The Overnighter

Few people have really experienced the full power of the Italian train service. That’s my job. In this story, I’ll share a defining moment of traveling by Italian trains. Those of you with weak kidneys might want to skip to the next story.

Once, long ago, I had to get from Brindisi, Italy, on the heel of the Italian peninsula, to Munich, Germany—over the Alps more than 800 miles to the north. Because I’d previously spent good money on concert tickets for a big-name rock band playing in Munich’s OlympiaHalle, I needed to be in Munich in a day and a half, assuming I wanted time to take a quick shower before the show.

I had a Eurail Pass, which assures first-class passage, so I thought the journey would be relatively quick and painless. I hadn’t taken into account the Italian train system.

The morning of my trip, I waited on the correct station platform. And waited. As time passed, it became clear that something was wrong. Something was missing. Oh yeah—the train itself. I set off to find some answers.

The news, of course, was bad. The train had been delayed for repairs. While I’m in favor of trains that run as advertised, I thought it unusual that the Italian government couldn’t find a replacement engine. The ticking clock and my nearly empty wallet demanded that I stay to see this drama through to its inevitable end. All I could do was hope I’d get to Munich in time.

By the time the train finally arrived, in mid-afternoon, so many people had gathered on the platform that I couldn’t smoke without scorching someone’s hair. I joined the throng squeezing onto the train and tried without success to find First Class. When I tracked down the conductor, I discovered the train had no First Class service. I had to return to Third Class, which, by then, was standing room only. Literally. The corridors swam with the sea of humanity.

With my backpack in tow, I pushed and twisted through the old women and older men, trying to find a square foot of open space. I heard more Italian swear words in that half hour than in my entire weeks-long Italian holiday. “Proprio uno stronzo!” (“You’re a complete asshole!”) “Ti sei bevuto il cervello?” (“Have you swallowed your brain?”) “Tuo padre è un pollo.” (“Your father is as smart as a chicken.”)

The trip was fast becoming a nightmare, and it was still daytime.

I eventually found a tiny spot outside a lavatory. Over a leak on the floor. Whatever that liquid was, I didn’t want to know, as long as it came out in the wash. At least I could lean against a wall. The other passengers, some smelling like their only source of nutrition was garlic, bumped and banged into me as the train lurches along. The concept of personal space disappeared.

Hour after hour, the train continued its journey up the eastern coast of Italy. Eventually, the interior lights came on. My feet began to hurt, although I couldn’t see them, not without pushing two or three people away, contorting my legs like a deranged ballerina, or stooping down into the nether reaches of the crowd’s worse half (and I thought their breath smelled bad?). I was stuck, shifting my weight from foot to foot until I could no longer feel anything below my knees.

Other passengers, who seemed to accept the journey as normal, devoured strange-looking meals wrapped in brown paper. The only water available came from the lavatory, which reeked with a stench that could have stopped Caesar. When we reached northern Italy, the weather turned chilly. Having spent the past few weeks in the warm sun of the Mediterranean, I was woefully unprepared for the cold. It invaded the train like a pack of marauding barbarians. Even huddling in close quarters proved ineffective.

I began to slip in and out of consciousness as exhaustion overtook me. Gripping my backpack to my chest in a futile effort to keep warm, I slowly did what I’d once thought impossible: I fell asleep standing up.

The train was stopped when I awoke. Slumped against the wall, my backside damp from the leak, which apparently ran down the wall on its way to the floor, I blinked and asked that age-old question from my long-ago childhood: “Are we there yet?”

When I finally arrived in Munich, I realized with a start that I smelled as bad as the Italian passengers I’d quietly cursed. The German subway system never seemed so pristine, so smoothly run, so amazingly efficient. Self-consciously, I made my way to my student housing. Back home to a clean toilet, a hot shower, and a cold beer.

At times like this, you’re grateful for the simple things of life, the things you usually take for granted. That’s what foreign travel teaches you. That’s what a night on an Italian train makes you realize. And yes, I made it to the concert on time, no thanks to the Italian train system.