I arrived at the door station. I do the row is the first of the month and many commuters (both students and workers) as I expect to be able to renew your subscription for the next thirty days. It is with wallets in hand, without thinking about anything special, maybe with his gaze fixed on the escape of some tiles on the shoes or some other space shuttle.
my turn and I say automatically directed to the microphone with his lips out of the glass:
- A monthly subscription of eighty miles, please.
The ticket on the other side takes the small rectangular cardboard and metal sticks it into the slot. I, with his hand ready to pull the figure that I know of habit, I ask:
- How much?
- Sixty and thirty cents.
- Excuse me, but they were fifty-fifty the last month?
- Yes, but prices have now increased.
- Since when?
- Now.
- Ah, I understand ... She said that was for my subscription?
- Sixty and thirty cents.
- but have only increased subscriptions or tickets?
- even the tickets.
- Mm. Step
sixty euro and thirty cents in the slot in the metal to glass suddenly feeling an overwhelming helplessness against such situations. The ticket is quiet and introverted and collects the money. Giro
heels (although I always wear flat shoes) and I go out from the atrium smadonnando subheading to obliterate the stupid card from over-exorbitant price. I feel very "in-sheep-flock."
then I climb up a thirty year old locomotive arrived at the station with a delay of one quarter of an hour, which reeks of diesel fuel and heat as a barbeque in the garden the day of August. And I wonder: what will never be served to pay one euro and eighty cents more if the service has remained the same as before?
That was September 1, Friday morning.
Yesterday evening, I returned from work by train No. 2245 to Bologna. Arriving in Monselice at 18:55 I had to wait about twenty minutes to take the regional train No. 20758 of Mantova for 19:18. Usually the train is stopped on the track already and I do not have to do is go up and wait for the departure. Yesterday, no. The train and the train was not there before, the No. 5580 as of 18:53, was still at the track four when he had to be from well before my arrival. It expects all on the dock, obviously there is no voice to the speakers to give comfort or at least information on the delay. Rumors claimed that 20758 was the train stopped on the tracks, broken, before the station and then the line (single track) was blocked indefinitely. The head of the train tells us that in 5580 the station square there is a bus replacement ready to go. We head towards the middle of all that turns out to be a small tourist bus probably recovered cheaply from any state of the former Soviet bloc. Let's all inside the vehicle, hoping and praying not to take an hour to travel the ten kilometers of the highway at that hour will be full of traffic. As soon as all the back of all seats were laid on the light green color, salt jalopy on a railway man who warns us that the train to the track four, one from which we had just descended, he would be ready to go. All we put ourselves in the foot, again, wiper that detach from the interior of the wagon, another transhumance. The train of eighteen and fifty-part to the nineteen-thirty.
In my head, while the old railcar thirty years trudging on track, I still think about what is served to raise the price of subscriptions and tickets.
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