Italy is a beatiful country. The hills are full of huge, old villas and monastaries that stand over well-manicured fields full of great things like grapes and kiwis and figs and tomatoes and olives and lemons and oranges and... The drivers are insane. The relatives are welcoming. The food is amazing. Kimberly and the Krew have been completly overwhelmed by the contained chaos of everything.
Italy also contains some of the most beautiful art in the world, in the form of sculptures, paintings, and architecture, and some of the most friendly people in the world. Well, mostly.
On Saturday, we decided to go visit the Reggia of Caserta, near Pratola Serra. [Caserta is in Southern Italy, close to Napoli, which is an important part for the story.] The guide books call the Reggia the "Versaille of Italy" and sing the praises of the English gardens. Once we got our tickets, we walked over to the bus area to take the 3 km ride to the garden entrance. This is where our story begins.
There was a 20-something guy selling tickets to the train and telling people to line up 'over there.' Two problems: (1) he wasn't so much selling tickets as smoking cigarettes and flirting with the young women in the general vicinity; and (2) Italians, unlike the English or the Americans, do not take well to queuing. The line for the bus wasn't so much a line as it was a horde. The first bus came and went, with our Hero-American-Family standing in the bus' dust, looking completely bewildered and scared. Those little old Italians are not as sweet as they look.
Having experienced this before, I decided I needed to act. As we were the last group pushed off the previous bus, we were first in line for the next bus. As the little Neapolitan women started to encroach upon and pass us, I made sure that we inched forward. As the Sicilian women stood in front of us, I politely explained to them (in my poorest Italian) that the line was behind us and we were actually in the front. [I absorbed enough evil eyes that I had an exorcism that evening. No joke.]
When the bus finally arrived, the contained chaos became uncontained. Old Italians were practically running over us and knocking the Krew down to get on the bus first. When the bus finally stopped rolling, it was actually only a few feet in front of me.
Although a few of the little women were too quick and got on before me, I put my plan in action. With one particulary nice woman and her very pleasant husband right behind me, I blocked the door with my rather large frame and arms. I then turned and told the Krew to get on the bus, blocking everyone else. A few jabs in the ribs and screams of indignation later, we were all on the bus, followed quickly by an angry mob. Fortunately, the heat of the bus lulled everyone to sleep and all their anger was directed back at the husbands, just as intended.
[The woman right behind Kimberly is the one who was jabbing me in the back. I wish I had a better picture, but I was afraid if I actually pointed the camera at her, she would spit on me.]
We spent the next few hours touring the 7 km of garden paths, seeing beautiful fountains, fake Roman ruins, tiny frogs, giant fish, and exotic trees, including a Redwood from the West of America and a Doug Fir from the Northwest of America. Just like home.
On the way back, we decided to walk the 3 km down to the palace. Although we will need to face the hordes of old Italian women again at some point, twice in the same day wasn't worth it.
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