Venice by rail

Read Time:2 Minute, 59 Second

An American gentleman in Venice

I hopped on a train, and asked the fellow next to me if it was the correct train for my destination, he asked if I spoke English, I replied yes, and repeated my question in English. He stated that yes, it was going to Venice. Just then, a conductor came by and said no, not this train, but the next one is going to Venice. The man apologized for his mistake, and we waited together for the train. A conversation then ensued as to our individual reasons for being here in Orvieto. He was a Coca Cola “big wig” of some sort, on business in Europe, with one week left, and wanted to spend the last weekend in Venice; he was from the USA. Conversation was diverse and pleasant, he was most helpful in orienting me to the Venetian experience and how to manuveur in the city. We parted without any of the usual weighty promises of a follow-up. A brief, but pleasant encounter.

No stops here, unless you can swim

The train into Venice takes about 10 minutes and is mostly over water – Il Canale Grande – but what if I wanted to get off half-way??!! Not possible! Not unless I wanted to swim the remainder of the way. Oh dear! Oops, now my claustrophobia is showing through frantic eyes. On both sides of the train, water stretching further than the eye can see, the train is a bit old and moves slowly. I’m unsure if the driver is being cautious, or if this is the result of age…….or both. No one on board seemed as concerned as I was, perhaps this is their daily routine, and they have learnt to trust the old faithful train, and conductor. I decided to follow suit, and occupy my mind with something of a more pleasant and positive nature – like the calm waters swirling around the railroad tracks……Okay, meditation time.

Di dove sono?

Walking out of the station, I was greeted by another body of water, and a mass of people – mostly tourists – and river traffic. I was reminded of Singapore as these hackney carriages – vaporetti – were just as noisy as theirs, and smelt of the same discarded diesel fumes. In Guyana, it is the same though, with the river taxis, ploughing the waters of the lengthy Essequibo river. The boats in Amalfi were no different, only the length of the trip differed depending upon whether you were going from one town to another, or to the grottos. I was excited to be here; water and boats have always been of great interest to me, perhaps because I grew up in a place that was befittingly named ‘the land of many waters.’

A bridge sits to my right, perhaps the one identified by Rick Steves as one of the three that crosses the canal; people are sprawled on the wide stairs leading down to the water terminal, the tronchetto; a dying mist lingers, hovering over the grey choppy water as the rising sun reprimands it from afar, and hastens its disappearance. Just for a few minutes, the images before me took me on a whirl-wind tour to a myriad of places around the world. Every element of the scene before me could be duplicated in so many cities, I could have been anywhere, but I was here, in Venice, at the railway station that is the mouth of the Venician experience, the Ferrovia.