I fell off the train at Genoa.
Well, not just me. But precious pearls — and almost my sister Julie and brother-in-law Jerry — to me fell out of the bag, turning the northern Italy countryside into an Italian Buster Keaton movie.
We spent 23 days abroad, half of them spent aboard the cruise ship Norwegian Star.
It was not by any means nothing but a voyage.
We caught the nonstop British Airways flight from Lindbergh Field to London Heathrow (which I hate more than anything in London, which I love) without a hitch, and caught the much shorter hitch to Venice, where I’d never been. Again, no problem, except Venice’s streets were flooded and we walked about a mile before finding the water taxi that would take us to the wonderful St. Regis Hotel. Close to everything. Stepping on and off a boat in Venice. Career-threatening.
We took a boat to the Murano Venetian glass-blowers and a glass-blower also blew our minds.
We wandered without getting wet, visiting famed Saint Mark’s Square, where so many vendors all sell the exact same things. And if you haven’t had breakfast on the Saint Regis Hotel’s dock on the Grand Canal, you haven’t had breakfast. Venice is stunning.
My sister and I are Genovese, so next it was an important objective. We took a train to Genoa, and then another to the suburban town of Riva Trigoso, home of my father’s father and my ancestors.
The train arrived at a Mayberry RFD station. Not one person, Italian or otherwise, worked there.
My wife Teresa and I started to exit the train, the first ones, and the train started to move, doors closing. Teresa and I went flying off, with me, as expected, trying to help.
Teresa, not exactly Olga Korbut, had a soft landing. Me? Much harder, on hard, rocky asphalt. Julie was saved when Jerry held her inside the coach.
I went down like Sonny Liston and scraped the right side of my massive right calf. Not romantic. The train stopped and a medical woman and a man I assumed to be the remarkable conductor, ran toward us. She dressed my wound and the conductor was apologetic, but his sale was not convincing.
I didn’t care. No cabs, Ubers or tricycles into Trigoso. So we hopped on the next train and limped back to Genoa, bucket list unfilled, incredibly lucky, soon taking another train to Rome during the migration of Papal pilgrims.
We all had been to Rome, but it did not disappoint. It was magnificent.
The Vatican and its museum were jammed with thousands of folks (the new Pope would be named a few days later). The Trevi Fountain and Spanish Steps were terribly overcrowded, and I was upset. Most of the steps have been covered with potted plants. The Spanish Inquisition guys would have stepped on those pots.
The Hotel Westin Excelsior has to be one of the best in the world. Built by John Jacob Astor, whose big mistake in life was being rich enough to afford maiden voyage tickets for the Titanic, it takes elegance to another floor.
Then it was on Via Veneto, one of my favorite streets anywhere, home of embassies and, of course, Harry’s Bar a few Italian blocks up the street. It’s just another of Ernest Hemingway’s watering holes, but monstrous in boozer lore.
After that, it was a ride to Civitavecchia, Rome’s port, a ways away, for the cruise. I loved Pisa, the first stop. But not everything was straight. And, predictably, it was that way when we left.
Then it was down the Med to Cannes, famed spot on the French Riviera, home to Cary Grant and Grace Kelly in The Master’s “To Catch a Thief,” and red carpets. We took a bus ride around town. It was gorgeous, but , only one day in port on a cruise.
Next up, Barcelona, which I was not looking forward to. I didn’t like it during almost three weeks of the 1992 Olympics, nor did I like it much this time, when the weather was 10,000 times better.
Continuing in Spain, to Cadiz, on the Atlantic side. It was better than Barcelona. A good-looking port. Lisbon came next, but we just parked there.
It was Fatima, a most holy place, that we wanted to see. We bused it, and it was worth it. Thousands of pilgrims go there to see the spot where, in 1917, three children saw the Virgin Mother. Some crawled on their knees around the large grounds. It was a moving experience.
When I saw La Verdon, , on the itinerary, I had no idea what it was. A pretty place, with a market that serves delicious olives the size of my head, varietal salamis, and fish that does not stink.
London was up next, but really Tulberg, one of its main and oldest ports. Not enough time to spend the day inside London. We went to the largest mall I’ve been to in my life.
Next stop was wonderful Amsterdam. We took the river cruise (Europe has many rivers) and it was scenic and beautiful and romantic and historic. I loved it but left ticked off because they didn’t have wooden shoes in my size. I’m carving a pair now.
Zebrugge, Belgium was the surprise of the trip. A beautiful little place with marvelous shops and restaurants and horse-drawn carriages clip-clopping along cobblestoned streets. Oh, and a river of Belgian chocolate runs through it.
Our cruise ended at the large port of Le Havre, which is where the GPS has met its match. It’s easier to get around Rome and Paris. But that was fine, because La Harve is next to Normandy’s D-Day beaches, and that was No. 1 on my bucket list.
We rented a car. Problem was, it took an hour to get a cab off the ship. By the time we got to Omaha Beach, the cemetery was closed. But the splendid museum was open and, of course, the beaches didn’t close.
The only other time I’ve been anywhere close, where you could really feel it, was the Book Depository in Dallas. Normandy is where soldiers lived and died and saved the world for us to get off a different kind of cruise ship. More sobering than a judges’ conclave.
We then took the train to Paris, flying along magnificent countryside. I didn’t know if I would like Paris. I did. Crawling with people all hours of the day. We got so close to the Mona Lisa in the enormous Louvre that she said I was right when I told her she had pasta with the garlic for breakfast.
Eiffel Tower. Opera House. Champs-Élysées. Arc de Triomphe. A bistro every two meters.The Seine. Notre Dame Cathedral (still in repair, but still one of the college football championship favorites). Insanely expensive shops next to a McDonald’s. Left Bank. Right Bank. No Central Bank. People were dressed up. Friendly.
From the time we left to the time we landed back at Lindbergh from London, the weather was perfect. I want to thank my-brother-in-law, soon to have knee surgery, for doing the work of a stevedore.
I would have settled for Normandy. But the cream was sweet. Thanks to all who wondered where I’ve been.
