of Palermo. No matter what I did during the day, I always made time for the beach. Mondello has gorgeous rocky views one way and the endless ocean the other. The promenade, in typical fashion, is lined with bars and restaurants and the beach is populated by a vast amount of sunbeds. My first dip came from the narrow stretch of sand at the front of the beach. I was sweating buckets, and the ocean called to me like the lady of the lake to King Arthur. I towelled myself dry and pressed on along the promenade to see what I could find further along the coastline.
I found a small bar that sat higher up on the ridge and gave a glorious view of Mondello Bay. Solarium Bionde Mare (the bar) became my number one ‘spot’ every time I ventured to the beach. They got so used to me that they nicknamed me ‘Moscow Mule’ due to me always ordering one, or perhaps it was more than one.
If you continue along the coast, you will reach the Riserva Naturale di Capo Gallo. I found this a very pleasant walk alongside the mountains and a good break from the streets. The path is lined with beaches and rocky areas that locals use to jump off and swim in the ocean. Something you will have to do if you wish to survive the hot Sicilian summer sun.
I returned for an early evening nap, an activity I was becoming accustomed to, before heading out for an aperitivo, another activity I was getting used to.
Buon Appetito!
That night, I wanted red meat and red wine. A quick Google landed me a table at DOC Cucina & Griglia. I had been in the sun all day, which had turned my skin from the neck up into a bright red tomato. Although normally embarrassing, it did at least serve as a decent ice-breaker, and the server quickly became my friend for the evening. She asked what meat I wanted and said they would take care of the rest. The meat was sumptuous, and the Sicilian red was a perfect companion. There was, however, one small delight that for some reason, I can never forget: fried ravioli. I would have thought that frying pasta would be sacrilegious in Italy, but these little parcels of joy were a slice of heaven.
If you can still remember a meal after a few years, then it must have been damn good. The quality of food and service throughout Palermo was phenomenal. Whether it was at a fresh seafood restaurant like Al Gabianno or somewhere a bit more upmarket like La Locanda del Gusto, everything I was served was exquisite.
It didn’t take a lot of walking through the historic centre of Palermo to forget my first impressions of the city. The place grew and grew on me every day that passed by. Via Vitorrio Emmanuel is a straight line that runs through the centre of the city right out to the sea. Along it and around it, you will find some of Palermo’s most famous attractions, like the Cathedral and the Fontana Pretoria, and you don’t have to venture far to find more.
I may have missed out on the inner art of the Sistine Chapel in Rome, but that is not the only place to find beautiful churches loaded with stunning frescos in Italy. I happened on the Chiesa Santa Maria dell’ Ammiraglio, the inside of which was far more than I was expecting for the few euros fee and no queue. You don’t have to spend much in Italy to see such artisanal beauty similar to that of the Vatican; it is everywhere.
I once heard an expression that was attributed to Sicily, and it went something like “…the fortune of being able to live a boring life…” The people in Palermo seemed to spend their time soaking up the world and life around them, taking in every passing moment. If you can appreciate and associate with the nuances in the above expression, then you will never want to leave Sicily, and I did not want to leave Sicily.
Across Familiar Tracks
The time had come for me to pack up my things, sling my backpack over my shoulders, and head for the next destination on my little adventure: Naples. Despite being my shortest journey so far, this one would be a pain. It was the only journey where I knew, prior to leaving for Italy, that I was going to spend the night at a train station. It was a Sunday which meant I was at the behest of a staggered transport schedule. This meant more time in Messina and several hours to kill in Salerno.
By the time I got to Salerno, I was famished, but everything was closing or had already long been closed. With nowhere to go, I plumped myself on the steps of the station, resting my head against my bag and drifted off to sleep. Hoping to be awoken in the morning by early passers-by, I opened my eyes to something a bit different. An old, wizened prostitute was walking back and forth in front of the station. She continually called out “sexo” in her gravel voice as she pile-drived through one cigarette after the other. Although amusing, it wasn’t quite the wake-up I had hoped for.
Vedi Napoli E Poi Muori (See Naples and Die)
My first impression of the area surrounding Napoli Centrale was of a similar ilk to how I first felt about Palermo. The only difference was that in Naples’ case, my feelings about this area wouldn’t change and this was unfortunately where I was staying. It was dirty and messy. It was the only area in Naples or anywhere I went in Italy that I didn’t feel entirely safe walking in at night.
Fortunately, the rest of what I saw of the city was in stark contrast to where I was staying. I spent most of my time weaving in and out of charming, narrow Neapolitan streets and strolling along the open coastline. Vesuvius provides a breathtaking backdrop to what is a surprisingly captivating city. I loved walking through the Piazza del Plebiscito down to the Fontana del Gigante and along the water’s edge to take a seat in the park on via Francesco Caracciolo.
Yes, I had pizza, and it was good, damn good. I have no idea why the pizza there was so good but for some reason it is. Pasta Vongole is also another traditional Neapolitan dish and is highly recommended. I gorged on an incredibly pleasant traditional meal at Sano Sano, where I was also offered my first Grappa on digestion. They also have a fondness for pastries in Naples. Sfogliatella is a perfect companion to your morning coffee.
I had always wanted to visit Pompeii. Being fond of history, especially in the Roman-Greco world, the idea of strolling around the remains of a whole ancient town fascinated me. Getting there couldn't have been easier by train and the archaeological park is only a short walk from the station.
Despite the sombre feeling walking around the devastation, I spent hours in the ancient city of Pompeii. It’s incredibly interesting and, in some way, comforting to see how people once lived. Preserved frescos on walls and mosaic floors served to ignite the imagination of what it may have been like to live in the ancient world. People seemed to enjoy similar comforts and pleasures to us. In a way, they led very similar lives day-to-day as we do now, minus the obvious technological differences. I found rambling through the city in the shadow of what destroyed it, Vesuvius, somewhat humbling.
The time on my few days in Naples had run out. I set out for my final destination, the birthplace of the Italian Renaissance: Florence. The high-speed train journey only took a few hours. There weren’t any tangible positives to the COVID chaos, yet I did get one moment of pleasure from it in the form of an empty train. I sat down with my complimentary water and snacks and galvanised as much space as I could. There was no one complaining, no babies crying, no one being inconsiderate or causing problems, just me and the stunning views of the Italian countryside.
Cradle of the Renaissance
Entering Florence, I took a wrong turn but happily stumbled upon the magnificent sight of the famous Cattedrale di Santa Maria Fiore for the first time. The artistry on the front of the Duomo still takes my breath away to this day, even having now seen it on many occasions. Though I now had to pull myself away from it to find my place of rest, it was an image that I would constantly see rising above and through the narrow streets of Florence.
After dropping my things off at the Airbnb, I set out to find my bearings and find something to eat. The hostess, Valentina, recommended I try her family’s restaurant, Osteria de' Peccatori, so I tried to hit as many sights as possible on my way there. I passed by the Duomo once again and got a quick look at the Piazza Della Repubblica before swinging by the Piazza Della Signoria to gaze at the array of statues there, including one of the many Davids, and the Palazzo Vecchio. Although fleeting, seeing these landmarks served to whet my appetite to see as much of Florence as I could.
Florence has and never will disappoint. It’s got the culture and art to match Rome, some of the best food and wine I’ve ever had and all of it is easily accessible. Sure you could take a bus, tram or taxi, but you would be missing much of its essence if you don’t go around on foot.
The next day, I walked across the famous Ponte Vecchio to the Palazzo Pitti and strolled around the Giardino’s di Boboli and Baldini. From there, it’s easy to pace along the Arno River and walk up to take in the perfect views of the city from the Piazzale Michelangelo. Just as my luck was on this trip, the bronze casting of David was covered up for restoration work. From there, I walked down, back across the river and set my eyes on the Basilica di Santa Croce. Then on to the Galleria degli Uffizi, a majesty lined with effigies of all the great thinkers and artists of the Renaissance.
It was getting toward aperitivo o’clock, and in all my rushing excitement, I had burned myself out. I had been on the go for nearly two weeks now, and I still had a long train ride through Switzerland to endure.
I remembered seeing plenty of bars around the Piazza Della Repubblica and found what turned out to be quite the legendary local spot called Paszkowski’s. I got talking to a local there about where and what to eat. She recommended a Tuscan restaurant on the other side of the river in Santo Spirito called Alla Vecchia Bettola. Fancy Instagram-worthy meals are great, but nothing beats well-cooked traditional food and the Vecchia Bettola does Tuscan food extremely well. It was here that I got my first taste of crustini de fegatini, a type of chicken pâté that is to die for.
I spent my final hours sitting at a café in front of the Duomo, fully satisfied with my first Florentine experience. My belly was rotund, my skin brown, and every part of my body ached from what was a tiring yet enlightening journey.
Suddenly I was approached by a gypsy beggar. I assume she was a gypsy, as all she was missing from her attire was the crystal ball. She continued to badger at me until I threw a couple of coins in her tin. Every time I go to Florence, I now see this woman. A part of me wants to think of it as some sort of mystical sign, but in reality, this sort of thing is lightly tolerated in Florence. Everyone has to get by somehow, but it does feel a shame to tolerate it at such an important landmark and tourist attraction.
I bid my farewell to Florence and set out for my long journey back to France. Despite the immense joy my trip had given me, I couldn’t help but be overcome with sadness. My little adventure was coming to an end. It had taken a toll on my body, but I wanted more. I set out for the final stretch, a long journey up through the north of Italy, through Switzerland and Lyon to Toulouse.
Homeward Bound
The usual delays meant I would arrive at the northern Italian border town of Domodossola late at night. A disappointment as I was rather looking forward to the mountainous views the area was known for. Upon exiting the train, I was accosted by a border guard, even though I had yet to cross a border, and searched. He began to rifle through my belongings only to let out a sudden shriek when realising he had his hands in my dirty laundry, I tried to warn him.
The fresh, cool air of the Alps served to refresh my attitude after a long day. It was clearly a charming town but was slowly being deserted by the time I got there. A nice bar owner let me relax outside at a table as he began to close up. He sold me a couple of small bottles of beer, which I took back to the station. It was barely 11 p.m., and my train left early the next morning for Bern. I had gotten plenty of sleep on the journey up, and with nowhere else to go, I grabbed a bottle of water and some biscuits from a vending machine and plopped myself down, once again, on the station floor.
I was relaxing, reading a book, and sipping my beer when a young lad walked up to me. He had no belongings and looked incredibly frail. He told me he was from Bangladesh. He said he had disgraced his family, although he wouldn’t say how, and had been sent on a journey north. He was to travel as far north as he could and never return until he had made something of himself. I had no idea what to make of it other than it seemed harsh and ridiculous. He wouldn’t accept water, as he said he wasn’t allowed to drink on his journey, which again seemed ridiculous and unlikely. I managed to get him to accept a couple of biscuits. He sauntered off into the station, and I didn’t see him again.
The trip through the Alps and Switzerland was filled with views of remarkable terrain. The train turned towards Lausanne and then skirted around the edge of Lac Leman to Geneva. The early morning light glistening over the lake backdropped by mountains was a spectacle to behold. I only spent four or five hours in Geneva, and there didn’t seem to be much open apart from a Starbucks when I arrived. The train to Lyon went by painlessly, and I had a fairly quick change there to Toulouse. It’s odd how the journey back home always seems the fastest, regardless of how long it actually takes.
This was my first attempt at crossing an entire country by train, and in some ways, I made it harder on myself. I could have gotten a cheap Italian SIM card for access to Google Maps, but then I don’t think I would have captured the true essence of wanderlust. I could have spent a little more money booking overnight stays to avoid sleeping rough in train stations, but then I think, in an odd way, a part of me wanted that.
For some reason, I wanted to be uncomfortable. I wanted to feel a sort of careless roaming freedom. I had found a kind of happiness in the chaos of moving around so freely. By the end of it, I was dishevelled but extremely content. This trip invigorated my soul in a way I had not expected. La Dolce Vita had clearly affected me.
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