Walking into the Termini station was like switching channels into a different world. Though my eyes and nostrils still stung from tear gas, tourists and locals went about their business as usual, totally oblivious to the presence of a massive and violent protest march only a half a block away.
But they weren’t completely unaffected and insulated. Some people fretted over the ‘mysterious’ bus delays even though folks with protest signs ran through the station, late to the march, trying to catch up. My hoodie alone emitted enough traces of CS gas to draw the occasional wince or cough from those I passed.
It took a few minutes of wandering in a daze before my heart calmed down and I got myself oriented. I quickly found the main train platform and the big mechanical screen displaying track numbers and destinations, but it took me a while to figure out that I would have to go upstairs to buy tickets.
I waited in this long queue only to learn it was for the wrong set of trains. The second time was the charm, though, and a kind and patient man behind the counter was able to sell me a second class ticket on the slow Intercity train to Milan, with a late night connection with the Cisalpino to Geneva, Switzerland.
“A hundred eighty Euros!” The price threw me for a loop. And this was for the slowest, cheapest possible routing.
“But that is an excellent price for two legs,” said the man. “They are off-peak.”
I waffled a bit. I considered taking Angelica’s advice, going to the airport and trying EasyJet, but I was already here, I could see trains pulling in and pulling out. Why dilly dally? Why expose myself to more chances of being discovered by those druggies?
I had been stingy with my cash up till now but when I shelled out for that ticket it was like the flood gates opened up. I went on a spending spree in the sprawling mall that surrounded the station. I bought two new T-shirts, a hooded sweatshirt lined with fleece, cargo shorts, painter’s jeans, undies and a daypack to stuff it all in. I chose all of it in black in honor of my new buds in the Black Bloc, not to mention, it wouldn’t show the dirt as much.
As I was heading back to the platform to wait for my train I passed a little gift shop with a big window display of German pocket knives. I realized that I was staring at another advantage of traveling by train—no security checks. I could actually carry a weapon with me.
So I bought this inexpensive blade with a spring release. It looked relatively innocuous, maybe one step beyond a Swiss Army Knife, but nothing designed for serious hand-to-hand combat. More like something you would buy to carve ducks from blocks of wood.
And I wasn’t done yet. I still had an hour before the train left so I went and got my hair chopped off—all of it. I had never shaved my head before and it felt glorious. Not only would it change my look, but it would be easier to maintain if I was going to be sleeping on the streets.
My splurge had put a massive dent in my cash reserves, but I had needed clothes. And if I didn’t find Karla soon, I wasn’t going to have a need for money much longer. Like they say, you can’t take it with you when you go.
But I had a feeling something big was going to happen in Geneva. Luther was going to help me find Karla in one world or the other, whether he wanted to or not. On this side of Root, I had the upper hand. I even had my own stinger now.
***
The train was delayed a little bit, so I bought a limonata and a panini with tomato and mozzarella to bring along for dinner. When the train finally rolled up, I scrambled onboard and got myself a window seat.
That turned out to be a most excellent move. The scenery we passed outside of Rome was way more epic than I had imagined Italy could be. It felt like I was in a movie. It didn’t seem possible that this could be real.
How could there be real people living among those picture perfect hills and fields and precious little villages? Oh, sure we passed some trashy architecture and nasty industrial complexes from time to time, but the contrast only made the other landscapes look that much more awesome.
I kept thinking back to that march and the Occupy folks and the Black Bloc. I had gotten a sense of camaraderie and belonging with them that I had never experienced anywhere else. It was almost like a drug, this feeling. It almost didn’t matter what they were protesting, just being there with them was enough.
How strange it was to have to come all this way to feel at home, a place so far from the land of my birth. I could say the same thing for Root, though. Bern and Lille were family now. They certainly treated me that way, much more so than Uncle Ed ever did. I didn’t know what lay in store for me in the days ahead, but I could tell you one thing, I wasn’t going back to Florida any time soon.
***
I had half an hour in Milan to change trains. As I meandered through the station, I kept noticing these solitary guys leaning against posts and walls who would scan the crowd and occasionally glance my way. It was crazy to even think any of them would be connected with Cleveland. How many lookouts could those guys possibly hire? I wasn’t that important.
So who were all these other loners I kept seeing? Were they gays looking for pickups? Straights wondering the same about me? Had these lost-looking young men always been around and I was only noticing them now because I was paranoid about bounty hunters?
Maybe they were just stray wanderers like myself, caught in adventures and tribulations even stranger than mine. Perhaps, like me, they oscillated between worlds. I didn’t dare ask any of them. I didn’t think I could handle the truth.
I hopped on the next train—the Cisalpino—as soon as it was ready to board, anxious to get underway again. This train was a mite newer and spiffier than the first, but just as slow.
After maneuvering through miles of factory yards the landscape opened up and we commenced to follow a tortuous route up into the mountains. I never thought it would be possible, but the scenery was even more mind-blowing than the countryside outside of Rome—castles perched on gorge walls, waterfalls, real fairy tale villages. I kept my face glued to that window for hours.
When nightfall robbed me of my entertainment, I took to wandering the aisles to quell my restlessness. I was startled to discover that one of the cars had an actual sit-down restaurant. And I peeked through the glass of the first class compartment just to see how the other half lived. It didn’t look all that special for the price.
Back in my seat, there wasn’t much to see but the wash of moon glow over fields or the outlines of some burly peaks silhouetted by stars. We soon reached a section where the absence of daylight didn’t matter because we spent most of the time shuttling through tunnels that did nasty things to the air pressure in my ear drums.
All that rattling over the rails eventually rocked me off to sleep, and I dreamt. Oh, man, did I dream!—of this enormous mass of humanity marching through Luthersburg, Black Bloc and all, intimidating the dogs, smashing through Luther’s walls and sending the Reapers squealing for their burrows.
I especially liked the part where Karla came to my side and took my hand. I asked her where she had gone. “Nowhere,” she had said. “I’ve always been right here.”
A glint of sunlight off a window startled my eyes open. I awakened to meadows and vineyards sloping down to the shore of a big, green lake flanked by jagged snow-capped peaks.
This had to be Switzerland.
