I'm a bit sorry to leave Perugia. It's a peaceful place and grows on you. The upper town is mostly free of cars and its two universities inject youth into the city. But I'm energised by the prospect of reuniting with my backpack, so northwards I press.
Getting to the train station was an example of why life in Italy is like a yoyo. I got to the bus stand at 0915 and the train would leave at 0954 from the station in the lower city. Buy a ticket at a booth. Not sure which side of the square my bus leaves from. A bus arrives and the driver gets off and closes the bus. Another bus arrives, this one displaying the right destination. Ask the driver. No, not his bus, but number 6 or 7 parked behind him. Driver for 7 arrives. Ask him and he says yes he's leaving soon. Get into bus, wait for a while, nothing happens, then start worrying. Eventually he starts off. Arrive at the station with 10 minutes to spare. Fortunately I know what the station looks like and where to get off. Uh oh, there's a long line of people at the ticket counter. Fortunately they are fairly efficient at dispensing tickets. Get to the platform with 5 minutes to spare. Many people travelling today. The train is so full that I have to walk through half a carriage before I can find a free seat.
I take a 90 minute stopover at Passignano, or to give its full name, Passignano sul Trasimeno. Lake Trasimeno was previously known as the Lake of Perugia. It has no inlet or outlet and was formed in a geological depression. It's slightly smaller than Lake Como and thus big enough that you cannot see the northern shore from Passignano. Besides, the day was overcast but temperate.
In 217 BCE, at northern shore of the lake, at the Battle of Lake Trasimene, the Carthaginians inflicted a terrible defeat on Roman troops, killing some 15000. The place names there bear witness to the carnage: Sanguineto (Bloody Stream), Ossaia (Place of Bones) and so forth. Years later, the Romans would level Carthage and remove their rivals for Mediterranean supremacy from history. Today Passignano is a peaceful resort town with tourist trinkets and lake cruises in season, March to September.
Graffito on a wall in Montevarchi: Bush-Blair-Berlusca - La tribù di Belzebù. Not surprising in a region which is left-leaning.
The Firenze-Bologna train is a Eurostar express service and started in Rome. In such comfort I arrived in Bologna quickly.
At 10:25 in the morning of August 2nd, 1980, a bomb detonated inside the waiting room of the station. The summer day was warm and the air-conditioned room was packed. The blast was strong enough to cause the roof to collapse. 85 people died and many more were injured in the worst mass attack in Italy since WWII. The perpetuators were a right-wing fascist group, striking in the heart of leftist Italy.
Getting to the train station was an example of why life in Italy is like a yoyo. I got to the bus stand at 0915 and the train would leave at 0954 from the station in the lower city. Buy a ticket at a booth. Not sure which side of the square my bus leaves from. A bus arrives and the driver gets off and closes the bus. Another bus arrives, this one displaying the right destination. Ask the driver. No, not his bus, but number 6 or 7 parked behind him. Driver for 7 arrives. Ask him and he says yes he's leaving soon. Get into bus, wait for a while, nothing happens, then start worrying. Eventually he starts off. Arrive at the station with 10 minutes to spare. Fortunately I know what the station looks like and where to get off. Uh oh, there's a long line of people at the ticket counter. Fortunately they are fairly efficient at dispensing tickets. Get to the platform with 5 minutes to spare. Many people travelling today. The train is so full that I have to walk through half a carriage before I can find a free seat.
A poster on the train advertises a new cross-peninsular service linking Rome and Ancona on the east coast. Perhaps it will bring more visitors to the little visited Italian region of Le Marche. I would like to stopover on my way down south later, but I doubt if I will have the time.
Somewhere outside Passignano, the train crosses from Umbria into Toscana. We are now in the much sought after land of the Tuscan sun.
At Firenze station, where I change trains, there is an exposition of posters coinciding with a leftist congress. Here are two:
At Bologna, I get a map and directions from the tourist office. But before I leave the station, there is a grim memorial I want to see.
The crack in the outer wall has been retained and the station clock is permanently stopped at 10:25 am in memory of the atrocity. A plaque records the names of the victims. There are a handful of non-Italian names, hapless tourists in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The hostel is a bus ride outside the city, in bucolic surroundings. The manager brings out my backpack after I check in. But, but... what has customs done to it? The front combination lock is gone, cut away. Never mind, it can be replaced. The back is where they have not cut the padlock but snipped the zipper tabs off. This makes it hard to close up the back, where the backstraps are stored. Ratbags! I assume what happened is that when they came to inspect my backpack, the keys I gave the airline representative were not to hand so they just mauled the zippers. Sigh.
The hostel has a refectory, but it isn't operating. So the manager collects orders from the hostelers in the common room for dial-a-pizza.
One of the hostelers is an Australian woman with a tale of woe. One of her bags was stolen at a bus station while she was distracted. She's contemplating giving up and going home. I persuade her to carry on since she's come so far.
