Venice to Paris

The cruise ships must have come back our last night in Venice. The streets were thick with tourists again. They were always relatively full; it was rare that we’d ever find ourselves alone in those narrow passages; but the streets were truly dense with people again, the Rialto Bridge and San Marco Piazza especially so.

We stocked up on bottled water and made an early night of it to repack our suitcases for the trip to Paris. Bev was noticeably tired, sick with the onrush of flu, even if she didn’t know it yet.
After breaking our fast with croissants and surprisingly never bitter coffee, we checked out, wrestled our bags up and down the stairs and over bridges until we reached the canal and boarded the water bus to the rail station. After a short wait and some pizza and pop that didn’t quite meet the standard we’d grown accustomed to, we boarded the local train to Milano.

Cars existed again, the first we’d seen since arriving in Venice. I can’t say that I missed them. The only exhaust I’d smelled over the last few days was the occasional motorboat puttering along the canals, or moored up against the often deserted “ground” floor on buildings, no longer in use due to decades of tidal flooding. Those motorboats were the closest we’d seen to delivery trucks.

Milano Centrale Stazione

The sky seemed huge after so many days of narrow paths and passages. Flat farmland drifted past our window in the space between town after town after town of brightly coloured buildings. They are painted yellow and blue and red and salmon. Terracotta clay tiles continue to roof them. I don’t believe that I’ve seen black asphalt shingles since arriving in Europe.

We had little time in Milan. We barely made our train to Paris, stuck following behind a slow-walking elderly woman who smoked like a Russian, dense clouds drifting behind her, then having to endure a cursory glance at our passports before being waved along and urged to hurry.

It was an older train than the one to Milan, the seating exactly like those on a plane with the same attention to space and legroom as you’d expect, with the same sort of laminated safety card, the same sort of laminated menu. The meal was as we’d come to expect while in Venice: first course (choice of three), second course (choice of three), but with crackers in lieu of bread. Bev ordered the lasagna and a plate of cold cuts that she didn’t much care for (her taste buds were going on her) while I had the lasagne and chicken with a mushroom sauce. We opted for water. We both had coffee that was as strong and thick as can be and as bitter and acrid as battery acid. No, I’ve never drank battery acid; work with me.

I thought it would be neat to see the countryside as we made our way across Europe which is why we booked the train and not a flight; what I didn’t expect was that our route would be marked by passage through intermittent tunnels that plunged us into blackness. We were passing through the Alps, after all. I should have thought of that, but I didn’t. There was almost nothing to look at, just the streaks of tunnel lights as they flew past our view, so Bev grilled me on my French to pass the time. I can’t say I passed. I expected to muddle through while in Paris, relying on the good grace and benevolence of others who appreciated that I actually made an attempt at conversing their language while in country.

When we burst out of the tunnels we took in what landscapes we could. The slopes became increasingly rocky and steep. Peaks became shrouded in mist. There were buildings amid the clouds. There was even a trailer park, which surprised me. Vineyards disappeared behind us in the gathering gloom. The light faded, first by increments, then by degrees, becoming a damp and misty twilight and then night when we finally exited the Alps.

The final three hours into Paris were in the dark, without any stars or the moon visible, just the lights of what towns passed by, far to the left and right of us. We pulled into Paris after 11 pm, having to buy Metro tickets from a machine while young toughs lingered nearby, waiting for midnight when they vaulted over the turnstiles with what I assumed was the assurance that riding the rails was free. It was still warm when we arrived, still humid from a day of downpours, perfect for activating the smell of urine in the tunnels.

We found our way to the Metro, wrestling our bags down the stairs, only to find ourselves face to face with a map of the entirety of Paris. We scrutinized the map bolted to the wall, making sure that the train we were told to take by the Gare du Lyon security was truly the one we were about to risk taking. It didn’t take long. A middle-aged woman helped us with the overly detailed rail map. It was an actual map, not the stylized view I’ve grown accustomed to.

It was 12:20 when we finally stumbled into our hotel, our luggage seemingly tons heavier than when we left Venice.