A Very Indirect Route to Rome

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I was planning on heading for Italy, but the next train along the southern coast was not leaving for another seven hours. It was quicker for me to travel overnight back up to Paris and then down to Italy from there; so back to Paris it was, with no supplements, no reservations and no Nazi security guards to worry about. Bliss.

Those evils of seat reservations and supplements reared their ugly heads again at the Gar de Lyon as most of the trains heading south were of the high-speed TGV variety. Fair do's to the French however, as I think that it is quite reasonable to expect to pay a supplement to travel on the fastest train service in the world, and the requirement was very well advertised on the departures board.

It wasn't long before a 'normal' train left for Lyon and I was there in time for lunch. Lunch was a McDonalds, not because I rate the food - far from it - but because you can always rely on them for a clean and well equipped wash room. Having a shave is probably taking the mickey a bit, but what the hell, they could only throw me out.

Rome was still some way away, as I now had to head for Turin and change there. This journey was through parts of the French and Italian Alps, and the scenery was spectacular to say the least. Two English girls on the train gave me a day old English newspaper that they had finished with, so I was able to catch up with what was going on back home. Of course, Thatcher's ugly mug came up a couple of times, but I managed to avoid bringing the McDonalds back up again.

Turin station was one of the most impressive I had ever seen; a huge period building, with massive passageways and open spaces. The railway platforms seemed to be an after thought tagged on at the back.

At this point, I was absolutely dying for a drink of water. The station prices for soft drinks were well out of my league - tight git that I am - so I went against all the rules and filled my water bottle from a drinking fountain outside the station. Mind you, you can be too neurotic about these things; this water would have almost certainly been safe to drink.

The Turin nightlife was in full swing outside the station, with immaculately dressed Italians everywhere. I don’t know what it is about the Italians, but they have a knack for making you feel like a complete scarecrow. All right, in this instance, being an inter-railer, I was a scarecrow, but that’s not the point. The French also seem to have the same knack, leading me to believe that it’s probably more a case of us Brits being the scruffs of Europe.

I wandered around for a while, getting the odd look of total disgust, before heading back to the station to bring my diary up-to-date and catch the train to Rome.

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