Travelling Light

Southland Times, Issue 21577, 15 December 1931, Page 3

Travelling Light

f * f Gambolling with Money, t

{ To Europe and Back on * $ Two Hundred. S

(By

H.K.S.).

Article XXXIII. GENOA AND THE RIVIERA. Sunday morning in Turin proved to bo a mixture of business and devotion. Everyone seemed to go to church and everyone seemed to go to market. In many parts of the town there were long rows of stalls laden with fruit, flowers and vegetables; and to these stalls came all the housewives of the town with their baskets. Great bargaining goes on in these markets and there is much crying of wares. But everybody seems in a good temper and often people break into song. At 12.30 we sat down to a “real Italian meal.” At any rate that was what I had asked our host to give us. For horsd’oeuvres we had melon and ham. Then came soup with much bread therein. The entree was tomato and rice—an excellent dish. The roast was pork fillets, cucumber fried in oil and a strange but pleasant tomato concoction. The meal was rounded off with fresh, large, luscious peaches. And, of course, there was wine.

We paid our bill —a little over £1 for room and four meals each —and at one o'clock we were at the station to catch the train for Genoa which, according to a timetable on the station wall, left at 1.30 p.m. I went to one of the twenty-five ticket box windows at the station entrance, was told to go to number 14 and there I asked in French for the tickets. The official said something but the only word I could make out was “diretto.” He repeated his remark but on seeing that I still failed to understand him he shrugged his shoulders and gave me the tickets. We Cause a Commotion. So into the station proper we walked and the correct platform was pointed out to us. I found seats. Then just to make sure we were on the right train I showed a fellow-passenger our tickets. He nodded his head and I began to sit back contentedly when the man next to him asked also to see our tickets No sooner had ho set eyes on the word "Genova” (the Italian way of spelling Genoa) than he sprang to his feet and in the greatest excitement began to address me in a torrent of words. Seeing that he was making no impression on my dull brain he pulled out a huge watch, turned the hands round to represent the flight of four hours, pointed to the train we were seated in, waved towards a train standing nearby and burst forth into another torrent.

Thoroughly alarmed I stood up and thanked him for his interest but by much pointing convinced him that I was determined to stay in the train in spite of his protests. He dashed frenziedly out of the carriage and I thought I had seen the last of him. But a minute later he was back again, leading by the arm a handsome man with a dark beard. This courteous traveller—l’m not sure whether he was Italian or French —explained to me in French that the train in which I sat was a slow one and did not reach Genoa until four hours after a fast train which left Turin at 4 p.m. By paying a small supplementary fee our tickets would hold good for the express. It would be most unwise of me to go by the slow train. If I would accompany him ho would take me to the office where I could have the fare adjusted and the ticket stamped. I wasted no time now. If that slow train arrived four hours later than the express it meant that we would not reach Genoa till midnight. Out came our luggage and off I went with my protector. He, good man, had only escorted me to the ticket window and had explained what I required when his train whistled and he had to run for it. But he evidently did not think he had done enough for us because he paused in has stride to make a charming speech to my wife in which he expressed thanks to God that he had been of service to us and fervent hopes for a happy journey. Then he took a flying leap aboard the last carriage of his train. I wonder how many New Zealanders would go to so much trouble for a stranger. We have a lot to learn in courtesy. Meantime I had paid a few lira, my tickets were stamped and back to wife and luggage I went; but the adventure had so exhausted us that in the carriage of the express we sat reading from 1.30 until 4 at which hour we drew out of the hot, flat, unattractive city of Turin. To Genoa. The most interesting sight on the journey over the plains was a football match which was being played close to a station at which we stopped. How men couid play “Soccer” under that blazing Italian sky passes my understanding. Just before Genoa hills appeared and we ran through several tunnels. Then came a glimpse of the harbour and of ships packed together like sardines. Into another tunnel we went and when we emerged from darkness into light we found that we were under the roof of Genoa’s splendid railway station. “Who’s this old bird?” said I as we came out of the station and saw a huge statue looking out over lines of taxis. It was Columbus. I grew more reverent, for anyone who could venture to sea in such a cockle-shell as did the Genoese sailor deserves the utmost respect. Even on a big liner I was in awe of the ocean. Steep hillsides almost surround the Genoa station and on one of these we found a little glittering hotel of white marble. Hotel Roma was its name and in it was a maid who could understand a few words of English and a few less of French. We ordered a meal of spaghetti and got it. On a dish large enough to supply the wants of six peoole a defightful mixture of spaghetti and tomato was brought. When I had finished eating I had a new respect for my stomachic capacity. It took us only five minutes’ walking to discover that Genoa was a much more interesting town than Turin. It had hills and steep streets. It had a gay waterfront. It had towering buildings on cliff faces. It had narrow lanes where opposing houses almost touched. It had romance in its dark corners. Thousands of Genoese were out enjoying the air of that mild summer evening. They looked at us with polite interest and exchanged many “Buona-nottes” with us. The further we walked the more did we realize that there is scarcely a flat place in Genoa. Although it is on the seaport it is like a city built on a mountain. Washing Day. Monday is washing day in Genoa. We discovered this without difficulty next morning. In communal washing tubs, which emitted smells far from pleasant, stout women were to be seen at work. There seemed to be these huge concrete troughs all over the town. . We though it rather a primitive way of washing but next day we were to see women cleaning their clothes in creeks and lagoons. A drying-green is a luxury unknown in Genoa. All clothes are hung out to dry on the balcony or on lines stretching from a house to the one opposite it. It was a great sight to see, in the narrow streets which abound in Genoa, clothes of all colours and' shapes hanging outside windows from the second story to the seventh or eighth. It looked as if the city were decorated for some great fete.

In York we had grown rather excited at seeing a street almost narrow enough to enable people in a house on one side to lean out and shake hands with those opposite. In Genoa they can lean out and kiss. A visit to the docks was rewarded by an excellent view of the Roma, the luxurious 33,000 ton liner which runs between Genoa and New York. There were other very large liners in port and we were not hampered in our tour of inspection by the annoying restrictions imposed at Southampton. . The churches which we saw in Genoa had beautiful painted ceilings but were a trifle tawdry otherwise. In one cemetery there was statuary that would have graced a Paris square. A Pleasant Journey. We should dearly have liked to go from Genoa to Florence and Rome but our boat sailed from Marseilles in a few days so we had to turn our faces westwards instead of to the east. The Riviera is such a succession of charming seaside resorts that one is faced with a problem in deciding which one to select. On the Italian coast there is Bordighera and San Remo. France offers such magnets as Mentone, Nice, Cannes and Antibes. Finally there is the Principality of Monaco and its one and only Monte Carlo. Our vote was east in favour of Monte Carlo not because we wanted to gamble but because it was one of the most famous places in the world. In any case it really doesn’t matter whether you make Monaco, Nice, Cannes or another Riviera town your headquarters. They are only a few miles from each other and trains and buses constantly run between them. Save for innumerable tunnels and a tiresome delay at Ventimiglia for passport and luggage inspection the journey from Genoa to Monte Carlo was delightful. The line runs right along the seashore. In fact it often seemed as if the waves would splash up on to the carriage. Beside us was the famous Grand Corniche road. In novels this is always described as a white road. Probably it used to be but its surface is now bituminous and black. When we ran through Qmnels the road climbed round the faces of steep hills. The grades seemed excellent but the comers very sharp. We were fortunate in having a gloriously sunny afternoon for our journey. The Mediterranean lay shimmering below us, its colour a reflection of the azure skies above. Magic white towns with their pretty villas and luxuriant gardens gleamed in the sunlight. On the beaches parasols of all colours protected gaily clad bathers. In little creeks that run into the sea women were washing clothes. Nearby their husbands were at work shovelling sand into the paniers of waiting mules. Frequently between towns we could see long cultivated plots in which carnations were just coming into bloom awaiting disposal in the flower shops of San Remo, Cannes and Nice. Other fields were red with ripe tomatoes.

We were rather disappointed in the beaches, for they were nearly all of rough shingle. Most of the bathers were anything but good swimmers. Splashing about in the waves seems to satisfy most Continentals. At about six o’clock the train drew in to Monaco and we alighted. I am aware that hitherto I have referred to our destination as Monte Carlo. Actually it was in Monaco that we stayed; but, although there are two railway stations, to all intents and purposes Monaco is Monte Carlo and Monte Carlo is Monaco. Beneath a huge white mountain the town nestles, a pretty little bay bringing the waters of the