Answering the call of the rails
Travelling by train can be like life itself, except that the endpoint has been predetermined.
On the train running north from Lecce to Ostuni, Italy, the blue sky and the pillowy white clouds suddenly darken.
By Brindisi, they are ominous. Gunpowder grey and heavy-bellied, they look like enormous jellyfish in the sky, trailing tendrils of rain across the wizened grapevines and the silvery-green olive groves.
In the seat ahead of us, a young man in a black wool toque is scrolling intently on his mobile phone, furiously chewing his fingernails.
Across the aisle, two women, evidently on a long journey, hug their well-worn knapsacks and try to sleep, their feet stretched out of the seats facing them.
The young man gets off before us, hoisting his backpack and slinking forward at the hiss of the opening door. The women are still hunched in sleep when we reach our destination.
For a few moments, our lives intersected.
'WHERE ARE WE?'
Days earlier, heading south to Lecce from Bari, we shared a train car with a woman who carried on an intense and loud phone conversation the entire time.
At times she paced the aisle, punctuating her exclamations with hand gestures.
I caught only a smattering of Italian words from her rapid-fire communication: “And then,” “yesterday,” “office.” Her tone was all business, not pleasure.
When we stopped at a station, she had no idea how far she’d travelled.
“Where are we?” she asked in Italian, looking around bewilderedly.
“Brindisi.”
She put the phone back to her ear and resumed her diatribe.
I imagined she was someone’s boss, haranguing the poor soul on the other end of the phone — a poor soul who was likely hoping her absence from the office would be extended, and that wherever she was, cell service would be spotty.
FAMILIAR FACES
Wandering around in the warm sun and gentle sea breezes of Gallipoli (Italian, not Turkish), we see a smartly dressed couple in berets (hers light, his dark), stylish sunglasses and buff-coloured trench coats.
They have the appearance of a couple who have been together many years and decided early on how they would present themselves to the world.
His head is clean-shaven and he seems reserved. She has short, curly brown hair and is more effusive.
They speak to each other in Italian, making frequent eye contact. They seem perfectly in tune, walking briskly together with matched strides to points of interest, pausing briefly for photos.
We realize we had seen them earlier on the train, but also in Lecce, our home base.
They are the closest thing to seeing familiar faces in the street that we’ve had.
As we wait for the train heading back to Lecce, they are on the platform, a perfect pair.
I resist the urge to wave in recognition.
TRAVELLING BY TRAIN
I like trains.
Perhaps never having grown up with them, they are even more attractive to me now.
I like the orderliness of trains — at least most of the ones I’ve taken.
The convenience of the ticket machines; if you wish, you can decide on your journey just minutes before it begins.
The affordability of the Italian system, where you can make a leisurely 90-minute journey for $15, return.
I like the whoosh of the doors closing, the whistles signalling departure. The big windows and the retractable armrests.
Watching the landscape unfold as you travel past it; the momentary glimpses of people going about their lives.
A man repairing a stone fence. A cyclist in neon-green Lycra and reflective aviator shades, speaking on a cell phone at the front of a line of traffic paused at a railroad crossing.
Someone adding branches to a hot fire as the sun sets in an orange glow behind a copse of dark trees.
Travelling by train can be like life itself, except that the endpoint has been predetermined.
Fellow passengers come and go. Some will share the whole ride, while others’ journeys will overlap with yours for only a short time. Some are sociable, wanting to connect; others are immersed in their own preoccupations.
The trip may never go completely as planned, but as the lush fields and stately cypresses and the umbrella-like stone pines flash past, you hope it doesn’t end too soon.