Originally Posted by eightblack

I don’t know when the last time it was that you caught a train in Italy or if you have anything to compare it to where you live, but in essence, if you haven’t experienced train travel in Italy on a busy day, then you just haven’t lived.

I hadn’t landed in FLR for a long, long time, and to be honest, I cant even remember if I had flown into the place at all. I might have been drinking heavily at the time.

If you blink, you’ll miss the airport.

And the laid back, “domani” approach of the majority of the Italian population must tip the buttoned up Germans right over their schnitzel.

“Florence Tower, zis is Lufthansa 435 requesting clearance to land”
“Ah Lufthansa Four Three A Five, this is a Florence. Land a anywhere a you want”
“Anyvhere?”
“Si”

Much German expletive from the German pilots.

Our little Embraer jet headed toward the terminal and it was clearly evident that the 3 ground crew working that day weren’t quite expecting us. Much running towards the jet with their wands and sticks, trying to put their cigarettes out and finishing their expressos.

I loved it. Controlled chaos at its best.

So we disembark and there are 2 buses waiting for us. Once the first bus is sort of full, someone yells at the driver and we drive for all of 100 feet and then get out.

I didn’t have to show my passport to anyone. And I only had to show it in Germany so I could technically leave the main Frankfurt terminal to go back to the FCT.

Maybe the Italians don’t care who visit or who stays.

When you look online on the train websites, it looks simple enough. It tells you to get a train from FLR to Milan, and from there, another train to Lake Como.

That might be what it says on the tin, but it is definitely not what happens in real life. First you have to get out of the little tin shed that is Florence Airport. From there you need to catch a rather modern tram – which to be fair is only a short walk from the terminal, and then you are supposed to stay on the tram to the main train station. But no one tells you what station that is. Everything on the wall maps says everything in Italian. You talk to people on the train and everyone does their best Japanese impression, and simply nod their head in agreement to everything you are saying. And then they move 5 feet away from you into the next cabin.

My current wife told me that the best way to book a train in Italy was to download an app called Omio. Apparently it was child’s play. Easy as pie.

Except that it wasn’t.

I don’t know about you but I hate booking stuff via my phone. The kids seem to have no problems and laugh at me constantly but it must be my tired eyes. Give me a laptop and an internet connection any day and I’m happy.

I finally figure it out but the stupid app says it has no clue where Lake Como is and it would only sell me a ticket to Milan – and from there I was SOL. Bollocks then. I decide to call a real human – and after rummaging around the app for 10 mins, finally find a number to call. In London of all places. Because that makes sense.

Some rather pleasant English lady apologizes for the app – but knowing full well that it was user error, and gladly refunded my money. They probably don’t have a refund policy at all but just decided to do it anyway, just to get me off the phone.

Logic and common sense tells me to stay on the tram out of Florence Airport until it gets to somewhere in the middle of the city. I vaguely remember the larger train station when the tram pulls up – but it was at least a 30 min ride, and not “just a 2 or 3 a minutee” as the lovely woman in the info booth told me at the airport.

Now Florence Train Station is what you would expect. A total madhouse. It’s a terminal station which means trains don’t go through the place (unless of course the driver just learned his wife was sleeping with a man called Eugennio)

Ticketing is a rather odd process. A lot of tourists like us work out via the Google and via 3rd party booking sites how to book and pay for what looks like a pretty formal set of tickets. Then there are ticket machines scattered thru the place which are the normal ticketing machines you see at train stations worldwide.

And then there are these little red booths scattered across the station with semi helpful people who tell you how to catch the train you thought you bought a ticket on.

Then, to make you feel more normal – there are display boards within the terminal showing your train, what type of train it is (eg fast or slow) what platform it leaves from and at what time. Then there is a lot of space for additional comments, such as…

“train is a 39 minute late” Reason “traffico”
“train is a 60 minute late” Reason “Eugennio. Again”

You go inside to the ticketing office and ask…

“ I need to catch a train to Lake Como”
“Go outside a..”
“But why I want to buy a ticket…”
“Ah zey will a help you outside”

And then they shoo you away like a pesky dog.

You go outside and approach a man in the little red tent.
Same thing happens

“I need to catch a train to Lake Como”
“Go indside a..”
“But why I want to buy a ticket”
“Ah zey will a help you inside”

In the end I gave up, jammed some euros in an ATM machine, think I find the destination which has Como on it and wait for something formal to eject from a slot. I wave my now famous piece of paper to the 2 men standing at the main entrance, who waved me in with about the same level of interest as they had when they found out that the same guy train driver, Eugennio, well his cousin, was sleeping with both their sisters.

My train wasn’t leaving, as far as I could tell for 30 mins, so I did what all Italians do at this point. Had an espresso and something to eat. And charged my laptop.

I find the platform, find the train and jump on. No assigned seating, just crap everywhere. Sadly I was in the cabin where 30 people from Wisconsin had decided to bunk down for the 32 min trip to Como. If you have never seen how a group of 30 from Wisconsin travel to an Italian destination wedding, then this was something to behold. Both doorways had large suitcases piled high to the ceiling, and the noise was deafening. Holy cow.

I squeezed into the last remaining seat and had a rather lovely chat to one of the Grandfathers on the trip

His own daughter who was across the isle from me kept telling her old man to keep quiet and stop talking so much. I politely told the rather petulant woman that if we wanted her opinion, we would give it to her. The Grandfather was delighted that at last, someone was in his corner. We roared laughing when he started showing me photos from the wedding but it got a bit weird when he started telling me that hadn’t used half the Viagra prescription his Doctor had given him for the trip.

Como station is no bigger than a cowshed. Being a modern day citizen I thought I would simply catch an Uber to the Airbnb my family had no doubt trashed by this point. Except for one thing.

Uber and the Italian government didn’t really see eye to eye. And apparently Uber only works in larger cities like Rome. I wont bore you with the details about why Uber doesn’t exist in more Italian cities but suffice to say that when the Uber arrogant folks visited Italy many years ago to set up shop, they were told a very big, blunt Sicilian no. Like a frazzled teenager they persisted. The Italians kept telling them no. And to go away. The Uber teenagers were like a dog with a bone.

Apparently they only got the message when the Italians pulled their best Godfather routine and put a frozen chicken in the bed (they were all out of dead horses at the time) of the Uber folks hotel room.

So don’t bother opening the Uber app in Como. It’s about as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike.

I don’t think I have caught a cab in 20 years. But that was my only option. I had to ferret around on my phone to find the Airbnb address and the rather pleasant taxi driver was fluent in English and got me there without killing me or anyone else. Which is quite a miracle in Italy. He told me that there were only 45 taxis in Lake Como (which would mean something later on…)

If you haven’t been – Como is stunning. Apparently George Clooney has a joint there. As does Madonna. And some slightly unhinged woman called Donatella Versace. And even the rather odd Sir Richard Branson. I have time to kill. I may as well drop in and say hello...