Unlike previous cities where buying tickets for the public transport had sometimes proved difficult, Rome was a breeze. There was actually a ticket machine in the hostel itself, and there are only three types of ticket – a single journey, a day, and a week. I bought a day ticket, and waited for the bus at the stop outside the hostel.The fact that I had successfully purchased a ticket with which I was allowed to travel on any form of public transport in Rome for one day may appear slightly uninteresting, but this ticket that I had confidently pocketed and thought no more about was not yet legal. Rome, like many other cities, uses a system that I think is unnecessarily complicated. You see, the ticket is not valid for travel until the holder stamps the date and time on it using one of the strategically placed validation machines.
I had come across this sort of system several times before on this trip, notably in Brussels, Berlin, and Budapest, where I had validated my ticket correctly because I had followed everyone else, and the locals all dutifully lined up to stamp their tickets. This ‘do as the locals do’ philosophy was exactly the reason why I was now standing on a bus without a valid ticket. No-one else had one either.
Some ten minutes into the journey, three people in front of me stamped their tickets, and I noted a movement at the front of the bus. Evidently a ticket inspector had got on and everyone on the bus was frantically validating their tickets. Having taken a moment to mentally curse the cheating citizens of Rome for leading me into such illicit activity, I punched mine too. And then I was caught.
To say I’m impartial in this matter would be pretty pointless, but I am convinced that I was only singled out because I was a tourist. I was after all carrying a backpack, had a camera round my neck (unfortunately a very expensive one) and a copy of The Times in my right hand. It was my stop anyway so I got off. They got off too, and I began the process of getting myself off, which I was convinced I would win.
“I see you validate ticket on the bus. You must validate your ticket before you travel”
I decided that ignorant tourist (ie. the truth) was the way to play this.
“I was just following everyone else. Is there a problem?”
“Yes, you have to validate before travel, we have to fine you now”
“What about everyone else – I just did what they did”
“I did not see them. I see you do it in front of us. Is very ugly.”
“So it’s ok to cheat if you do it every day, but not if you are a tourist?”
“You must pay a fine now”
“How much is the fine?”
“fifty one euro”
Christ! Change of tack, I think
“I’m sorry, I don’t have that kind of money, and I don’t understand my offence”
To cut a long protracted bit of conversation short (and because I don’t remember it word for word), they said they would take my driver’s licence or passport and I could claim it back, in return for the fine at any major station. Alternatively I could go to that cash point (ATM) over there and get some money. I said that I would not be able to withdraw money as I had none, and I needed to leave the country tonight otherwise my visa would expire and I would be arrested. I really thought this would do the trick, but to their credit these inspectors weren’t having any of it, and I eventually had to go to the cash point and pretend to withdraw some money (I did actually have enough cash to pay)
“I assume I will get a receipt for this”
“Yes, of course” – he opens a book
“I’ll also need to see some ID”
Basically at this point I didn’t expect to be let off, and since I had bought a ticket fair and square that morning, I was very annoyed. So I decided that if his guy was going to take €51 off me, I was going to exercise my right to be a complete pain.
“Is here, official form”
“No, you. I am not going to give you any money unless you can prove that you are from the bus company”
“OK”
He showed me an ID card, which I took out of his hand and photographed with my digital camera.
“What you doing?”
“Don’t worry, I just need evidence for my appeal”
“Appeal?”
“Complaint. You know, claim, litigation, court case. Of course I’ll also be writing about this incident for The Times – I’m the travel correspondent.”
Yes, it was getting ridiculous, but I was having fun, and he was beginning to go a bit pale. This sort of experience isn’t worth parting with €51 though, which is what I had to do next. He looked much more confident having received the money, and handed me the receipt. I photographed that too, then retrieved a zip-loc plastic bag from my daypack (I use them for keeping things dry) and put the receipt in it, gripping it only by the corners. Then I fished a marker pen out of my pocket and wrote “TT52-07 11/09/02” on it. It was completely meaningless. I took back my drivers licence, and in parting asked the inspector one more thing.
“OK. Oh, can you tell me where I can find the British Embassy? You know, with this sort of case it’s important to claim back the money as soon as possible. Otherwise the international law can get quite complicated.”
He didn’t really understand, so I got out my phone and walked away, pretending to be talking to someone.
“Hi, Fred – look, do you still know that bloke at the Italian foreign office? Excellent….”
And so I ended up arriving at the Hotel Montreal at about half past nine, later than I had hoped but early enough for Chris and John to be still having breakfast. They decided to go to St Peters, which I’d already seen, so I went to EasyInternet to watch the 11/9 commemorations. At about two thirty I met Chris and Sunil at the station to go to the catacombs, a vast network of tunnels built by early Christians as tombs for their dead. The name catacombs comes from the Greek word coemeteria, or sleeping places.
Tunneled in the tufa bedrock of the city’s ancient suburbs, some go as deep as five levels. They twist and turn like a labyrinth, yet thanks to the broad staircases and vertical air shafts that were carved for them in ancient times, the air of the catacombs is quite fresh and clear. They are not at all unpleasant, let alone unhealthy, to visit. Nor were they unsuited to the memorial and pilgrim services that used to be performed in the deep underground tunnels.
The catacomb we visited was named after St Sebastian, who is entombed in it, although his body has been moved from it’s original resting place. To get there we had to take metro line A to connect to the 660 bus route, which is a very short ride from anywhere on the route to the Via Appia (better known as the Appian Way). We discovered that it was a very short bus route because we went all the way around it before we realised that we’d missed the stop. So we went round again, and accepted that the driver would obviously think us insane.
As we went down the temperature dropped, which was quite refreshing considering how hot it was topside. I knew that this was by no means the largest catacomb network, but it was big – we kept turning and weaving, and at every junction there was yet another corridor extending endlessly into the blackness. The tombs were stacked about three high, every ten feet or so, which meant that this network alone would surely hold a hundred thousand bodies.
At the end of the route we entered the chamber in which St Sebastian was supposed to be held, except his remains had been moved to the church that now sits atop the catacomb. We also saw three Roman tombs, which were in almost immaculate condition, having only been discovered in the 1920s and preserved carefully ever since.
Waiting for the bus on the way back we chatted to two woman who had been on the bus on the way there and had followed the same tour. We agreed to meet for a drink later at Chris’s favourite drinking establishment, the Irish Pub.
We never saw them at the bar, and John left us at about 10pm to go to the airport and fly home. He was leaving us early, while Chris, Sunil and myself would continue for another week or two. The three of us left the pub half an hour later and went to the train station, where we settled into another sleeper journey, this time only the first segment of a long trip to Athens, but the train’s destination was the Italian port city of Brindisi.
| Journey 8: Rome to Brindisi | ||||
| 1 legs, 500km, 8 hr 25 min. Average speed: 58kph | ||||
| Origin/Destination | Departs | Arrives | Carrier | My Rating |
| Roma Termini Brindisi |
23:58 | 08:23 | TrenItalia |  |