My Bologna Has a First Name...

...it's H-O-M-E-R! My bologna has a second name, it's H-O-M-E-R!

(If you're not a Simpson's fan, then just ignore that. Mark, that was especially for you; hope you enjoyed it.)

In general, it's just not a good idea to do things that aren't "Rick Steves" approved. It really just makes my life so much more difficult.

After my final day in Venice, I boarded a train bound for Bologna. Even though it wasn't a Rick Steves stop, I'd heard good things about it during my travels thus far, so I thought it was worth the gamble.

I estimated that it would take me 2 hours or less to get from Venice to Bologna, so I figured I had plenty of time to get to the Bologna Tourist Info office before it closed at 7:00pm. Unfortunately, I was wrong. (Sampsonite, I was way off!)

So, when push came to shove, I arrived with no map (nor the means to get one) and only a vague idea of where the hostel is (which may or may not have room for me). Gar.

Thus, I put my best thinking cap on and decided to try and call the hostel. That way I could see if they had any beds available, as well as get directions. Brilliant! (I was actually quite pleased with myself for this little gem.) So I get on the phone and get the answering machine. Hmph. I don't like that one bit. I decide to use the facilities while I wait it out to make another call, but then discover it costs .80¢ to partake of said facilities and I wasn't about to pay for a toilet (what is it with Italian cities having weird quirks like that? Venice = no place to sit. Bologna = pay to pee...??). So I tried using my phone card to call again, and discovered that listening to the first 10 seconds of the voicemail on the previous call had cost me 3 minutes of time. Boooo! This meant that now I had to hang up before the line connected to the answering machine, otherwise I was going to be out of time in a hurry. My second attempt again yielded no answer.

Now I was getting frustrated.

I decided that really, really having to go to the bathroom was not helping the situation, so I swallowed my pride and parted with the stupid 80¢. I felt marginally better after that. I tried the hostel again - still no answer. Augh! It was getting late and I wasn't going to spend all night calling the stupid hostel when I could be on my way there; I was just going to have to risk it.

So I located the tabbacheri shop in the station and purchased a bus ticket. I asked the woman (in italian, no less) where the stop for the 21B bus was (Lonely Planet had given me this much information, but it represented all I knew). She had no idea and used several words that were unfamiliar to me and lots of hand gestures to communicate it. Okay - I get it; you don't know. Thanks lady.

So I trudge around outside the station, towing my bag behind me like an unwilling child or a disobedient dog, fruitlessly searching for the covered bus stop with 21 printed on it. I can't find it anywhere.

This whole situation is really starting to try my patience.

I start to get frustrated with myself for choosing a non-Rick location, but I take a deep breath, remind myself that this is what travel is about (sometimes) and that I'm going to eventually figure it out.

Then I notice a bus parked at one of the stops and I get the best idea I've had all night and I ask the driver where the stop is. Surely he will know. And he does. It's one block down and on the opposite side of the street. (No wonder I couldn't find it...)

So I thank him, and march off with my errant dog in that direction. Sure enough I find the stop - only the schedule says I have just missed the bus by 8 minutes. Gah. That's really frustrating. While I was making erratic circles around the bus stops at the station, my bus was leaving. Suuuuper.

I walk a bit further down and give the hostel one last phone call. Still no answer (which, in itself, is slightly disconcerting, but whatever. I don't have time to even begin to worry about that one...). So now I have 45 minutes to wait and a grumpy attitude. What do I do? I go in search of food. I begin marching back down the street, toward the station, and lo and behold - there's my bus! It's just patiently sitting there, waiting for me, no where near the time indicated on the sign. Thank you Lord!!

I confirm with the driver this is heading to the hostel stop (per ostello, si?) and he says si, va bene. I'm so relieved I just give him a huge smile of thanks. As I validate my ticket, I ask him which stop I'm supposed to take, but unfortunately, he does not speak English. However, I get the distinct impression from his hand gestures it's the last stop. That seems easy enough.

As I take my seat, a young man asks me if I speak English and indeed confirms the hostel stop is the last stop. Another young woman nearby overhears and says, yes - it's the end of the line, very close to the hostel. I thank them both and feel considerably better.

For the next few stops, I chat with the young man and learn that he is here from some country I'd never heard of and is studying here (it's so impressive to me when people do that!). He is friendly, but his stop comes up quickly and he is gone. But soon after a nice looking black woman and her 5 year old son get on the bus. She guides him to the seat across from me (recently vacated by the woman who helped me out earlier) while she stands in the aisle. He soon begins to pout and in a very whiny voice ask her something repeatedly. She ignores him until she can take it no longer and then responds back with some kind of chastisement and a question of her own. They go on and on like this and I can't help but watch this whole italian scene unfolding in front of me with a huge smile on my face. I have no idea what they are saying, yet, I know exactly what they are saying. Their tones of voice and faces say everything. I love it.

In a few stops more seats are vacated and they are able to sit together. The boy is swinging his feet and as happy as can be. (Ahhh, so that's what it was about! That's kind of sweet, actually.) Another young man gets on the bus and sits across from me. I ask him if he knows where the hostel is and he again confirms it is at the last stop, and he thinks, right across from the bus stop. Yay! He speaks very good English and we chat about Bologna. He tells me that though he was born in Germany, he is Bolognese through and through - he loves it here! I ask him why he loves it so much and as he is thinking about his answer, when suddenly he perks up and says, Oh! This is my stop! I'm sorry, but I must go. It was so lovely to meet you. And then he shakes my hand and departs. Wow - so far, I have met some of the nicest people. I'm totally astounded.

Eventually my bus does arrive and I ask the driver (as it's practically just me and him at this point) what direction I should head in to find the hostel. He and his friend enthusiastically jump off the bus and show me. Go that way. Right over there. On the other side of the field. Right over there. You go! I thank them and head off, that's right, through a field. I can see a well worn path, so that's at least some indication I'm heading the right way...and sure enough by the time I reach the other end of the field, I can see the signs for the hostel. Ahhhh, I've made it.

It was a far more stressful journey without Rick, but it turned out to be a good one. Hopefully I'll come to discover that the rest of Bologna is as friendly as the people I met tonight.