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…