We left Rome Wednesday with a bit of drama. We had it all worked out that we could eat breakfast as soon as it started at 7:30 and still get Dina and Ruth to the train station about 6 blocks away for their 8:22 train to the airport. David and I went to retrieve the luggage after breakfast while Ruth and Dina set off for the station. We were there in plenty of time and walked to the far end of the line of tracks where we knew the signs for the airport train were. Sure enough, they directed us to turn along the last train and keep going...and going, and going. It was probably as far inside the station as it was to the station, or at least seemed like it. As time got shorter and shorter, David and I raced ahead to the train and told them our 86-year-old mother was coming. Although the conductor blew his whistle, he continued to allow people onto the train until Ruth and Dina hove into sight, with Ruth looking considerably the worse for wear. Bags heaved on, Ruth helped up the steps, and away the train went, with hardly a moment to say good-bye.
David and I then had a little over an hour to kill and to let our arms settle back into their sockets. A little cappuccino helped us recover. Our car, the first we came to on the platform, was also the destination of a group of about 8 or 10 Canadians, each with a huge suitcase, and a family of about 6 Brazilians, each with about 2 huge suitcases. Considerable confusion ensued about the numbering of the seats and jostling to get luggage into overhead racks. We managed to find space for ours and were immensely relieved to hear the both groups were headed to Florence, the train's first stop. The rest of the trip to Padova was uneventful other than an unexplained stop high on a curve in the track built well above the surrounding countryside. Eventually another train went by and we continued. These trains are FAST. David saw a trackside speed limit sign of 300 kph, if memory serves. Part of what makes it all work is that the tracks are completely isolated from everything else, with very few level crossings. It will be interesting to see how California build an infrastructure suitable for ours.
We changed trains in Padova for the little local train that takes one to Bassano del Grappa. My mental map from 3 years ago worked perfectly to get us to the bus station, except that the station had been moved back to the train station. Then, when we had walked the 4 or 5 blocks round trip, we couldn't find an open kiosk for tickets, nor a bus driver who even knew where one could buy tickets nor, for that matter, where the bus to Borso del Grappa left from. We managed to deduce that we could buy tickets inside the station at the biglietteria (ticket window), but even that official had no idea where the bus left from nor when it would next leave. Eventually, after asking some more bus drivers who came thru, we located the stop and found the sign, which said that the next bus wasn't for nearly an hour. So we took a taxi. We were eventually greeted by a somewhat sleepy George, awakened from his afternoon nap, who grumbled (for the first of several times in the next 24 hours) that we had failed to read the pre-departure information carefully enough. We were supposed to ask the taxi to wait while we checked in, so he could take us down to the "residence," a building down the hill about half a km away where our rooms and bikes could be found. We offered to walk, but he insisted on getting his van and driving us down.
After unpacking our bikes and spending the better part of 45 minutes looking for the pump strap I knew I had removed from the handlebars as one of the first steps, I found it in my pocket and still had time for us to take showers and take a short nap. Then to dinner. As always, it was delcious, but George seemed to lack the desire to converse with such a small audience (it was only us three), so it passed mostly in silence. We did, however, agree that the next day we would go to the Villa Masore (formerly the Villa Barberini) on our ride the next day. One of the charms of the ICC, I had always heard, was that George knows so much about art and architecture.
Yesterday dawned cool and clear, so after breakfast we set off for the Villa Maser with George. The route started the same as we remembered, but then wandered thru countryside we had not previously seen. At one point, we pointed to a structure on a neighboring hill, which George explained had been a castle belonging to such a tyrant that the locals rose up and murdered him and every living member of his family to make sure his seed was not perpetuated. Then they pulled down the castle and built a church with the building materials. Anyway, we continued on for a bit up and down hills and thru charming towns until we reached a roundabout, where George exclaimed, "Ah, I have finally found the road to Maser." Odd. Nonetheless, we arrived half an hour before the villa opened to the public, as you can see from the closed shutters in the picture.
David and I then had a little over an hour to kill and to let our arms settle back into their sockets. A little cappuccino helped us recover. Our car, the first we came to on the platform, was also the destination of a group of about 8 or 10 Canadians, each with a huge suitcase, and a family of about 6 Brazilians, each with about 2 huge suitcases. Considerable confusion ensued about the numbering of the seats and jostling to get luggage into overhead racks. We managed to find space for ours and were immensely relieved to hear the both groups were headed to Florence, the train's first stop. The rest of the trip to Padova was uneventful other than an unexplained stop high on a curve in the track built well above the surrounding countryside. Eventually another train went by and we continued. These trains are FAST. David saw a trackside speed limit sign of 300 kph, if memory serves. Part of what makes it all work is that the tracks are completely isolated from everything else, with very few level crossings. It will be interesting to see how California build an infrastructure suitable for ours.
We changed trains in Padova for the little local train that takes one to Bassano del Grappa. My mental map from 3 years ago worked perfectly to get us to the bus station, except that the station had been moved back to the train station. Then, when we had walked the 4 or 5 blocks round trip, we couldn't find an open kiosk for tickets, nor a bus driver who even knew where one could buy tickets nor, for that matter, where the bus to Borso del Grappa left from. We managed to deduce that we could buy tickets inside the station at the biglietteria (ticket window), but even that official had no idea where the bus left from nor when it would next leave. Eventually, after asking some more bus drivers who came thru, we located the stop and found the sign, which said that the next bus wasn't for nearly an hour. So we took a taxi. We were eventually greeted by a somewhat sleepy George, awakened from his afternoon nap, who grumbled (for the first of several times in the next 24 hours) that we had failed to read the pre-departure information carefully enough. We were supposed to ask the taxi to wait while we checked in, so he could take us down to the "residence," a building down the hill about half a km away where our rooms and bikes could be found. We offered to walk, but he insisted on getting his van and driving us down.
After unpacking our bikes and spending the better part of 45 minutes looking for the pump strap I knew I had removed from the handlebars as one of the first steps, I found it in my pocket and still had time for us to take showers and take a short nap. Then to dinner. As always, it was delcious, but George seemed to lack the desire to converse with such a small audience (it was only us three), so it passed mostly in silence. We did, however, agree that the next day we would go to the Villa Masore (formerly the Villa Barberini) on our ride the next day. One of the charms of the ICC, I had always heard, was that George knows so much about art and architecture.
Yesterday dawned cool and clear, so after breakfast we set off for the Villa Maser with George. The route started the same as we remembered, but then wandered thru countryside we had not previously seen. At one point, we pointed to a structure on a neighboring hill, which George explained had been a castle belonging to such a tyrant that the locals rose up and murdered him and every living member of his family to make sure his seed was not perpetuated. Then they pulled down the castle and built a church with the building materials. Anyway, we continued on for a bit up and down hills and thru charming towns until we reached a roundabout, where George exclaimed, "Ah, I have finally found the road to Maser." Odd. Nonetheless, we arrived half an hour before the villa opened to the public, as you can see from the closed shutters in the picture.
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