My last trip through Venice, a couple of years ago, was also in the month of November. My memories of the once powerful city-state were of brilliant blue skies, and coldness reverberating like heavy sound off the stone walls that line the narrow lanes. Cold. It was Cold last time and cold this time as we spent the night wrapped up warm waiting for the train to Naples.
With three in the travelling party, two of us decided it was wise to reduce our luggage down to one suitcase. The third member of the group was more intent on sucking his thumb, and indulging in warm milk. We had chosen a hotel not far from the station. However hauling a 38kg bag to put into storage I realised close was just not close enough. We spent the evening before the trip scouting cafes and enjoying some local food and (of course) vino rosso!

The Fast train from Venice to Naples was a sleek “Euro-star” model. The seating configuration had us sitting in fours, facing each other. Elijah took a dislike to a gentleman to our right, but fortunately fell in love with a young, somewhat dotting teenage girl who decided to the horror of her boyfriend that she wanted half a dozen Elijahs once they got married! (Elijah is our 1 year old!) The trip tooki us through a late Autumn countryside, the snowy mountains to the north shadowing the yellowing grape vines that literally blanket the countryside.

The train WAS fast. We flashed through Ferrara, Padova, Bologna and Firenze (Florence). The countryside was so different to that of lush, 1000 shades of green Indonesia. Yellow, golds, reds, orange, blues and greens like patchwork laid out either side of the tracks.

On occasions either Arlini or I made trips down the swaying carriages to the diner cart. The coffee on offer was a Lavazza Blend, podded and served in paper Chef Express cups. It was perhaps the most disappointing coffee encountered on the trip. The train briefly stopped in Rome, before hurtling off through the valleys Southwestward, towards Naples. The carriage was warm and cozy, it was a pleasant and highly recommended way to travel. As the AerItalia national airline was on strike, the train was full.

We pulled into Naples Station around 5pm. It was already dark and Naples reputation for crime around the railway station area was lurking at the back of our minds. We quickly grabbed the bag (big bag mind you) and worked our way, baby in tow, to the station which sends trains up the coast to Sorrento. The plan was to spend 3 nights in that town. It was a place I had always wanted to visit, and a elderly gentleman from there was one of the main reasons I actually got my start in coffee (its a long story... those of you have heard it are stiffling a yawn, so will spare writing more here).

The trip by train Naples to Sorrento cost 3.20 Euro each. I dont know why I remember this, but I do clearly recall the 1 hour trip went by slowly. Most of the stations close to Naples were so heavily graffiti-ed that I was depressed at the sight. Tagging and graffiti art that could have been found in some of the gloomiest inner city ghettos anyhere in the world, for some reason I was surprised to find so much here. The stations went by slowly, some 30 plus before we reached Sorrento.

Sorrento is at the end of the Circumvesuvios commuter train line. The train servicing this popular tourist route was perhaps the oldest commuter train I have been in since leaving NZ. It rattled and shook, the hard plastic seats digging into fleshy bits of the body with venom. After an hour in this rattling steel coffin we were relieved when the train passed through “Piano Sorrento” and came to a halt at Sorrento Central Station. It was dark and cold outside and we had no idea of how to get to the place we were staying. To compound the problems of exhaustion and a screaming baby, I had left the telephone number of the Bed and Breakfast in the 38kg monster bag, now snuggly tucked away in the warm depths of Santa Lucia Station in Venice. We made our way towards the Piazza Tazzo about 500m from the station. My Lonely Planet said there was a Post Office there and they would surely have a telephone nook with the number of the place we were booked into.

The wind was whipping around us, cold and mean, blowing off the Bay of Naples with real purpose. We made the Post Office and I was relieved to see what appeared to be a family on Duty. The mother and father were tucked behind some primitive perspex security screen, the son 9all 2 metres of him) was stacking volumes of Naples Telephone books with one meaty hand. Their English language skills were about as advanced as my Italian, so it took some while to communicate I was after “Villa Monica”. It took even more time to find the place apparently did not exist. There were Villa everything else, but no Monica. In despair, with Elijah screaming loudly, I spied an open IBM thinkpad behind the screen. As I moved around to have a look if it was on, the son stepped deftly between me and the door, slipped inside and bolted it. He gave me a steely steer...there was no way I was going to be allowed in to do a search for Villa Monica.

Actually the Internet WAS the way I discovered Villa Monica B&B. The 105 reviews on the website were so good that I would have been foolish not to have booked the place. The owner, Pasquale, had confirmed my booking well in advance and been very accommodating in changing at short notice. He even promised us the “Sorrento Room” and to pick us up at the station on arrival. Just call he said. The problem, as mentioned, were all the details on everything were in Venice.

As things seemingly could not get any worse, Elijah began chucking up warm milk all over the Post Office floor. It came out chunk and in spurts, disgusting. The mother, taking pity on the “bambino” came out to help Arlini, I took the opportunity to step inside and persuade dad to let me do a quick search on Google. The son was furious, but once I had a foot inside his perspex kingdom, I was home and hosed. Within seconds I had found “Villa Monica” and the Postmaster, embarrassed because he had not realised it was THAT Monica, obliged by ringing Pasquale. Strangely he (Pasquale) was not expecting my call. “A booking for tonight...are you sure?” he asked. From memory I recited my booking information, confounding him with the details of the emails we had exchanged. “I am so sorry, we only have a small room available, but I can give you the 'Sorrento Room' tomorrow night”. Although disappointed I was relieved the ordeal was nearing an end. We waited on the edge of the square and about 15 minutes later Pasquale swept up beside us in his big SUV. We were bundled in and made our way up the hill behind Sorrento. Pasquale was so apologetic I felt sorry for him. He was speaking, gesturing while guiding the big car with precision through gaps that most drivers would struggle to make, certainly at the speeds were going.

It ended up that Villa Monica was perfect. The view from the balcony across the Bay to Naples was a million dollar spectacular, even through the mist and buffeting winds of that first night. Snug and warm, we were all asleep with in minutes. (to be continued....)