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, where I remember sitting on a bench in baggage claim for hours waiting to rejoin Austin, as we took separate flights. That time we fumbled our way through the airport to find the bus counter just to find the right place to buy tickets to get to Piazzale Roma in Venice via a short $3 bus ride. (Side note. 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, the airport seemed remarkably smaller than I remembered it. I found my checked baggage in record time (it was the FIRST bag off of the plane,) headed straight to the bus ticket window to see a "Be Back Soon" sign and decided instead to head outside and hope to come across some sort of ticket machine or pay a few extra euros for a ticket on board. I was in and out of the airport in less than twenty minutes, and found myself pacing the sidewalk, running only on adrenaline, 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 nothing I'd ever heard before. Maybe 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 incredibly strange that I began to wonder if it was even Italian. I smiled and tried helped him decipher the bus schedule with gestures and pidgin Italian. Quickly joining us was a young Italian couple with luggage plastered with Berlin Marathon stickers and sporting 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.
My ticketless self hesitated for a moment as the bus driver ran from the bus, probably on 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 quickly hops back on, starts the engine, 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. With that trauma over with, 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 from the airport into the one place cars can go in Venice, Piazzale Roma. There we pick 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 hundreds of teenagers all standing outside for their smoke break.) We then head back inland, past the smoke stacks, industrial parks, tired hotels, campgrounds, and car dealerships. I think to myself, simultaneously, "wow, this is going to be one long ride on absolutely no sleep" and "I'll be damned if this doesn't 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. Lots of cars, narrow streets, a pharmacy, nondescript apartment buildings, and trash dumpsters lining the streets. 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 changing directions and driving the ramp 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 quickly correct myself, "well they probably are, it's just louder to me because it's not a language I can tune out." So the bus driver turns off the engine, 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 some pedestrians to make their voice heard. 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.
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