This was my ante-penultimate day in Italy. Exiting the hotel revealed a crisp, cold morning - the first indications perhaps that winter's embrace was at hand. Turning immediately left, I ventured towards Naples Metro Station some 300 metres away. Hitherto, I was forced to negotiate a veritable street market. I passed a restaurant with the misleading eponym " Sharm el Sheikh. Despite the obviously Egyptian name, it served Indian cuisine. Although the day had barely begun, it was open for business. How successful it is, is anyone's guess. The thought of snacking on a Pyramid shaped samosa for Breakfast is probably the cause for some anxed. I avoided it like a biblical plague. Food poisoning is the scourge of every holiday maker.
I crossed at a sharp turn and approached my destination. At that juncture, I was accosted by a bedraggled gent offering a bootleg ipad and phone. I didn't dignify his approach with a response. Moments later I encountered a makeshift stool peddling AC Milan and Juventus football strips. Obviously a good seller in Southern Italy!
The metro station covers a wide berth. Fortunately the signage was accorded an English translation, so it was relatively easy to find the ticket office. This, alas was where my luck ended. Ironically, the ticket office relied on a ticketing service. I obtained docket A180 and waited patiently for my number to be called out. It would be a while yet. A155 was the most recent customer to approach the counter.
While I idled my time merely rolling my thumbs and anticipating my journey to Herculaneum, I began a dialogue with a fellow Brit. As I didn't catch his name, for the purposes of this blog I shall refer to him as John Bull - or John for short. John waxed lyrical about Naples and suggested I consider visiting some of the city's subterranean attractions. He had spent four months in the area as a crewman on a yacht. He was now returning to his home in Portugal. Whilst his pronounced Lancashire accent was clearly in evidence, he had not been to Blighty for almost twenty years. Such is the cosmopolitan nature of life in the EU!
Although the station employees are denuded of efficiency, they are perhaps the smartest dressed. Italy is a fashion capital and with good reason. When my number finally came up, I noticed that the clerk donned a cap and a finely pressed blazer. He looked more akin to a high ranking general! Whilst the thought placed a wry smile on my face, within moments my mood went south.When asking for a return ticket to Herculaneum, I was informed that I was inconveniently placed at the wrong ticket office. I needed to go to the one downstairs! Oh the joys of being a stranger in a strange land!
The lower tier of the station revealed a veritable rabbit's warren. Pathways led off in a multitude of directions. Suffice to say that I was still faced with the quandary of procuring a return ticket. Amongst the throng of Neapolitans, a sharp eye managed to spy a carefully concealed counter. For the equivalent of £2, I finally attained my return excursion. Grateful that this molehill come Mount Vesuvius was obviated, I made my way to the platform. In virtually no time at all, the train arrived.
At this point I again came unstuck. I was left scratching my head. My rudimentary Berlitz guide had provided a truncated map of the underground. There were two lines - L1 and L2 which seemed elementary enough. However, Berlitz in their infinite wisdom had failed to provide all the stations. Summoning up a modicum of courage and broken Italian, I asked a fellow passenger where Herculaneum was. 8 stops came the reply. It would be another forty minutes before I alighted. In the interim, I hoped to gaze upon scenic vistas. My hopes were somewhat dashed. Where I envisaged rolling hills and verdant lush valleys, the region had fallen victim to industrialisation. The factories and abandoned warehouses were unmistakeable. Again, graffiti was all pervasive.
Herculaneum station or as it is known in modern parlance - Ercolano was as dull as ditch water. In contrast to the more edifying Naples, it was as grey as John Major. As I ventured outside, I became aware of two things. Firstly, the street was awkward to negotiate. It had a nasty meandering slope. Secondly, I noted a group of English tourists who were as hopelessly lost as I was.
As I walked on a little further, a waitress from the local Cafe de Paris (don't ask) was encouraging people to partake of the menu. I sat down at a table and quenched my thirst with a glass of lemonade. I turned a blind eye to the fact that the table had a will of its own. The scourge of every budding restaurateur is the off balance table. Normally a piece of cardboard works miracles and keeps it in check. Only one problem. The offending article like the rest of the establishment was wrestling with the slope. I simply bit my lip.
With my glass empty, I asked the waitress the whereabouts of the ancient ruins. She motioned southwards and stated that within 15 minutes I would reach an archway, Without further or do, I left for my appointment with the past.
I crossed at a sharp turn and approached my destination. At that juncture, I was accosted by a bedraggled gent offering a bootleg ipad and phone. I didn't dignify his approach with a response. Moments later I encountered a makeshift stool peddling AC Milan and Juventus football strips. Obviously a good seller in Southern Italy!
The metro station covers a wide berth. Fortunately the signage was accorded an English translation, so it was relatively easy to find the ticket office. This, alas was where my luck ended. Ironically, the ticket office relied on a ticketing service. I obtained docket A180 and waited patiently for my number to be called out. It would be a while yet. A155 was the most recent customer to approach the counter.
While I idled my time merely rolling my thumbs and anticipating my journey to Herculaneum, I began a dialogue with a fellow Brit. As I didn't catch his name, for the purposes of this blog I shall refer to him as John Bull - or John for short. John waxed lyrical about Naples and suggested I consider visiting some of the city's subterranean attractions. He had spent four months in the area as a crewman on a yacht. He was now returning to his home in Portugal. Whilst his pronounced Lancashire accent was clearly in evidence, he had not been to Blighty for almost twenty years. Such is the cosmopolitan nature of life in the EU!
Although the station employees are denuded of efficiency, they are perhaps the smartest dressed. Italy is a fashion capital and with good reason. When my number finally came up, I noticed that the clerk donned a cap and a finely pressed blazer. He looked more akin to a high ranking general! Whilst the thought placed a wry smile on my face, within moments my mood went south.When asking for a return ticket to Herculaneum, I was informed that I was inconveniently placed at the wrong ticket office. I needed to go to the one downstairs! Oh the joys of being a stranger in a strange land!
The lower tier of the station revealed a veritable rabbit's warren. Pathways led off in a multitude of directions. Suffice to say that I was still faced with the quandary of procuring a return ticket. Amongst the throng of Neapolitans, a sharp eye managed to spy a carefully concealed counter. For the equivalent of £2, I finally attained my return excursion. Grateful that this molehill come Mount Vesuvius was obviated, I made my way to the platform. In virtually no time at all, the train arrived.
At this point I again came unstuck. I was left scratching my head. My rudimentary Berlitz guide had provided a truncated map of the underground. There were two lines - L1 and L2 which seemed elementary enough. However, Berlitz in their infinite wisdom had failed to provide all the stations. Summoning up a modicum of courage and broken Italian, I asked a fellow passenger where Herculaneum was. 8 stops came the reply. It would be another forty minutes before I alighted. In the interim, I hoped to gaze upon scenic vistas. My hopes were somewhat dashed. Where I envisaged rolling hills and verdant lush valleys, the region had fallen victim to industrialisation. The factories and abandoned warehouses were unmistakeable. Again, graffiti was all pervasive.
Herculaneum station or as it is known in modern parlance - Ercolano was as dull as ditch water. In contrast to the more edifying Naples, it was as grey as John Major. As I ventured outside, I became aware of two things. Firstly, the street was awkward to negotiate. It had a nasty meandering slope. Secondly, I noted a group of English tourists who were as hopelessly lost as I was.
As I walked on a little further, a waitress from the local Cafe de Paris (don't ask) was encouraging people to partake of the menu. I sat down at a table and quenched my thirst with a glass of lemonade. I turned a blind eye to the fact that the table had a will of its own. The scourge of every budding restaurateur is the off balance table. Normally a piece of cardboard works miracles and keeps it in check. Only one problem. The offending article like the rest of the establishment was wrestling with the slope. I simply bit my lip.
With my glass empty, I asked the waitress the whereabouts of the ancient ruins. She motioned southwards and stated that within 15 minutes I would reach an archway, Without further or do, I left for my appointment with the past.
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