Experiential Paper

I THINK I CAN, I THINK I CAN

By Morgan Pelligrino


The train has become a neglected means of transportation in America. All of the MARTAs and Subways are convenient for inner-city travel, but they lack the adventure that the European trains easily provide. Before I arrived in France, the only information I knew about the train system was that they were never on time and the workers occasionally went on strike.
I never had a hair-pulling experience while traveling back and forth from Juan les Pins to Cannes. Sure, they were delayed a few times, but it was never terribly inconvenient. I found my inner rebel when we all decided to stop paying for tickets to Cannes. The first ticket-less ride was ten minutes of over-the-shoulder glances and anxious fidgeting. The goody-goody Morgan felt paranoid and ashamed, but I slowly buried her with a false confidence that my peers openly shared.
It took an impulsive trip to Venice for me to appreciate the TER (Train Express Regional). The TER makes its last stop in Ventimiglia, Italy…then TrenItalia takes over. Let’s put it this way: TER is to TrenItalia as Grandma’s homemade macaroni and cheese is to the bright orange slop in a school cafeteria.
Seven of us decide to take a day trip to Ventimiglia and had no problem paying the six euros and ninety cents to get there. The TER arrives at 11:45, and six out of seven of us hop on. The seventh member (let’s call him Luke) is still waiting in line to buy a ticket when our train rolls away from the Juan les Pins station. A couple of us nervously laugh while muttering sympathetic “aw”s. After realizing the next train to Ventimiglia arrives an hour later, we relax in the blue chairs of second class knowing we would eventually meet up with our friend “Luke.”

First Train: Juan les Pins to Ventimiglia 11:45 AM
Before the trip to Italy, I never took the time to examine the quality of the TER. Compared to the MARTA, with its urine-y aroma and plastic chairs complete with “I <3 Shayna” graffiti, this train was top of the line. Air conditioning flows freely from the side window panels. The seats are virtually stain-free and still have a supportive bounce. Trash is nowhere to be seen. Giant windows allow you to feast your eyes with the beautiful views of southern France. The two levels provide an abundance of seating choices. There is nothing like sinking into a blue TER chair after a long day of touring.
The one hour ride to Ventimiglia flies by. Our group discusses what we would like to do as soon as we get there. I look forward to practicing my Italian after taking a full year of classes. No one else on the trip knows any Italian, and I feel delighted knowing that I get to be a translator. There is never a moment during the short ride when I whispered a word of gratitude for the TER’s bright atmosphere. I am too busy sharing my excitement with my fellow travel-mates. We acknowledge that we couldn’t have picked a better group of people to go on a trip with. Gorgeous cliffs and luminous bodies of water catch our eyes and my heart skips with anticipation. This is going to make up for any instances of ugliness that had plagued me earlier on the trip. With our egos filled and wallets open, we step off the TER and enter a new country.

Second Train: Ventimiglia to Milano 6:50 PM
Venice! We’re going to Venice! Why the hell not?
It only took one hour in Ventimiglia for the group of us to come to the mutual decision that one Italian city is not enough. After exploring the charming markets, basking on the rocks of the Ventimiglian beach, and seeing nothing but smiles on the faces of the locals, there is no other option. We must delve deeper into the boot.
The second train is toasty—the bad kind of toasty. Forget ski lounge toasty and imagine being stuck in a latrine on a hot summer day…toasty. The males of our posse toss their shirts over their heads as the rest of us groan with a mix of disgust and jealousy. Small tables are situated between four chairs that face each other. A lid next to the window opens up to a trash can…or in my case…a temporary sandwich holder. The chairs are checkered blue with brown tinged headrest flaps. This is no TER.
The four hours begin with picture taking and end with delirious chanting and general silliness. Three of us make playing cards out of our unused, fake business cards. Despite the humid and dingy environment, we learn a lot about each other. As the trains get crappier, our fellowship grows tighter.

Third Train: Milano to Verona 12:15 AM
As we walk to our next train’s platform, two security workers inform us to get on the second car “for our safety.” On our way to the car we see that half of our train is pitch black. We question whether or not they meant the second car from their end or from the opposite side. The boys run toward us with McDonalds in hand, and we climb on a random lit car.
The seats are a close replication of the Ninja Rollercoaster at Six Flags. Thick, black plastic curves around the headrests. We were unsure if this was an attempt to hide oneself from the person seated next to them or if they served a higher purpose that we were never meant to learn. The armrests are fixed and destroy any hope of lying across two empty seats. Gone were the tables and sandwich holders. Our plans of sleeping are crushed, but our spirits are still high. One of the boys (we’ll go with “Bryce”) takes on the voice of an eighty-year-old woman with a delusional infatuation with Woodrow Wilson. We invest our creativity in a short film mocking The Real World. The green and blue striped seats provide a perfect backdrop to fake “confessionals.” Who needs sleep?

Fourth Train: Verona to Venice 4:50 AM
We need sleep. After a two hour layover in Verona, we decide that we will nap on the next train. The comprehension of what the next train actually consists of happens in slow motion. A hooded man hangs out the window of the only lit car. We keep walking in hopes of finding a decent car to sleep in. A station employee informs us that the last car is the only car we can stay in. Panic takes over. Is this the train that leads to our demise?
I guide the group up the train’s steps and slide a door open. A handful of people are sitting on the floor with their heads resting against the wall. There is a long row of closed rooms with numbers on them. None of the numbers match our tickets. I notice that each room has a group of sleeping passengers inside. They look so peaceful. I try to imagine what that feels like.
The lights burn my eyes and I slowly sink to the floor. This narrow hallway is going to be our place of rest for the next two hours. We shake our heads in disbelief. I lean over to the young stranger next to me and mutter, “Non mi piace questo treno.” He grins and nods in agreement. The remainder of the group awkwardly sits down and we begin to shuffle in search of comfort. Indian style is the only reasonable position. Sleep becomes a main priority, and stomachs and laps become headrests. Seven grown individuals are intertwined like a litter of newborn puppies.
As soon as we find a satisfying position, a woman approaches our cluster. An assortment of limbs blocks the path to the bathroom/exit. This is annoying. With a couple of slight movements, the woman is forced to hop through the obstacle course we have created. When two more people loom over us, we realize this isn’t going to work. “Bryce” moves outside of the door to create more room. We almost lose him when the exit door opens and he almost topples out.
I look at the mass we have generated and I have to laugh. Three weeks ago I had no idea who these people were. Now I’m using one of their butts as neck support while another one rests his head on my knee. I can’t be upset about our state of affairs. I realize I am going to remember this event for the rest of my life.
The train comes to a halt around seven A.M. I cup my hand to shade my eyes from the Venetian sunrise. The cool air wraps itself around our weary bodies. I stand on a bridge and smile. We’re in Venice.

Reflection
Some people might call this an unfortunate experience, but I refuse to see it that way. Those four trains did more than get us where we needed to go. I formed a solid connection with six other people who love adventure as much as I do. You get to know each person’s ticks and mannerisms. I am still amazed that we got along so well. I’m usually picky about friends, but each one of these individuals had something special to offer. I know. I’m getting mushy.
Instead of cursing the trains, I want to thank them. Thank you for letting me quench my thirst for exploration for little money. Thank you for inspiring gratitude for my privileged lifestyle. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to connect. Thank you for giving me a great story to tell.
Viva TrenItalia!