Italian Sparks

WHEN STEREOTYPES COME TO LIFE

A few years ago, in September 2008, we went to Florence. A beautiful city with plenty to do and see and the bonus of some excellent food. We were lucky with our hotel too, a centuries old palazzo on the banks of the Arno and the biggest hotel room I've ever occupied. There was a huge fresco on the ceiling and the four poster bed looked like it belonged in a doll's house such was the scale it had to contend with. There was much about our stay which could be described as memorable.

And yet, when I think back on that holiday, it isn't the stay that immediately comes to mind, but the journey to get there. Unusually, in these days of budget airlines and cheap flights, we went by train. A more expensive alternative, but it provided an experience we wouldn't have wanted to miss out on.

The plan for the trip was straightforward and relaxed. We would take a train down to London and stay in a hotel opposite Saint Pancras. A leisurely breakfast, cross the road and present ourselves for our mid morning Eurostar to Paris. There would be about four hours in the French capital, ample time to make our way from Gare du Nord to Gare de Bercy (which lies south east of the centre) and enjoy a relaxing dinner before boarding the sleeper to Florence just before eight in the evening. Getting to bed (bunk!) sharp would prepare us for our early morning arrival into Firenze. What could be more enjoyable?

One week before we were due to speed under the English Channel we awoke to the news that there had been a major fire in the tunnel. The good news was that nobody had been seriously injured, although it must have been a frightening experience for anyone caught down there. The bad news was that it had been closed to enable rescue and repair work to be undertaken and there was no clue as to when it would reopen. At this stage we could only follow the reports and hope that the damage things would soon get sorted.

Within two days one of the two tunnels had been reopened for business and a limited service began. As the days went by the operation got slicker and trains were bunched up to run in one direction, then the tunnel made available for the reverse journey. This system would be in place for several months. Passengers were being advised to turn up well in advance of their booking time, but to expect long delays.

We went to London, found an information person and explained the need to make the sleeper connection. Would that be OK? Yes it would, but we might not have as long in Paris as we'd planned. The system was still bedding in. In reality what was achieved was impressive and the organisation worked well. True, we had a couple of hours to wait in an overcrowded departure lounge. But it still beats going Ryanair. Given how major an incident had taken place just seven days previously there could be no quibble with the service provided and the information available.

Which didn't stop it from being a disappointment that we were into Paris well over two hours after we'd planned. Into the rush hour. That was fun, negotiating the Metro with a couple of large suitcases. It helped to look slightly mad and foreign. No time, of course, for the relaxed Parisian dinner we'd looked forward to. A pavement cafe, biere pour moi, vin rose pour madame, evening sunshine. No complaints. We'd get fed on the train.

I'd read about the on-train dining arrangements before we left and knew the score. Make your wishes known to the guard and he'd tell you which sitting you were going to. We'd hope to be in the one at eight, shortly after boarding, but the location of our cabin meant that option had been taken by the time we were asked and we would have to hold on until ten o'clock. So be it, but we'd be hungry.

Ten comes and we sway and shuffle along to the dining car, joining the queue waiting to seated. In the dining area the eight o'clock lot are still finishing off. We, the late eaters, are stood by the kitchen and serving section of the carriage, our only distraction the antics of the cooking and waiting staff. At this point you may want to check my title out again.

There was a lot of coming and going. It was hard to say what the purpose of these activities were, but they were plentiful. Then the lights went out. From what I could see it was only this carriage that was affected. Cue much shouting and (presumably) cursing in Italian, striking of matches and finally a torch appears. Someone can be seen attacking something on the wall beyond the head of our queue. Hey presto, the lights go back on, revealing the chef returning grumpily to his kitchen. He had fixed the problem with one of his chopping knives. Even if I could have spoken Italian I reckond it would still be best not to ask questions....

Eventually, well past ten, the satisfied customers emerge and we are able to take their places. Then, well, not much happens. One waiter can be seen lovingly transferring freshly grated parmesan into small dishes. Each table will get a dish. Drinks orders are taken, wine arrives. No food (unless you count the cheese), just wine. Food orders are taken. Oh good, the chef can have some idea of what he's up to now, other than his emergency electrician duties. It must have been well after ten thirty before large pots of risotto emerge and we are given two choices. I was starving and ended up having a bit of both. They were, at least, delicious.

A gap. A longish gap. Our mains arrive. The lights go out. I can see the chef doing his thing, but, frankly, I'd rather eat. His culinary efforts are superior to his handyman skills. I don't need light to enjoy what I'm eating, I just need to let my instincts rip. I'm still that hungry.

The train stops at the Swiss border control. The staff get off for a smoke. We await dessert. The lights go out. The chef is having a fag so we have to sit in darkness for a bit longer this time. Priorities, eh? Anyway, there's a bit of light this time from the platform of the Swiss station. So he probably knew we'd be fine.

Dessert comes, is eaten. Coffee is offered. No thanks, just the bill please. Are you sure sir? Oh yes, I am. Shrugs. I have to give it to him, it was one of the best and most expressive shrugs I've ever witnessed. He obviously practices. A lot. Finally we are able to pay and sway along the corridors to our cabin, now miraculously converted into a place for sleep. It is well after midnight, and I am full of a lovely Italian meal.

I don't sleep much.

But I still wouldn't have missed the experience.