Il Passaggio a Livello

Back in Minnesota where I grew up the Burlington Northern and other big freight lines crossed through my neighborhood about a half mile from our home. At night when all else was quiet I remember discerning the first perceptible train whistle—a rich, multiple-horn tone—then listening for the next one, even louder and accompanied with the deep rumbling coming from tons of corn and soybeans rolling down the track and the regular rhythm as each car seemed to press down the section of rail at the crossing.  Sometimes I’d hear a few in a night, and often my dreams would begin weaving from their sound.

            I’ve lived in New England for twenty years now and it’s been awhile since my nocturnal or diurnal soundscapes have featured trains. My daily twenty kilometer commute to work in New Hampshire included no stoplights, one turn, and no railroad tracks, the nearest one along my route having been turned into a recreation trail over the past couple of decades.

            We’re in Italy now, though. In Lucca and all over the country trains are a major part of life. On our particular line I’ve only seen one freight train in three months, and I’ve seen a lot of trains, so when I say trains I’m talking about the ones with windows and, usually, faces behind them. Trains are a very reliable—setting aside the occasional strike—common, and fairly economical mode of transportation here. Being without a car, we’ve used them ourselves for the occasional trip to a chestnut festival or the beach. But day to day we have a different relationship with trains. Specifically, crossing their tracks. Most of the time we head out, in fact, our route requires us to head toward the rail crossing, il passaggio a livello, two hundred meters from home.

         I invite you to take a trip with me to said crossing. Heading out from the house we take a left, enjoy a minute of calm bicycling and now we’re there. The crossing. Apply hand brakes, put your foot down. Stop.  The bell is lightly dinging. Red warning lights are on. The long white and red striped bar on each side of the tracks is closing. 

Then all is calm. We wait. Across the tracks we see a girl on a moped, a car with its engine already turned off. Three cars are next to us now and two more cyclists, a woman in high heels, nylons, dress, big sunglasses, lots of hair and makeup and a younger man in a dark sweat suit. We all wait. 

           Besides you and me, nobody really seems impatient. All engines are turned off. When another car rounds the bend and sees our growing waiting party, however, it backs up and turns around in search of another route. We look at our watches. Another woman pulls up on a bicycle, ducks it under the crossing bar, looks both ways, crosses, ducks under the next bar, and cruises towards her destination. We count the minutes. The rest of the group just waits.

Queue stretching back to our house from the tracks

 And then we think we hear it. Could it be? Yes, here it comes! Speeding by in glory and with purpose, full of passengers and off towards the next station the train zips by and we’re all secretly glad we didn’t get caught out there in front of it. And then it’s gone. Optimists start their engines. We yawn, fidget with our handlebars. 

Perhaps we’re trying to show we know the story and can wait yet we’re really anticipating it ourselves, salivating imagining the bars are about to move. Another minute ticks by. The optimists, no longer quite so much so, stop their engines.  Okay then, the two of us think, enough already. Another minute. Finally the second train passes—this one slower and slower as it anticipates the station a kilometer or two early—and everyone starts their engines, arranges one pedal up high with a foot on it ready to push—pessimists, realists, optimists alike—and twenty seconds later the long bars sweep up and we are allowed to go on our way. 

            Niko likes these trains. According to him, they’re worthy of his affections because “they go fast and far and when the gates ding and the chook-a-chooze go by it’s loud.” After Niko returns from a ride with his mom he’ll hop off her bike, come in the door and report what went down at the crossing. “We waited for two trains!” “The gates started to ding but we made it through!” “There was a double-decker!” And, to be fair, sometimes he’ll even be able to tell us, “There weren’t any trains today!” Niko relays this crucial information without fail. And with lots of enthusiasm!

            So for many the trains are practical and economical. For me the rumble of these light-weights isn’t like the heavy freight cars back in Minnesota and the horns—a quick and simple airy toot—are kind of boring in comparison, too. And then, of course, there’s the inevitable wait. But like many things that might be or become mundane the trains and their crossing are rendered fascinating to me through the eyes of our four year old. He hears these metal beasts, feels them, just stares intently or shoots up his arms or yells in glee. He doesn't mind the wait at all.