Very early Sunday morning, October 15. Boarding passes? Check! Passports? Check! Our bags are packed and we’re ready to go. We could not be more organised, setting off on our Roman (working) holiday. What could go wrong?
I’d spend the first three days installing an exhibition of work by British artist Peter Blake, opening on the Wednesday. It was a big show, approximately 160 works, so lots to do on arrival. My wife and five-year-old son would be there at the end of long stints in the gallery, and then, for six days, we would be throwing coins into fountains.
We live in Folkestone. Our easyJet flight was 9.10am from Gatwick and so our taxi picked us up at 5.30am. We arrived in plenty of time and went straight to bag drop. There I heaved our suitcase on to the electronic scales — phew, just under the permitted 23kg — and scanned my boarding pass, expecting a luggage label to appear when, instead, the computer said: “Visa Required”. What, a visa for Italy?
I quickly consulted a member of staff to be told that in fact I had a passport problem. Since a post-Brexit rule change, British citizens entering the EU must have a passport less than 10 years old (and valid for at least three months after the day they intend to leave the EU). My passport had not reached its expiry date, but had been issued more than a decade earlier (the result of a quirk in the passport renewal system that, until 2018, added any unused months from the old passport on top of the new one’s standard 10-year validity).
“Didn’t you check the government website?” asked the friendly member of staff.
What to do? I had to be in Rome to start installing the exhibition the next day. I could try British Airways because, rumour had it, not being a budget airline, it might be more lenient . . . Meanwhile, a quick family conference came to the conclusion that wife and child should board the easyJet flight, with suitcase, while I tried Plan BA and, if successful, we would be reunited in Rome that afternoon.
It wasn’t to be. British Airways was equally adamant, and if by chance I somehow managed to arrive in Rome, I would be stopped and sent back to London. (And then Rwanda?) Should I apply for a temporary passport, as people did in the old days, at a post office? But damn it, even if that were still possible, post offices are closed on a Sunday. Through the brain fog that is all too familiar to those who catch early-morning flights, I remembered that I had used my passport for a ferry crossing to Calais six weeks previously — long after I should have done, according to the new rules (which apply equally to ferries as to planes).
Quick, Gatwick Express to Victoria, tube to St Pancras, high-speed train to Dover Priory station. There was still time to board P&O Pioneer as a foot passenger, departing at 1.45pm.
With briefcase, packed with a good book — Middlemarch, actually — and a wash bag, I walked from Dover Priory down to the ferry terminal and picked up the ticket I had booked frantically in transit. It was French border control at Dover that was my final frontier and, while queueing, I put on my best poker face. I handed over my passport at the “control cabin”, frankly scared that I would be hauled up but, well, the guy looked at me, slotted the biometric page into a digital reader and nodded me through. Such relief. As soon as I got on board P&O Pioneer I went to the bar and drank a pint of beer to celebrate. And then another one for luck.
Sailing away from a port, for me, always brings such strong feelings of release. My wife and child had already arrived in Rome, and had let me know that they were settling into the nice apartment we’d booked near Villa Torlonia. I then proceeded to work out my itinerary, asking my phone how to get to Rome from Calais, by train. It replied: Calais-Ville to Paris Gare du Nord, Gare de l’Est to Strasbourg, Strasbourg to Basel, Basel to Bern, Bern to Brig, Brig to Milan, Milan to Rome, arriving at 3.10pm on Monday. I had a long way to go.
I disembarked from a train crowded with rugby fans at Gare de Strasbourg well after midnight and had about five hours to kill before the first train to Basel. I went in search of a waiting room, where I envisaged myself cutting a solitary romantic figure reading George Eliot. No such luck. The station was closing and I, along with sundry homeless people, was pushed out into the night.
It was cold in Strasbourg, 4C, and I was wearing clothes more suited to Rome with temperatures in the mid-20s. I saw a McDonald’s on the other side of the Place de la Gare and, moth-like, was drawn to its warm red-yellow glow. It was closed.
I decided that I would try to keep warm by walking up and down the length of the pedestrianised Grand’Rue, scrutinising illuminated shopfronts as I went in order to give my mind something to do. I did up all my shirt and coat buttons, stuffed a handkerchief under my collar in order to keep out the cold — something I’ve never done before — and set off. Almost immediately I started to notice shifting forms in doorways, homeless people wrapped up in duvets, some watching me as I went by, one way then the other way.
There are a number of hotels near the station. I didn’t think of checking into one earlier because of the shortness of time, the euro/hour ratio being too high, especially in light of the amount I was haemorrhaging on train tickets. But at the Ibis hotel the receptionist made me a cup of black coffee and let me wait in the lobby for the half an hour or so before going to catch my train.
It takes about an hour to get from Strasbourg to Basel by train, another hour from Basel to Bern, and yet another from Bern to Brig. It was impossible to sleep during these short sprints, especially as I couldn’t afford to miss a stop on my itinerary and create even more chaos. And so I watched the sun rise over Alpine landscapes, their beauty enhanced by the kind of hyperrealism that comes with extreme tiredness.
At Brig, another setback — no seats were available on the Trenitalia EuroCity 37 (and standing wasn’t allowed). Crestfallen, I walked out of the ticket office on to the platform, where soon the EC37 to Milan would be arriving. I found myself impersonating the other (ticket-holding) people waiting there, and when the train came along, like them, I simply got on.
I sat in the buffet for breakfast and started to rehearse a story for the ticket inspector. He listened politely and, in the nicest possible way, I was asked to pay for a ticket, plus a €50 fine. He also explained that he couldn’t sell me a ticket from Milan to Rome, but that I could buy one online with my phone. I tried but there was no signal on the train. My frustration was to some extent allayed by the extraordinary views to my left, into the brightening day across Lake Maggiore. I was in Italy, much more than halfway from Gatwick to Rome.
I arrived at Milano Centrale at 11.40am and had 18 minutes to change for the Frecciarossa to Rome. There was no time to buy a ticket. Milano Centrale is a very big station and I raced from one end to the other to find the right platform. Here was the train — thankfully no ticket barrier — and so I jumped on, found a seat by a window and waited for the ticket inspector, like a criminal awaiting arrest. I told my story and took the €50 fine like a stoic.
I read some more Middlemarch and then found myself reflecting again on the folly of Brexit. I added up the cost of the tickets (and fines): more or less £500.
The family reunion at Roma Termini, almost tearful, was quick. We got into a taxi and went straight to the gallery to start installing the Blake show. The next two days were full, to say the least, the opening — attended by hundreds — went without a hitch, and then we had a chance to relax into lazier days. We spent time with friends, sightseeing and watching the world go by from the comfort of outdoor café tables. Strasbourg was on another planet.
Tuesday October 24. On the day of our departure we caught a bus, late morning, from Termini to Ciampino airport, went to bag drop and had our boarding passes scanned. My passport was stamped nonchalantly at immigration and before long we were flying home. So easy.
Jonathan Watkins is an independent curator, and was previously director of the Ikon Gallery and curator of the Serpentine Gallery.
For information on renewing UK passports, including urgent applications, see gov.uk/renew-adult-passport
Follow FTWeekend on Instagram and X, and subscribe to our podcast Life and Art wherever you listen
Read the full article here