H) Italy v Mexico... from Venice

I retired late in Ljubljana facing an early start ahead, but I
simply could not sleep. Poland played on my mind. I felt uneasy about
my sudden decision to skip the Pole's game against the US and go to
Italy instead.

I have been a little coy about my World Cup allegiances. While an
Australian by birth, I am one of a first generation. My parents are
European. I am half Dutch, a quarter Ukrainian and the last quarter,
Polish. I grew up celebrating Wigilia over Christmas, eating borsch and
pierogi. I even know how to order pancakes ('nalesniki') for breakfast
('sniadanie'). That's about it, but it comes up more often than you
would think.

In my mind, I knew Italy presented the game of interest, but in my
heart dwelled a sad little Pole. There was only one thing to do. Try
and do it all!

I stayed up half of the night studying timetables and maps, plotting
routes around Europe. With my mind and body already starved of rest, I
cut my sleep from eight hours to four. I wanted a way.

Finally, I eurekad a route which I believed would allow me to travel to
Italy, double back some way and then traverse the thousand odd
kilometres to Poland with time to watch both games!

I slept with delirious satisfaction. If I had had the energy to dream,
I would have dreamed of Poland thumping the US out of the Cup in a
monumental battle of old East versus THE West. A few days earlier, I
met the most offensive Californian who believed it was proper to nuke
half the world. He belittled all around him including me and my World
Cup adventure, telling me to get to Japan and Korea like everyone else.
It only served to galvanise my passion and I wish he had given me his
card so I could defame the man now (though I imagine he his doing quite
a nice job of it himself).

I rose predawn as I had planned to discuss my scheme with the bemused
train station staff. No amount of explanation appeased and I felt more
and more like a doped up drug runner making convoluted reservations to
Italy, Poland and beyond. We agreed my schedule should work, or at
least could work, providing that I was a machine.

My journey would entail trips on ten separate trains over the course of
some thirty six hours. It would require an average of three to four
hours per leg and up to twenty minutes between each to find my
connections. My tightest changeover would be but a few minutes long.
That, my dear American, is why I think my World Cup experience really
is something special.

I was chugging through Trieste on my way to watch the match in Venezia.
It would be quick and dirty, with just enough time to take in the match
and then leave. I endured my journey alongside a Slovenian who walked
and talked with the swagger of a proud self made man. I passed the time
listening and nodding, very nearly missing the sheer beauty of Trieste
passing me by. And now, I feel so proud to say, I know the directions
to a whorehouse in every major city of Europe! Not bad for a bloke with
a body so knackered he can barely hold himself, let alone get anything,
up.

After we said our farewells and shook hands and I gave mine a good
wash, I placed my backpack on the seat opposite, seeking the quietest
of company. It was not to be. Three Italian ladies trundled in and my
be-seated backpack attracted their playful aggression. I made room for
all three. Actually, given that they all had thighs for ankles and God
knows what for thighs, there was only room for the one, but they all
squeezed in anyway.

They gabbed with great gusto, thinking their secrets safe with me.
Little did they know that Italy is the country in which I am most
qualified to operate having had a full semester of Italian back in
grade three. I stealthily learned that they were two daughters and Ma.
I would soon be swiping their recipes and brands of hair dye, but it
was time for Venezia. Time for the match.

For the benefit of the hopelessly naive, they don't have trains running
into the waterways of Venezia, but rather keep the train station out on
some desolate land, much as is the case for most every town. I was so
deeply disappointed.

I stood barefoot at the station, trousers rolled up for some wading,
wondering where I'd gone wrong. Perhaps I had taken a wrong train, but
no, the departure board was already counting down the minutes until my
next departure. It was indeed Venezia.

It may have been Venezia, but I'd be damned if I could work out where
all the Venezians had gone. There were a great many licensed premises,
ristorantes and pizzerias, canopied cafes, booze in most every shop
window, but nowhere seemed to have a gathering of more than a handful
of people. Even the whorehouse looked bare.

With not even five minutes until kick off, I felt at the lowest ebb of
my adventure. As so frequently happens, I just tried to do too much. I
felt I had sold Italy and probably Poland both short and took to
punishing myself with a full backpack run.

I was rewarded with everything: a jazz bar, cocktail bar, party bar, an
everything all in one bar, or so the sign said. With the match due to
start, it was indeed everything, or rather the only thing, for
me.

A bit of a group had gathered inside the ill-defined premises. It
attracted quite an array of patrons, all classes, colours and genders
well represented. Most were sitting and enjoying food, drink and a
smoke. All happy, except for one woman sitting with her back to the
game, complaining it seemed, but refusing to leave all the same. I was
heartened to see a few in Italy's colours and also to see that beer was
on tap. I managed to get stuck into one just before kick off, backpack
still on my back.

The game had an exciting opening and the room was quietly attentive,
showing their disconnection, shared history not there. Then, not far
into the game, we had something to celebrate together: a great early
goal! There was arm waving and yelling. Mad gesticulations not quite
enough for a few slapping wildly on walls. All were so pleased, but
from pleasure grew pain. That funny little flag went up for that funny
little rule. The one they call off side because it so pisses sides off.
No goal.

One of the blue shirted teens put his hand on his heart, his mouth
open, his face reddening. And then they came! Tears! Without
hesitation, he shed genuine tears. The game had barely begun and this
poor delicate soul was crying, making no attempt to hide the agony he
felt on behalf of the room.

As the half progressed, Italy was barely worth watching and I found
myself focussed on this tearful lad. It was like sand in his face when
Mexico secured a goal! He uttered never a word. Always looked straight
at the screen. Coffee, short black and untouched. Moving only to draw
smoky comfort. Ever more slumping and sliding down in his chair. And,
of course, quietly shedding the occasional tear.

It may not have been the most active of rooms, but it looked as if this
young man carried the suffering of all of his country. Italy seemed to
be on the road to a loss as the first half wound up. I left the bar in
search of another closer to the station.

Even on the streets, there seemed resignation in the air. It was a
little unsettling and messed with my mind. If Italy were to win, there
was little point in having killed myself to be there, but given I had
done so, I hardly wanted to see them lose. A conundrum I contemplated
as half time counted down.

I located another bar almost opposite the station. A few grey haired
gents sat before an old screen. Their faces were long and forlorn. No
signs of tears, but I still thought them aged versions of the young lad
in the bar down the road. I felt like I had done something wrong
walking in and ordering a beer. I might as well have been speaking
Spanish for all the death stares. Feeling so conspicuous and trying not
to be, I hid in the back.

The shoddy game continued and the old men consoled themselves with many
litros of wine. Italy created a few chances for itself, but the match
was very much Mexico's. I concluded it was set to be a disappointing
conclusion to a disappointing day. I had one eye on the clock, my
train's departure remarkably well aligned to the time left in the
match. Things looked hopeless and so I ducked across the road to check
my train's platform. I was gone less than a minute, but returned to
discover I had missed Italy's equalising goal!

Things were different now. I was everyone's friend. We all laughed at
my misfortune which nicely capped off a day of misplacement. The game
was winding down now. Both sides happy with a draw, they used up the
clock and I dashed for my train.

Italy? I am afraid it was all a bit of a non event for me. Just
desserts perhaps. I would very much like to return and expect that I
will, but next time I'll make sure I'm right in the middle of
Roma!

In the meantime, I must continue my train journeys, having just
discovered that a booking error means that I have no couchette, but
rather a chair, for the night. Nevertheless, exhausted, I am sure I
will sleep well, safe in the knowledge that tomorrow I will be in
Poland...