Travel Stories: Taking the Bus

I stepped off the plane in Venice's airport and I instantly felt "at home." I've been through this airport countless times, the first as a student and I remember sitting on a bench in baggage claim waiting to rejoin Austin as we took separate flights. We fumbled our way through the airport to find the bus counter, for tickets to get to Piazzale Roma via a short $3 bus ride. (To this day, I have yet to take an overpriced taxi or boat ride. If you're a romantic with extra cash to spend, by all means do so. If you're cheap, unromantic or too pragmatic to take a boat, then find yourself the blue ATVO bus. It's what an Italian would do, anyways)

As I arrived this time in Venezia, it seemed remarkably smaller than I remembered it. I found my checked baggage in record time, headed straight to the bus ticket window to see a "Be Back Soon" sign and decided instead to head straight to the bus and pay a few extra euros for a ticket. I was in and out of the airport in less than twenty minutes, and found myself wandering the sidewalk, running only on adrenaline. I paced back and forth until I found the queue for the SITA bus to Padova and settled in to begin my slow Italian commute. The crisp, fall air made me acutely aware of the fact that I was still wearing flip flops from the plane, but before I can dig through my bags for proper shoe, I'm approached by an African man who's Italian was like I'd ever heard before. Was it the lack of sleep? Typically, I love interactions with other non-native speakers in Italian, because we're at the same disadvantage. But his Italian was so strange and I began to wonder was it even Italian, or perhaps Spanish? I smiled and helped him decipher the bus schedule. Quickly joining us was a young Italian couple with luggage plastered with Berlin Marathon stickers and New Balance sneakers. I wondered if they'd spent the weekend running a marathon or were returning home from a short weekend jaunt? A middle-aged woman dressed in her best clothes and designer sunglasses joined us and onto the bus we went when it arrived...ten minutes late. I paused for a moment as the bus driver ran from the bus, probably his only break for the next hour. I began to worry about not having a ticket, but forced myself to get on and not worry about it. Ten agonizing minutes of wondering if I did the right thing as others with their pre-purchased tickets validated them on the bus machine. The driver hops back on about to pull out and I quickly stop him and say "ho bisogno un biglietto" timidly. He looks at me strangely, snaps something at me I can't understand and I even more timidly ask "ma dov'e comprare?" He ignores me and I can't tell if he's leaving or helping me out. He re-emerges with a pack of tickets, a "I don't have time to deal with you, stupid tourist" face and says loudly "ONE TICKET?" I mumble si, hand over my money and try not to be ashamed of my poor attempt at interaction. I settle back in my seat and prepare myself for an un-eventful hour long ride.

Where does the bus go...well it heads straight for the unscenic route into Piazzale Roma in Venice and picks up two or three Italian teenagers heading out of the city. (I find out later that they're heading to the school in Padova, which seemed to have 100 teenagers all standing outside for their smoke break.) We then head back inland, past the smoke stacks, industrial parks, tired hotels, campgrounds, car dealerships. I think to myself, all at once, this is going to be a long ride on absolutely no sleep and wow doesn't this really just look like anywhere else in the world. Eventually we head into the town of Marghera, which looks like any other Italian town in the Veneto. Any other Italian town if you've actually ventured off the rail line or traveled by car, at least. Next stop the autostrada. Or was it? When we reach the on ramp, traffic is at a complete standstill. Car after car comes down the ramp, stops for a few seconds and then performs a feat of driving in reverse, over and over. Then the cell phones come out. The older ladies behind me, the ones we picked up in Marghera, put out the warning call first. "Don't get on a bus, "they say to the other end of the line. "There's something going on...a manifestation or a strike...take the train to Padova, who knows how long we'll be here." Next, I hear another call, "Ciao Mamma...yes, we're stuck on the bus, don't come to the station yet, I'll call you." Again and again, the same conversation, over and over. They're loud and they're unapologetic that they're making the entire bus listen to their phone call. I think to myself, man people are never this loud on their cell phones in the US. But, then I think, well they probably are, it's just louder to me because it's not a language I can tune out. So the bus turns off, and we're still. There's no where to go. A middle-aged gentleman with an umbrella ventures out every 10-15 minutes to the highway to see how things are progressing. And each time, he returns with a status update I don't understand. Out of nowhere, car horns start honking, almost in unison, I laugh and secretly hope they give up. They do, thankfully, quickly realizing that it's a moot point. Finally, the man with the umbrella returns with some good news, the bus turns on and we inch forward to see a retreating stream of pedestrians who had crossed and blocked the highway. A four, or maybe it was six, lane highway. Unheard of! Imagine if the beltway around your American city was closed for pedestrians. Heads would roll.

On the road again, we head into Padova past the huge IKEA, the shopping mall, the high school with the smoking teenagers, the McDonalds drive through (although here it's called McDrive.) Everyone hops off the bus at their respective stop, onto their lives, their day, completely unphased by being stuck in traffic by a motley assortment of people blocking the road, or even by the fact that Giotto painted the ceiling of chapel a few blocks away. And me? Well, I venture off to meet my friend, and head to nearest bar to grab a cappuccino and brioche. Welcome to Italy.