Take the train. But witch?

In Italy, Patti and I traveled a lot by train and bus.  We only rented one car -- a Fiat 500, the first car to which I have felt any kind of emotional attachment since the '59 Ford Galaxy in which I first got laid --to tool around the countryside of Tuscany for a day.  It could have been spectacular fun, but we were lost most of the time, Patti refused to call me Marcello, and she complained constantly  because I was whistling the theme from La Dolce Vita ( I switched to a Bobby Darrenesque rendition of Volare.)


Our first major train trip was from Rome to Orvieto.  Upon entering the station, I assessed the situation for purchasing tickets. I looked to my left at the lines leading to the biglietterie – the ticket booths –and noticed there were only two. They snaked back and forth across the front of the area, Disneyland-style, in that way that makes you feel, despite all evidence to the contrary, that you are very close to ‘there’ from the moment you enter; but which, in reality end at a place where you discover that even though you are ‘there,’ you are not REALLY‘THERE’ and ‘THERE’ is still a long way off. There were two such lines and both looked equally unappealing.

To my right, there was a set of self-service ticket machines with virtually no lines, which for some might have been a sign of foreboding.  But I’m pretty tech savvy, the signs purported to offer language options, the trip was pretty straightforward, they accepted credit cards and, I would reiterate, there were no lines. And, acting against orders from the board of directors who stood behind me guarding the luggage from invisible pickpockets and shaking her head in apparent frustration, I opted to play with the machines.

I inserted my credit card and pushed the button with the little British flag and a very Italian sounding lady spoke to me in casual English.

“Whereyouwannago?”

Easy. O … R … V…

“Orvieto”

Si.  Fa bene! So far so good. Encouraged, I turned and sneered at the boss. (I relish these moments.)  She continued to shake her head in a kind of all-knowing, lip-licking, narrow-eyed way.

“Whatimeyouwannago?

I checked my watch. We had plenty of time. We could take the Regionale, save a few bucks. I pushed the button.

Whataclasseyouwan?

A paused slightly. I was beginning to listen a little in Italian and got confused. But that straightened out and I chose second class. More money saved.

“Howmanypeopleatraveling?”

"Due," I thought in Italian, cocky, feeling like I was nearing the finish line. I pushed the button for “2.” There was a long pause. It seemed longer than necessary. But finally:

“Takeoutayoucarde.”

I did it. I did it. I turned and looked at Patti. "I did it." Then I heard:

“Putinayoucard.”

I was filled with dread. But I put in my card.

“Takeoutayoucarde.”

Fuck! This is turning south. I smiled weakly back at the CEO, mia moglie. I took out my card.

“Entayoucoda.”

What? I didn’t understand the words. Am I supposed to do something? The words flipped round and round in my head.  Entayoucoda? And just as it occurred to me that I was being asked for a code, I heard:

“Takeoutayoucarde.”

The machine returned to the intro screen.  I turned to see Patti lift an eyebrow, chuckle, lick her lips once again, then turn to look out the front doors of the station in a way that suggests wordlessly, “I told you so, you dumb . . .”

Defiantly, I started the process again. This time, I knew to use my debit card, which in fact HAS a code. But there was suddenly a new addition. An old woman, dressed in black, hook-nosed, bruja style, apple-less escapee from “Snow White,” the sort of old crone that appeared in 1960’s Greek cinema -- bitter, negative, vulture like -- who sits in the corner of the room waiting for someone to die.

She sidled up next to me and began “helping” me. It appeared to be a common ruse used by the lowest working class that lurked around the machines. It's clearly designed to either put you in their debt for the assistance they offer or, more likely, to annoy annoy the shit out of you until you give them money so they’ll go away and leave you alone.

I did what one does in these situations: I refused to look at her. I just said in my most familiar Italian, as coldly and rudely as possible, “No. Va via!” But as I inserted my debit card into the machine, the old crone reached her bony little hand in and pointed at the screen, saying only one English word, “Here.”

“Whereyouwannago?” “Here…here.”

That arthritic hand intruded. I ignored her. O … R … V…

“Orvieto”

We’re back on track.

“Whatimeyouwannago?“  "Here…here.”

The hand persisted. I had backed her out of the space, but she had actually dug through under my arm. I wanted to grab her hand and crush it, but I pushed her away gently and warned her again. “No. Va via.” I made my selection.

"Whataclasseyouwan?"  “Here…here.”

The bitch was relentless. The pressure was getting to me.  I was steaming. I turned toward her and snarled. I had little bits of foam in the corner of my mouth. My teeth were clenched; my nostrils were flared. Little bits of spittle flew as I spoke. 

"Listen up, you ugly little wretch!   If you don’t get the fuck away from me, I will rip your ugly-ass bruja head from your fat little dwarf body and shove it up your . . . “

No need to finish. It was all very rude and, moreover, had no effect. She just stared at me, blankly.  I spent the balance of my time at the machine with my shoulder shoved into her upper body, pressing her against the next machine as she persisted, pointing, mumbling,

"Here. Here. Here."

I pushed button after button until, finally, the machine spit out a ticket. One ticket.. ONE!

One? I needed two. What had I done?

I was close to a breakdown. Clearly I needed to go through the whole process again. I stood there waving the ticket in front of my face, as though I were some sort of magician who could transform it into two. The old woman looked at me, shook her head, smiled broad and toothless with some sort of 'Mission Accomplished' subtext, then spit and walked away.

I had to go through the whole process again. I couldn’t even look at Patti. I reinserted my card and began, moving quickly and surely – crone-free – through every step. A second ticket popped out. I turned proudly toward my wife and handed her the tickets. She examined them carefully and, just when I was ready to receive my pat on the back, she announced, coolly,

“You bought three tickets. This ticket has two adults on it and this one has one adult.” She asked coolly,“Is someone else going with us?” She couldn't resist smiling.

I grabbed the tickets and examined them, knowing she had to be wrong, then knowing she was right, then knowing there was only one option:

I had to get in line.