Late entry. How not to catch a ferryboat.

Another unjustified blog. Just keeping track of things.

June, Friday the 17th.

Today marks my departure, the first post here, and perhaps also the most twisted morning of my life; alas, the jokes were on me and not on my part.
It all started when I tried to do something extremely simple: catching my ferryboat. Now, there were about 2 kilometers from where I was staying to my target location; wanting to be sure, I woke up 2 hours early, as that should have given me plenty of time to relax, I could even have walked it. Instead things went as follows:
I skip breakfast, cross the street and wait at the bus stop. This is were it starts, the bus is 10 minutes late. No worries there, that was accounted for, buses in Italy are always at least 10 minutes late, anything the opposite might have been a sign of the devil and an actual cause for concern.
On board, I ask the driver which stop is it, and he kindly, smilingly, cheerfully offers to notify me once we are there. I take this as a bona fide gesture, and suspect nothing of what hides behind his sunglasses, whatever they may be concealing.
I relax. There’s still plenty of time, so I stand there, at the front, looking out of the window, when suddenly, something happens, something as rare as an apparition of a strap-on dildo laden Virgin Mary. Ticket control. And while I savour the chance of witnessing such an uncommon event, I fail to notice that their mastermind interruption is so wholly intricated that it is not about catching me without a ticket (which I do have).

It takes me a little to realize, that once on board and amiably chatting with the driver, the controllers have made him forget about his precious promise. At some point he rears his head, trying to explain (to the still unknowingly me) how I can get back to where I was supposed to be an unspecified amount of time ago, by taking the same exact bus the opposite way; the faces of the other staff going all “oh, was he supposed to stop THERE?”, as if they weren’t involved in such a sinister plan; I dash off and avoid the driver’s advice (as he was probably trying, in reality, to get me involved in some cunningly conceived plan to send me to the local dumpster instead of to my soon-to-leave ferry).

Fear not, there’s still time. Avoiding buses like the plague, I proceed to ask in a few bars for the taxi telephone number. Only one of them seems to be unaware of the huge ploy that is on me, and I am able to call one. Not going to be where I am in less than 10 minutes, but that will do.
Of course, I do not have with me enough cash for a taxi ride. While I wait, I look for an ATM. Despair not! I find one right away, the post office one. One that has an automatic door in front of it. Said door only needs you to insert your card. It is, however, also one that is automatic, but only during office time, and suddenly the only rational explaination for this hits me; there must be a tiny troll inside the ATM, requiring his rest and leisure time from handing out all that money from those tiny slots, just like all other human beings. In its sleep, cradled in his metallic nest, it must be smiling at my back as I, dejected, proceed to get on the taxi and tell the driver that: I need a bancomat, and I need to get to boarding pier x, ASAP.

Now, the taxi driver seems like a good man, a man I would normally admire; a man with a lot of time for everything, who does things calmy, carefully, who is ever relaxed. Except that now (I have informed him of my present situation)  he seems not to present any tangible alteration in the speed of his actions nor of his car, lagging behind an Ape Car; is he so absolutely true to his ideals that he would respect them, even if I were to point my newly purchased knives at his throat? Or perhaps is he, once more, the next nemesis on my schedule? I find out straight afterwards. I do get to the ATM I need, I do get to the pier in time, I thank him and get off right next to where I presumably need to be.

As I reach the ticket cabin, I am gently informed that this is, perhaps you can imagine, not the right one. It simply isn’t. It’s the one on the other side, and once more I promptly rush out, running around with luggage that is certainly too big for me.
Ten minutes later, I am there. The last obstacle consists of an office on the first floor; the ferry, however, is clearly at sea level, not on the first floor. Apparently they had to make space to all the restaurants and bars and useless places (which do occupy the ground floor) trying to sell you Livorno shaped dildos or god knows what. Before I run upstairs I glimpse the elevator doors closing; from within, two faces looking at me with what I cannot ascertain being a wicked smug, but deeply suspect is.

My throat burns, the clock is still racing. 1 minute before the scheduled closure time for checking-in (of course this does include the cashier interrupting her task halfway through to answer another phone call, then mumbling something about me being “somewhat” late), my ticket is validated.

In a state of disbelief I board the ship, sit down and fall asleep.


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