One day in Rome and 63 hours of bus

For: Ricardo Coarasa (text and photos)
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"Are numbered tickets?”. "Do not know, is my first trip ". The answer would have more relevance unless, as in this case, who answered was the driver of the bus that was to take from Madrid to Rome. Thus began a bizarre journey that would take me to the Eternal City, where only going to spend a few hours to, immediately after, back again by bus to the capital of Spain. More 4.000 kilometers by bus in just over three days. The previous evening I had come to propose to my director a report on the thousands of pilgrims on their way by road to the St Peter's to bid farewell to Juan Pablo II. It only made sense if I was boarding a bus line and shared with them hardship and fatigue. So it was that April morning in the Méndez Álvaro station asking the driver for my seat number.

The trip, target, almost always, is on the way, Confucius warned and, although he never forgot to add that the straightest line between two points. The succession of unforeseen accumulated in both paths deserved a few lines that did not write then (gain a foothold in newspapers is sometimes more difficult to plant an umbrella on the beaches of Benidorm in the middle of August). I do now.

And Montpellier, apestoso a smell of rubber in quemada forces to stop all night. He busted a wheel. All below

No one expects a peaceful journey ahead when waiting thirty hours of bus. But bad omens stirred up too soon. When maneuvering in harbors station Lleida the bus takes a bollard on a curve ahead impossible, leaving battered rear fender. And in Barcelona, add up new passengers on the bus, that at this point seems a branch of the UN. Multiply the fatigue stops (until the bus stops in Lloret de Mar) and did not spend the border La Junquera until ten p.m..

At midnight, collect three French pilgrims Montpellier. Suddenly, apestoso a smell of rubber in quemada forces to stop. He busted a wheel. All below. By then, tempers are already running high among the pilgrims, because there is news that, faithful to the accumulation of, queues are closed for access to St. Peter's Basilica. An hour later, Auxiliary driver and still can put the spare wheel. Ask 45 minutes. "We have the black!”, a nun angrily complains. Faith moves mountains, but not buses. As he sang Rubén Blades "When you are born of heaven hammer the nails fall…”. Change the damn wheel takes them almost three hours. Impossible to guess what time we arrive in Rome. Finally starts at 2:51. We hear applause. At this point, the neck begin to riot and call for a truce muscles, but it is difficult to put back on the bus tetris. My seatmate snoring on my shoulder and my right bare foot pokes an African who, accustomed to the matatus, this seems like a luxury liner. Are betting on whether this penance remains stay in purgatory.

Faith moves mountains, but not buses. As Ruben Blades singing "when you are born of heaven hammer the nails fall…”

At six o'clock, with two hours of delay, spent by Niza. Genoa welcomes us with a sky so leaden as the minds of travelers. Think of the return trip gives me a headache. It's eleven-fifteen when we stop at a service station Florence. A city so great is only one more stop taking us to our destination. Although it took more than a day stuck here, euphoria is uncorked when someone hears on the radio again allowed access to St. Peter. Most travel without hotel or return ticket, but few seem to care.

At 14:37, 31 hours after leaving Madrid, reached the Tiburtina bus station. I'll get one of the last pilgrims to enter the Basilica and see the body of the Pontiff. Minutes after the doors are closed to the funeral the next day. But all that I told in The Reason. Not a sleepless night wandering the streets like a decaying spectrum. I thus.

After 48 hours without sleep, would give anything for a bed. I walk around the piazza Adriano, against Castelo. I fall asleep standing up as I keep walking. The night is eternal

Initially, speak to the pilgrims and take notes for chronic fatigue entertains tomorrow, but when the job is done and it is not what is midnight? The Piazza Risorgimento is a sea of ​​sleeping bags, of blankets, mats and water bottles. This looks like a refugee camp. From John Vitelleschi to Because of FOSE Castle, Pilgrims take positions for tomorrow's funeral. The moisture soaks bones Tiber River. It is best not to stand and walk. After 48 hours without sleep, would give anything for a bed. I walk around the Adrian Piazza, against Castelo. I fall asleep standing up as I keep walking. The night is eternal, as the city. I've never seen so many times when. I see Dawn get me pining for the bus again I returned to Madrid. Never thought I would miss him as soon.

At seven o'clock I'm in the cyber door from which I shall send the chronic, I write dozing. I've never written anything in such deplorable physical conditions (lo sabe bien uno de mis socios en VaP, Javier is not it?, at the other side thanks to God). En el funeral a punto de comenzar, had the feeling that I was dead.

I have only been 22 hours in Rome. The Groundhog day I returned to the crippled bus and hoping that the return trip more bearable. Me wrong end of the tail. After some dinner in Viareggio, the weight of fatigue and sleep I stumbled pays to Nice, where early in the morning the bus in the ditch bank ten minutes. Battery problems. A little later, the diagnosis is complicated and need to request roadside assistance. Half an hour stop. Eighteen hours after leaving Rome arrived at Montpellier.

I long for a hot shower (or cold). Here in olemos all wrong. We met twenty hours of travel

Cape Creus in the Mediterranean with the sun shining in the morning while the gulls flapping against the wind, like us against misfortune. We have an hour late but the absence of further setbacks invites me, fool me, to make conjectures about the likely time of arrival.

At quarter past eight, the bus at the roadside edge to change driver. Everything seems to be shot. I long for a hot shower (or cold). Here in olemos all wrong. We met twenty hours of travel.

I take a stop at the station Gerona to change my underwear, a sudden pleasure at this juncture of discomfort. We lose almost two hours Barcelona, stopping at the North station and Sants. My patience is about to blow up. The round rookie driver takes the wheel of the bus again. Anything can happen. Now just traveled thirty passengers. I recognize the wisdom of barefoot African feet into the air. In Lleida, new stop. "Mrs., Are you going to Saragossa?”, asks the driver to a septuagenarian. "Do you know where the bus station?”, asked point-blank. Fantastic: Our driver did not know where the station that we go. If you return safe and sound will be a miracle, perhaps the first to attribute to John Paul II.

A las tres y media de la tarde una de las puertas laterales del autobús se abre de sopetón en plena marcha. El viento de los Monegros sopla con furia

To confirm this impression, at half past three p.m. one of the side doors opened out of the blue bus in full swing. The driver does not know anything and we have to tell cries for the end. A few miles later, the scene is repeated. We pulled back. The wind Monegros blowing furiously. The Civil Guard to the rescue. Are 400 miles to Madrid but I can not envisage when we arrive and even if they do aboard this bus, is soon arrested in a service area. Aided by a crane operator, the driver tries to hold the door with a rope wayward. With this rudimentary solution route continue.

A dry roar again startled travelers. The rainfly has subsided and the flames insulating fabric tossed by the wind. The gate was blown away and it no trace. Traveling at the speed of a tractor until the next service area. After taking a look at yet another mess, gets behind the wheel again and ask for help by mobile phone while driving. In the area of Pina de Ebro do another high. The roof is a constant symphony of sound with the wind orchestra. And Aljafarín a mechanic awaits, screwdriver in hand, to try to close the hatch. A passenger in the complicated aid operation. Half an hour after they have finished their work, although it is rattling very bad omen. "This coach is not that old, to me is the first time I passed this…”, Driver apologizes somewhat embarrassed.

A dry roar again startled travelers. The rainfly has subsided and the flames insulating fabric tossed by the wind. The gate was blown away

They meet six hours since we left Barcelona. The average is 50 kph. In a new stop for Madrid, I agree with the second driver in the urinary. "See if it does not break anything else…”, feels compelled to comentarme. "Quiet, I think there is nothing left to break ", the context.

It's nearly half past nine at night when we entered the station docks Alvaro Mendez. Of 85 Trip hours, 63 I have spent in a bus and just 22, and Roma. It still hurts when I think back.

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Comments (6)

  • mayte

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    Very entertaining, has some very funny… I laughed a lot, Thanks Ricardo!

    Answer

  • ricardo

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    Thanks Mayte, face adversity with a sense of humor is a very healthy way to not be overwhelmed by setbacks. Bs

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  • Maria Laura

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    I could imagine as I read the article. Excellent account!

    Answer

  • ricardo

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    Thank you Mary. Nice to read comments and. Greetings

    Answer

  • Floor

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    Entertaining reading the article but I guess desperate experience. I liked it.

    Answer

  • ricardo Coarasa

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    Exasperating is little. A master in patience rather. Thanks, Floor.

    Answer

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