Travel + Leisure - India & South Asia
A SUMMER SOJOURN
A throwback to a bus trip taken from the UK to Italy in the 1990s doubles as a lesson in solidarity during tough times.
IT’S TIMES LIKE THESE that make us stop and smell the proverbial roses. Until now, we were constantly running from one place to another to tick destinations off our bucket lists. Perhaps this grounding and stillness was the need of the hour.
This is also the time when industry experts come together and pontificate about ‘the next big thing’; most seem to agree on road trips. I have been on numerous road trips since childhood, and all this talk stirred up an early memory of a bus trip from the UK to Italy.
On one ridiculously early July morning in the 1990s, my mother, aunt, two female cousins, and I clambered into a bus that was to take us
2,155 kilometres away—to Rome. The journey time was nearly 25 hours, and like all travelling Indians of the time, we carried a multitude of bags and snacks. Our boarding point was outside the delightfully named but dilapidated Pineapple Inn in Stockport, an omen, I hoped, of sun and exotic adventures. We took the seats above the stairwell so we could stretch our legs over the banister.
The coach eventually set off and would meander through the UK and France, to reach the Alps in the early evening.
The first five hours to Dover went smoothly, and we opened our lunch boxes for a traditional Indian lunch of curried potatoes and chapati. These were the days of the ferry, where you took to the high seas to reach Europe. One hour and forty minutes is all it took to cross over from boring Britian to exotic Europe. The sun was high in the sky when we queued up to leave the ferry.
As we sped along the autoroutes (under the more relaxed European speed limits), heading towards the Alps where we would pass through Switzerland into Italy, the true horror of our seats came alive. The stairwell did not just lead to an exit door but also to the one and only toilet on the bus. And with each use, a putrid smell drifted up the stairwell to where we had cleverly camped. By the time we reached the night stop on a desolate stretch of an Alpine pass, we were gasping for air. We jumped off as soon as the bus halted, only to be whacked in the face by icy winds flecked with snow.
The thing with most coach trips to Europe in that era was that the itinerary proudly boasted an idyllic two-night stay in a historic suburb of Florence or a quiet suburb of Rome, but the truth was very different. Our first stops were Florence and Montecatini Terme, a Tuscan town that is an hour’s trek from the city centre.
Florence is an incredibly deceptive city— modern in old bones. The bus dropped us off at the train station as the driver claimed he couldn’t go any closer due to size restrictions. I now believe that it had nothing to do with the bus size but with the stench that emanated from the toilet. However, we were left in an area that was miles from anywhere, with a four-hour deadline to see all the treasures of the city. It felt like a race to manoeuvre our way through crowded streets to tick off the key sights.
Though we had two days to explore the region, we could barely muster the strength for one as we were shattered from the 20-hour-long journey. Our next stop, the highlight of the tour, was Rome, where we explored the eternal city on a stopwatch whistle tour. Centuries of history were given a quick nod. This time, the ‘suburb’ was nearly two hours outside Rome, near Monte Cassino. While our bus took us to Rome once, any further visits necessitated independent navigation of the public transport system, an adventure in itself.
We made our independent foray into Rome by train. However, after a day of sightseeing, we were confused, dazed, and exhausted, and arrived back at the station, only to realise we were on the wrong side of the platform. While asking around for directions, we spotted a woman running to catch the train. We followed the young lady, who was now running on the tracks, trying to climb up into the carriage. Huffing and puffing, the five of us managed to climb aboard too, before the train picked up speed. Thrilled at having made it, we began speaking to our unlikely compatriot. In broken English, the young lady explained that she was going to Monte Cassino and could give us a lift for the last leg of the journey.
As we approached the station, the woman signalled us to get ready to leave. She made her way to the rear end of the train, and as it slowed, she jumped off, as if she had done it a million times. Like brainless lemmings, we unquestioningly followed suit. A few minutes later, we were all crammed into her tiny yellow Fiat Cinquecento, meant to accommodate just four passengers.
By the time we reached Monte Cassino, we felt like fugitives on the run. The return journey to the UK felt like a blessing; we were relieved that the crazy trip had ended! In retrospect though, I have come to realise what seemed like a rushed holiday then was actually full of laughter and adventure. The road had blessed us with unforgettable experiences. I recall incidents like exploring Pompeii on a scorching day and cheekily claiming we had left a bambino (child) inside as we did not have the money to buy tickets, flirtatious waiters offering to treat my female travel companions to breakfast and being extremely disappointed when I turned up, a fellow bus passenger dealing with the aromatic journey with a flask of whisky and sharing the antidote with all of us, leading to a unique moving speakeasy on wheels.
It is only in hindsight that we realise how uncomfortable and ridiculous experiences bring us closer together. I am sure that when we look back at this pandemic years from now, we will do so with bittersweet memories. And hopefully, like all trips, good or bad, this will also have brought us, the world, closer.