Porto San Lovely.
Porto San Giorgio is full of perfectly lovely people who have no idea how to get to Monsampietro Morico, which is unfortunate as it was exactly where I needed to go. After stopping for a bit of pizza and a beer I asked the owner/chef/waiter how to get the bus station. He and his wife explained it’s being rebuilt but if I went back towards the train station then I would find a row of bus stops.
I went there and waited when suddenly a man appeared who told me to go fifty metres the other way as the buses weren’t running to where I was standing. I then asked every bus driver if they were going that way and they all said no, they were going somewhere else. Then I went to the train station but the lady there sent me to ask a man in a newspaper shop who didn’t know so he phoned a friend. No one knew I kept pestering bus drivers as I thought there must be a way. A persistent little snail, itching for a taste of lettuce.
Eventually one driver told me that if I go to Fermo, then there is a bus which goes from there to Monsampietro Morico. I checked this with the Fermo driver and he and a chap who was helping out on the bus took me, first I had to go and buy a ticket from the newspaper man who tried to call his friend again but I explained it was fine, I just needed a ticket as the bus was about to leave. He called his friend anyway and then sold me the ticket.
Once on the bus, the driver, the second bus man and I established that I really did know very little Italian to the amusement of a teenage girl who was sat at the front of the bus listening to the very strange mix of Italian, Spanish and English in which we were communicating. Well, when he had made all of his stops and his friend had left, the driver drove me to a separate bus stop outside of the town and told me the bus would come at six but there were a few so I had to ask every driver. By then it was 1630 so I thanked him very much for quite literally going the extra mile and went to buy a ticket.
So the sweaty, hunchback, snail made his way towards what looked like civilisation. I asked the first person I found and asked for directions in very broken Italian. She politely stopped herself from laughing then told me. She only had to explain three times so I thought ‘great, my Italian must be improving’. I asked how long it took to get there and she said what I hoped to be five minutes and not fifteen or fifty. I found it in five.
I asked the lady in the shop for a ticket and she said the price in English so the people of Fermo were giving me very mixed messages about my Italian. I got the ticket and returned to the bus stop on top of the hill and killed an hour by playing the guitar.
The buses started arriving and they were largely filled with teenagers who I supposed were commuting to Fermo for school or wherever it is that children go. I followed the instructions and asked every bus driver. One man said yes and let me put my big rucksack beneath the coach. I thanked him very much.