Hostage

We did not have the extra time on our travels to do what they did so elegantly in the  Eighteenth Century;  the Grand Tour of the Italian cities, so we only travelled across the top of Italy, from Milan to Venice. It was my personal ambition to see Venice, not for its palazzi , canals and the overblown romantic notions attached to them but because one of my most successful play productions had been Goldoni's  The  Superior  Residence, and I was biassed towards his home city because of that.

We crossed the southern part of France, leaving from Annecy and enjoying  the journey until the train pulled up at a spot that appeared to be about a hundred yards from the main station. It seems that Mussolini's legacy of keeping the trains on time had lessened somewhat. There it stayed for a considerable time and as we and other passengers had brought our luggage into the end of the carriage, it was an uncomfortable period of standing.

What made it more uncomfortable for me was the fact that behind me at the door was standing a very excitable Frenchman. He may have been in a hurry to keep an appointment, though I could not tell whether it was so from the long stream of loudly expressed imprecations that he loosed off . I did learn a few French curses in that time.  Now this may well have been a useful thing in my  education, but unfortunately the gentleman had possibly the worst case of halitosis that I had ever encountered, and all of it delivered  with considerable force over my shoulder.

Luckily before I had to call for oxygen, the train pulled in to the Stazione Centrale and we  were able to get a pleasant enough place to stay right opposite its impressive facade .

Not so fortunate was the fact that there was a general strike in progress, and that impeded our sightseeing somewhat. Nevertheless we made  good use of our time and trudged the streets, checking out various things of touristy interest, and in the end we  were pretty well tired out.  The view from the top of  the  Duomo of masses of red flags  waving as the procession of strikers moved through the streets was quite impressive.

I wanted to write up my journal that evening, so for once it was I who retired while Betty and daughter Vanessa ventured out to make a phone call home to Australia, the first call since we had been overseas.

I fell asleep over the journal, and it was with some startlement  that I was shaken awake by  my wife, demanding a considerable sum of money.  Grasping it, she hurried off without a coherent explanation, just something about Vanessa being held.

Later I got the full story.  They had gone to the postal area in the station, and had booked a call to our home in Bondi Junction, not without some difficulty as the gentlemen behind the counter seemed to be totally devoid of English.  Successful after some long period, and a down payment of a lot of lira,  they were connected to Australia and were able to speak to Alyson and her husband.

Lots of news, from both ends, lots of time consumed in chat.  Finally they decided  enough had been said and closed the line and started off back to the hotel.

Suddenly, the non-English speaking counter clerks became very voluble in -- yes-- English. Where Bet thought , since they were smiling and laughing that they were calling her over to refund some money, they pointed out instead that the down payment for the call had not been nearly enough, because Betty had ignored the beeps signalling the passing of the minutes and had racked up a sizable bill.  The gentlemen were pleasant enough but very insistent. When she proposed going back to get the money from me they demanded some security, but Betty wisely did not have any intention of handing over her passport as they requested .  

Instead, she handed over our daughter, who sat, no doubt demurely, there on a seat until her mother returned with  the money.

There are times when daughters are quite useful.