Saturday October 14 – (Day Twenty-seven)
After Asti, I was really reluctant to try somewhere else. Here it was Saturday morning and I had nothing planned. So…Alba? I decided yes. Yes, let’s try it. And I was trying it alone. Big choice for me.
I figured out the bus to Porta Susa and set off allowing myself over an hour to get to the station, buy the ticket and figure out the platform. So glad I did.
First I went to a machine that was for ticketless travel only. When I tried it anyway, it told me that ticketless travel wasn’t available for that route. I visited the ticket office where I was told ‘Not here. Next office on the left.’ That was a long walk away and the time was ticking. I bargained with myself on how late I would leave it before giving up my journey (trains run every hour). At the next office the number system to stand in line was on the blink. I stood in line before seeing others had numbers. Where from? From another number machine out of my sight.
I started towards the working machine and then saw another ticket machine – no harm to try it, time continued to tick. This one could issue a ticket but only by card. I relented and used my UK card. And now I have ten minutes to spare. Off to the platform.
It’s not a bad journey to Alba. It takes about an hour and twenty minutes and on a three decker (GO-type, for those in Toronto) train. The scenery is pleasant and in parts quite lovely. It reminds me somewhat of the journey north to Edinburgh, with its rivers and small spired towns. I’m serenaded by hip hop music issuing from the seats behind me. And I’m amused – the teenagers are trying unsuccessfully to sing along with the English lyrics but do a better, lusty job with the Italian ones. Silence is easier.
Bottom line first. Alba is lovely.
It was easy to find my way into the centre of town. The streets are narrow at first but not like a maze. Eventually I am in a larger square and then a main road looms with stalls down the centre. This makes for an interesting stroll. The stalls (which don’t sell food) take up much of the space. There are narrow aisles on either side flanking the often beautiful shops. I’m excited to find a textile stall and buy some thread and heart-shaped pearl buttons for my dolls. I now wish I’d lingered there longer and stuffed my bag with goodies.
Other than that, I just buy some bunched chillies. The price on display is one euro – I’m charged 3.50. I need them so carry them off.
At the end of the long narrow market there’s a square with a white church, and some market stalls selling some food items – these seem quite high end but I’m intrigued by the displays, including many vacuum packs of shelled hazelnuts.
I decide not to make a fuss of lunch and go to a café at the end that serves some simple pasta – choose your pasta, choose your sauce. I decided on meat ravioli with butter and sage. This is the home of slow food and apparently slow service. It’s an hour from the time I’m ushered into my cramped seat to having my ravioli in front of me. It’s ordinary but I’m hungry.
I spend an hour or so looking around the town, down the busy streets, onto some quiet ones, and find a lot of churches and the covered food market where there’s nothing left on display and men are taking the stalls down.
Alba is more interesting than Asti because it’s market day, it’s colourful, it’s crowded, it’s the weekend, and this weekend is – like every weekend in October here – the truffle festival. There are artisans showing off local crafts including a basket weaver happy to show his skills and his wares.
There are people everywhere and most of them are eating. They’re eating tajarin (a local pasta, like a finer version of tagliatelle) with truffles. It’s everywhere. Alba is a touristy town (although not obnoxiously so) and people here must live for the tourist trade. I wonder what the younger people feel about this, as they rush back and forth with trays laden with drinks, food, and dirty dishes.
Like almost anywhere, no matter how crowded and lively it is, at around 2pm everything slows then halts. The shutters come down, the people drift away and suddenly there are empty streets and echoes. I wander a bit more but it’s no fun any more. I meander (mostly because I keep going the wrong way as Google insists there’s a street that isn’t actually there) towards the station.
Here the ticket buying goes a little more smoothly. Only this machine will take only coins and the ticket is tiny. I tuck it away in ‘a safe place,’ then inevitably panic when I can’t figure out where it is as I see the train approach and I haven’t validated it yet.
But I manage it all again. I manage it while realising that my throat is now sore and I’m feeling a bit ‘off.’ I just want to get home now.
The train speeds me back to Porta Susa, where I spend half an hour trying to understand Google’s guide to where to catch the bus back. Not one of the more widely spaced than I’d like stops shows the number 51 bus – where is it??? – and I eventually find one bus that is going in roughly the right direction. I feel proud of myself for getting on it and even finding the connection to the real bus along the way. This is working somehow and I’m actually getting the hang of it. Go me!
At the flat I dose myself with First Defence and have two cups of tea. And after a rest I’m OK to go out for a pizza close by. Now all I need is some luck to not fall foul of whatever virus is attacking me and threatening to spoil tomorrow.
