Thanks to iffy guidebook instructions, David Whitley gets soaked waiting for the bus. At least it’s a thunderstorm, not a volcanic eruption…
Waiting at the station
There is really only one option left; lots and lots of colourful, inventive swearing. The cab driver at the other end of the station looks at me, partly in fear and partly in amusement, as I hurl ever stronger expletives at the passing buses.
According to the ever-trusty guidebook, the airport shuttle arrives every twenty minutes and costs peanuts. It’s far better to wait than take the soft, expensive way out in a taxi, despite the constant overtures from the cab rank.
Good intentions
The whole day, though, has been an exercise in good intentions going to pot. Why not squeeze in another city, instead of hanging around in the hotel two hours south? If you’ve got to go through on the way to the airport, then where’s the harm in dumping the bag at the station for a few hours and having a mooch round?
An excellent plan, but for two things. Firstly, the lockers at the station aren’t working, meaning the big, heavy bag, laden down with wine bottles, spare shoes and other cumbersome artefacts, is getting the sight-seeing tour as well. Secondly, it has absolutely bucketed down with rain all day, painting a rather grim picture of Catania.
Mt Etna views
It’s one of those cities that is never going to be perfect, and is all the better for it. Here the buildings are a mixture of high quality limestone and dirty volcanic rock that has been spewed down onto the city over the years by its awe-inspiring neighbour.
You can see Mt Etna, Europe’s most active volcano, from the city centre, and it is both a blessing and a curse on the city. The land around it is incredibly fertile, and the rock it churns out makes for great building material, but there is always that feeling that disaster could be only days away. Put it this way, you always think twice when you hear the sky rumble.
Thunderstorm
Today, though, it’s just thunder. Lots and lots of bloody thunder. And spending all day drenched has a habit of sending you a little crazy, pacing up and down the bus stop with a nasty bout of Tourettes.
The desire to just get to the airport and slump, soaked to the bone, in one of those soulless seats is countered only by the stubborn need not to give the leering cabbie the satisfaction of me giving in.
Every ten minutes, he wanders over, rambling something completely incomprehensible in Italian, punctuating his sentence with: “I am your friend!”
No, son, you are not my friend. And you’re not going to win. Even if it takes an hour of being dumped on by the heavens, waiting for the bus to finally arrive.
Dodgy guidebook
Unfortunately, it appears the information in the guidebook is, like its street maps, a complete work of fiction. As the rush hour traffic begins to snarl, I suddenly have to concede that I’m now cutting it fine to catch the plane.
After two hours of thoroughly miserable obstinacy and foul language, it’s time for a humiliating climb down and a forlorn trudge over to the gloating cabbie.
He beams a sadistic smile. “You see!” he yelps with an infuriating glee. “I am your friend, yes?”
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