JULY 10 - Its another hot morning, as we pack up and go to the bus stop. The Sunday schedule is different, so not many buses run today. Get into the train station just in time for the Verona-Venezia Mestre train. In Mestre, the platform we need to be on is crammed with people, and the train does not appear on the display. We are fairly sure this is the right place, so Janet goes off to get information. Turns out there is a railway strike planned for early morning tomorrow on the route we are taking (among others). The excess of passengers would appear to be a result of people rebooking in anticipation of no trains tomorrow. As the train arrives, the panic is clear, as everyone is trying to get in the doors as quickly as possible. By some miracle we get seats, despite the encumberment of our bags.
The looks of the countryside changes entirely once we round the northernmost point of the Adriatic and start heading down the east side. We go through thick deciduous forests and hilly, rocky terrain that drops off immediately into the sea. Trieste is the end of the train line.
This little finger of Italy that wraps around the Adriatic is a bit odd, just doesn’t seem to fit geographically with the Italian lowlands farther west. The truth is that none of this region really fits in any one of the big powers of the region. Like Venice, it was once a part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. But, unlike Venice, the population of Trieste (Trst in Slovenian) was split between Italians, Slovenians, and Croats. The breakup of that empire after WWI left Trieste in the hands of Italy, which began to discriminate against non-Italian ethnicities and slowly diminished their cultural influence.
The end of WWII saw another chapter, as competing claims by Italy and Yugoslavia left Trieste a ‘neutral’ independent territory (Territorio Libero di Trieste). This lasted until 1954, when Italy and Yugoslavia agreed to split the lands between them (Trieste to Italy, the Istrian Peninsula to Yugoslavia).
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Culturally, it does really have an Italian feel, with the characteristic sidewalk cafes, women sauntering down the avenue in their best efforts at ‘nonchalant style’, and the men with five o’clock shadows and knee-length jeans.
There was a time when this city was the meeting place of many intellectuals. James Joyce finished his epic Ulysses here, and there is a statue of him.
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