The Tuscan Tram Story
Florence, Italy
A few weeks ago, I took a 6 am flight from Edinburgh to Florence via Paris. As you may recall, I hauled ass and suitcase through Charles de Gaulle Airport and managed to make my connecting flight.
By the time I finally landed in Italy, I was exhausted.
My daughter, who allegedly is studying in Florence but appears mostly to be traveling the whole of Europe this semester, told me that taking the tram from the airport into the city was the way to go. So, when I walked out of arrivals and saw a newsstand that sold tram tickets, I bought one.
I knew from past experience with Italian trains and funiculars that the most sacred rule of Italian public transportation is that a ticket MUST BE purchased BEFORE boarding.
On my first trip to Italy many years ago, I ran for a funicular in Bergamo and made it inside just as the doors were closing. My self-congratulatory bright smile was greeted with looks of horror and disbelief, as if I’d just been caught selling nuclear secrets to the Russians.
“You have no ticket!” several people stage-whispered simultaneously.
“I’ll buy one from him,” I said, pointing at the conductor who was making his way up the aisle.
Cue aghast intakes of breath.
“No, you must purchase the ticket before you get on the funicolare!” an urgent voice informed me.
A middle-aged man yanked a ticket out of his jacket pocket and told me to take it or “you will be arrested.”
I figured this was a huge overreaction; however, in the interest of averting an international incident, I accepted the ticket, attempted unsuccessfully to pay him a few lira, and rode to Bergamo’s upper town without further ado.
All I’ll say about my second Italian transportation kerfuffle, which happened in the Florence train station in 2016, is that some things—world peace, iced water in hell, and changing a non-changeable ticket on Trenitalia—truly are impossible.
Armed with my knowledge that it’s necessary to purchase public transportation tickets before boarding, I did so at the Florence airport newsstand.
“Is the ticket ready to use?” I asked the woman behind the counter. “All I have to do is get on the train and give it to the conductor?”
She hesitated a moment, then answered “si” before turning her attention pointedly to her manicured nails. (For the record, all ten fingernails were painted white, and every other nail had a golden Christmas tree on it. I was impressed.)
I translated the look she’d given me with my ticket as “what an idiot;” however, in retrospect, the look and the “si” probably meant “I have absolutely no idea what you just said so I’ll agree and hope that gets you out of here faster.”
Should I actually have looked at my ticket? Yes, I should have. But I didn’t. I was tired and, after all, I’d bought the damn thing before entering the tram. Wasn’t that enough? I zippered the ticket carefully inside my jacket pocket and kept myself awake by speculating on the life stories and destinations of the people around me.
As we neared my stop, I was watching a handsome, 30-something Italian man. He seemed to be flirting with the young women standing next to me. I wondered if he knew them or whether he was just rolling the dice and hoping they landed in his favor. Which woman interested him more: the one with the long black braids, or the blonde with the pom-pom hat?
Imagine my surprise when he moved away from them and stood expectantly in front of me. Had he failed to impress the younger women? Did he want to sell me something? Why was this man standing there looking at me?
“Um, hello?” I said.
“Ticket,” he replied.
Ah, yes, now I could see that the young man was wearing a conductor’s jacket. I proudly plucked my ticket from my pocket and handed it over.
The speed with which his expression transformed from “pleasant” to “full combat mode” was something to behold.
“You must pay a fine,” he informed me.
“What? I gave you my ticket.”
“You did not stamp your ticket.”
“But the woman I bought it from said I could just get on the train,” I protested.
“You did not stamp your ticket.”
The tram slowed down and came to a stop at Santa Maria Novella.
“I’m sorry, but I did buy the ticket today, and this is my stop,” I told him.
“You will get off with me and I will write your violation.”
The man did indeed follow me off the train, pulled out a mobile ticketing device, and asked for my passport.
My fear-of-being-scammed radar went off.
“What if I don’t give it to you?” I asked.
“Do you see the polizia?” He pointed with his mobile ticketing device.
Yes, I did.
“I will call them over here.”
Fine. If this guy was a fraud, at least I could easily summon the indicated polizia to help me.
I handed over my passport and asked, “How much is the fine?” I figured paying five or 10 Euros to be on my way would be worth it.
“Forty Euros if you pay me now.”
“WHAT? Are you fuc—are you kidding me? That ticket only cost 1,70 Euro.” I pulled out my phone and searched for my AirFrance boarding pass. “I can show you that I landed in Florence 1/2 hour ago.”
He brushed aside my phone.
“You did not get your ticket stamped. You must pay a fine.”
“Well, I’m not going to,” I announced.
“If you do not pay 40 Euros within 14 days, you will have to pay 250 Euros.” He handed me my passport and kept tapping information into his screen.
“We will send you a bill. What is your address?”
“My address. Hmm, let’s see—” I rattled off a random house number and street name, the name of a real city—but not mine—and a 7-digit zip code.
“This address is your real address?”
“Oh, absolutely,” I replied.
Conductor Man looked daggers at me and printed my violation receipt. The process took a while: think of the longest CVS receipt you’ve ever seen and double it.
“I am just doing my job,” he said. “My job is to write violations for people who do not get their tickets stamped. I am finished.”
As he walked away, I waved my tram ticket at him.
”You forgot to take this,” I said.
He smiled—I guess, having dispensed with his official duties, he was allowed to be friendly again—and said, “No, since that ticket is not stamped, you can use it to get back to the airport.”
I resisted the urge to point out that, while he was attempting to fine me 40/250 Euros for allegedly cheating Autolinee Toscane out of 1,70 Euro, he also was giving me permission re-use my tram ticket, thereby actually depriving Autolinee Toscane of 1,70 Euro.
Italy’s rigid devotion to bureaucracy—to the letter of the law over its spirit—is, in my experience, one of that nation’s least endearing aspects.
Fortunately, Italy offers many things to love. I dragged my wheelie from the Santa Maria Novella tram stop to one of them: a lively cafe with sandwiches and pastries beckoning from behind a glass display case while an espresso machine hissed, steamed, and dispensed its caffeinated magic into my cup.
Now, that’s amore!
Hilarious!
Scofflaw! (What's the word in Italian?)