Termini to Piombino

How could the addition of one, tiny die-cast car make packing THAT much more difficult? After jumping up and down on our bags to try and get the zips to close, we headed downstairs for our final assault on the hotel's breakfast buffet. Fortified for our journey, we lugged our bags along the Via Leone Dehon, up the Via Leone to the Piazza Pio XI, up the Via Gozzadini to the Via Cardinal Mistrangelo and to the Baldo degli Ubaldi metro station. Excited as I was for the sojourn in Elba, I was a little sad to know that this was pretty much it for Rome. The metro goes above ground to cross the Tiber - from the bridge one can see the Ponte Giacomo Matteotti which has these interesting round openings in the piers. I wondered if I'd ever see it again - a damned silly way to think, as there are plenty of sights all over the world that I'll NEVER see in this life. Anyway, we had that one last night in Rome to look forward to at the end of the week.

From the depths of the metro station under the Termini, we rose into the hubbub of the train station. An aside: I'd always thought the Colosseum was so named because it was frigging enormous. No, it was named after the Colossus of Nero, a statue of the emperor that remained after his palace, the Domus Aurea was pulled down to make way for the arena. The Termini, I've since learned, isn't so named because it's the terminus of the train lines, it's named for a nearby Roman bath complex or "terme". An interesting fact, if you're easily diverted. The automatic ticket machines stubbornly refused to cooperate so we had to stand in line at the ticket counter. Again, it was strange to see some very exotic-looking person waiting in the line nearby, wondering what faraway place they might be from and then hear them address a fellow passenger in what sounded like an accent from south Boston.

Armed with our tickets, we went to the platforms (binari?) and tried to find our destination, time and train number on the massive video board. Unfortunately, our platform wasn't one of the ones which ended conveniently a few feet in front of us - it turned out to be a pretty substantial hike around to the right and beyond. After a typical period of nervousness, wondering whether we were on the right train, the vehicle pulled out of the station and started rattling off to the coast.

As with most cities, the face Rome shows to rail travelers isn't its prettiest. The route to the sea was lined with huge, dilapidated flat blocks, sad, trash-strewn vacant lots and graffiti-decorated highway stanchions. It was a relief to get out into the countryside and see the sea (reassuringly) to our left. Now, the stations provided a tantalising glimpse of the Mediterranean, stretches of beach crowded with colorful umbrellas and bathers. Inland was a rolling expanse of farmland, orchards and undulating, dry hills leading up to the distant mountains.

The ride was certainly pleasant - Paul and I read (Oh, Lydia - why must you be SO wild?) and dozed. The stops were fun from a people-watching standpoint - tourists with huge backpacks, daytrippers with beach bags and umbrellas, pensioners with string bags of groceries. There was plenty of time to people-watch at one stop (Albinia? Albarese?) - the train had been stopped for a half-hour when it became clear that something was amiss. Paul learned from some people out on the platform that the train had developed technical problems and was being taken out of service. He learned, through a spanish-speaking American that we were to board a Eurostar Italia train and, holding second-class tickets, get off in two stops at Grossetto and then get on another train for the rest of the trip to Campiglia Marittima.

The passengers on the Eurostar train didn't seem overjoyed at having their serenity invaded by a horde of disgruntled refugees bumping through the aisles with their bags. Paul and I plunked down in nearby seats, our bags on our laps. "Where's your hat?!", Paul suddenly shouted. I realised I'd left my Hannibal Lecter hat on the original train. I ran out to get it, got into the wrong door and had to go through a car or two before finding it. I made it back before the Eurostar left. I'm not sure how close a call it was, but it was still crazy-making. When our train went through to Grossetto without stopping at the intermediate station, Paul became concerned that a lady to whom he'd communicated the conductor's instructions might not get off. He went back onto the Eurostar to look for her and, when the whistle blew with him still on the train, I thought "Oh that's just great - he'll be in Istanbul in two hours." He made it off in time, but hadn't found the lady.

The next train was definitely a come-down from our brief experience on the Eurostar. There weren't any available seats so we had to sit on our luggage in the space between the cars. There was a pleasant, silent camaraderie among those present. People would catch each others' eyes and roll their eyes in commiseration.

The concession stand attendant (who also seemed to be the station-master) informed us that the next train for Piombino would be arriving in a few minutes. We followed the signs for track whatever it was, which led us down a stairway, through an underground passage and back up to the surface still one track short of where we needed to be. The only discernible route to our platform was at a track crossing bearing a sign that said "DO NOT CROSS THE TRACKS" which we promptly disobeyed.

On boarding, I discovered that I'd left my copy of "Pride and Prejudice" somewhere in the station. Oh well. Philosophically, I opened the copy of "The Woman in White" which I'd brought as a backup.

Piombino to Poggio

For once, we felt more knowledgeable than those around us, having been coached by Carolyn not to get off at the first Piombino stop. We knew we'd already missed our ferry and when the train pulled in to Piombino Marittima we ran across the street to where an enormous Moby ferry was waiting to leave its slip. Again, I marveled that a piece of month-old printer emesis can appease a foreign ticket agent and grant one access to conveyance in a strange land. Missed your original time slot? Not a problem. Scribble, scribble.

Ahhh, relaxing on the upper deck, enjoying sweeping views of the Tyrrhenian, Ligurian or Somethingian Sea, luxuriating in the salty breeze, getting outside of some peanuts and a can of Nastro Azzuro - Carolyn's grand scheme had come into full fruition at last. As the ferry churned its way through absurdly blue water, past high, craggy islands toward Elba, I felt we could be on the way to a mysterious island hotel out of an Agatha Christie novel or toward a wharfside cafe encounter with Mr. Ripley. Or, we could be doing exactly what we were doing, which was certainly romantic enough, for God's sake.

After getting lost briefly in the bowels of the vessel, we managed to find the disembarkation point and descended to find John and Carolyn waiting for us. It was lovely to see them - what a joy to arrive in a strange place and be met by people you love. After purchasing some supplies at a supermarket adjacent to the ferry terminal (wine, cheese, peanuts, more Nastro Azzuro) we climbed in to the Marsh's rented Alfa Romeo Giulietta, a saucy little white sedan, and started along the ten miles of switchbacked coast and mountain roads that led to Poggio. John and Carolyn were surprised, as was I, that I remained composed during the ride without the benefit of barbiturates and a blindfold. The roads really are astounding - switchback after switchback, precipitous dropoffs, blind crossroads. What was really amazing to me was how poorly people drove - time and time again someone would come hurtling around one of the curves in the middle of the road and have to swerve to avoid hitting us. PAZZO! I'm amazed that the island isn't littered with bodies and twisted, smoking wreckage. I was already dreading riding on the back of the scooter we had rented for the week. During the drive, we all munched on the contents of the bag of peanuts which Paul had bought at the supermarket.

On our way up the road toward our destination we had our first impression of our 'homebase': lush, green hills rising from the seaside town of Marciana Marina - Poggio and Marciana perched on neighboring hillsides with the summit of Mount Capanne looming over it all. Fantastic!

Our accommodations for the week were in the Villa Wotsit in Poggio. Google maps shows it to be the largest building in the town. It sits on the lowest terrace of the town and is visible from the coast. The villa was originally two stories - the height of the floors can be seen in the entrance hall and in the open portion of the two-story apartments. The staircase was beautiful - open and echoey with a lovely mosaic pattern on the landings and an iron railing. We stood for a while at the railing on the downhill side of the terrace, admiring the view down to Marciana Marina.

The first of our three communal meals took place that evening at a fantastic restaurant up in the hills near Poggio. We sat at a long table outside overhung with strands of lights which cast a warm light that contrasted with the deep blue of the evening sky. Course after delicious course was brought out: bread, pasta, savoury and sweet pastries, meats, olives - fantastic. The wine was lovely as well and was much enjoyed by the contingent at the kids' table who were all temporarily of age. Later in the meal there was some consternation and uproar over the number of bottles which had been emptied at that table. A line from "Oliver" came to me in which Fagin admonishes the noisy orphans: "Shut up and drink yer gin!"

Unfortunately, Carolyn wasn't able to fully enjoy the inaugural meal of her brain-child trip - she was hit by a case of Tuscan Tummy possibly brought on by the peanuts we'd all been eating in the car. Note to self - don't buy the Borgia brand again - stick to Blue Diamond. Fortunately, she'd recovered by the middle of the next day.