The alarm jarred us out of a deep sleep. We were grateful to find the skies completely clear — this was our day to visit Sperlonga — our vacation from our vacation.
We needed to get to the Trastevere train station, but without luggage this time. This would only be a day trip.
All we had to do was to hop on the electric tram #8 that glides along Viale di Trastevere, no more than a ten minute walk from our apartment.
The ride on tram #8 was smooth and simple, conveniently depositing us at the train. Since we already had tickets, we simply had to confirm which binario our train was leaving from. We’d take a short ride to Termini, Rome’s main train station, where we would hop another train that would zip us to Sperlonga, about an hour or so south.
At Termini, we stood in front of a posted schedule to find the number of our binario. Two American women, one our age and one older, stood next to us looking confused as they tried to make sense of the numbers. Between the two of them, they had two enormous bags. I wondered how they were managing to get around with those.
They heard us speaking English and asked for our help in figuring out the schedule.
They were from Santa Barbara, traveling around Italy by themselves. A travel agent had made all their arrangements. They had tickets for a direct trip from Termini to Assisi, but didn’t know the system whatsoever. I helped them check the arrival times and binario, then showed them how to validate tickets in the yellow machines. I was amazed at how ill-prepared and uninformed they seemed to be.
Finally on our own train, which was about 30 minutes late, we were glad to get going.
Gino, on vacation from vacation.
Trains are never dull. A couple was arguing at the front of one car. We moved to seats further down to avoid their loud voices.
Then a man came down the aisle handing a piece of paper to each person. Curious, I opened the folded note and read the words printed in Italian:
“I am poor. I have two kids, no house or job. Please help my family with a bit of money for the love of God. May God protect you.”
I refolded the note and put it on the window sill. A short while later, an irritated train official came through, gathering up each note and pointedly ripping them in half. Then another official came through with the man who had left the notes. Following right behind was another train official. None of them looked very happy.
The young woman sitting next to us was singing out loud to her iPod, unaware, or maybe not caring, that we could hear her quite well. She was having a good time.
At one of the stops, a woman and her dog got on. In Europe, dogs can ride trains, boats, and buses without anyone raising an eyebrow.
As we chugged through one of the small towns along the way, I noticed that the station clock said 4:40. It was 9:55 a.m.
We passed through several tunnels. The lights of a train are supposed to turn on when going through tunnels because the tunnels are completely black. You can’t even see your hand in front of your face. If there were no lights and you happened to be trying to make your way to the bathroom or back to your seat when you hit a tunnel, it could be very dangerous.
We went through several tunnels in pitch blackness before finally the lights came on.
Trains are never boring.
A train official came down the aisle checking tickets. One man had a ticket, but hadn’t validated it. He was Italian and looked like he should know the system.
“You have to validate in the yellow box, or pay a 50 Euro fine,” the official admonished him.
“Scusi,” the man replied sarcastically.
“Si’, scusi!” the official retorted, just as sarcastically, as he calmly wrote out a ticket.
(This one-hour ride was proving to be quite entertaining!)
At the station Fondi-Sperlonga, we disembarked and looked around for the bus that would take us up into the town.
The small station bar sold bus tickets — 1 Euro each way. I bought four: two up and two back.
With tickets in hand, we looked around outside for a sign or an obvious bus stop. A man approached, asking if we needed a taxi.
“No thanks,” we responded. “We’re waiting for the bus.”
“It doesn’t come for an hour and a half,” he said.
I didn’t believe him. The man at the bar surely would have mentioned that when we bought the tickets. Wouldn’t he? Besides, I had read that the buses into town “roughly coordinate with the arrivals and departures of trains.” And the town’s own tourist pamphlet states, “…a service of public transport connects Sperlonga with every train arrival.”
“Roughly” is the operative word, apparently.
Finally spotting a posted bus schedule, we read that the taxi driver indeed had been right. No bus for an hour and a half.
The driver was still hanging around, most likely waiting for us to figure it out ourselves. As we approached, he said,
“It looks like you need a taxi after all.”
OK, so rub it in.
His taxi was unmarked, a bad sign right off the get-go. But there was no other choice if we wanted to make the most of our time here.
The ride was a few miles, farther than I had imagined. I told the driver to please drop us off at Piazza Europa since that was at the top of town and at the brink of the centro storico where we wanted to explore.
When we entered the town, he pulled over. We were still on the flat land and I knew old Sperlonga was on the hill.
“Is this Piazza Europa?” I asked him, doubt in my voice.
“This is the piazza,” he answered, slightly evasive.
“But is this Piazza EUROPA?” I pressed.
“This is the piazza,” he answered again.
At that point, I knew we’d just have to deal with whatever and we got out.
“How much?” I asked.
“30 Euro.”
“30 Euro? For ten minutes?” I was astounded.
“Fuel and tourist tariff,” he stated flatly.
Whatever. It wasn’t just the money. I felt taken advantage of. But my bad for not negotiating the price before getting in the cab in the first place.
Upon further research later I learned that the typical price for that ride should have been 20 Euro. I also learned that black market taxis hang out to snag hapless, ride-less people, just like us.
In the end, it was money well spent. We were already at the town rather than back at the station waiting for the bus.
Sometimes, money is time, rather than the other way around.
Begrudgingly, we paid the 30 Euro and struck off for Piazza Europa with not a clue about where it was. But knowing it was up, that’s where we headed. The first person we met confirmed we were on target.
About ten minutes later we reached the top of the hill and the real Piazza Europa.
Piazza Europa — and the Palazzo Municipale (Town Hall)
We spotted a small tourist office where we picked up a map and some beautifully done pamphlets.
Now we were set. Armed with information, we were ready to plunge.
Gino, at the edge of Piazza Europa.
He wants to know more about Sperlonga before we dive in.
Melinda Trips 2012: Greece and Italy 