A Moment in Time, Italian

7am and the ferry terminal at Genoa was near empty, except for a lone gunman standing at the customs' checkpoint.

With thumbs hitched on his belt, the carabinieri sized me up through his cylindrically-shaped sunglasses as I marched towards him.

"Bongiorno Bastia?" I enquired. The Sylvester Stallone look-alike momentarily moved his hand atop his pistol. Realising my incendiary words might have aggravated him, I quickly followed it up with some fluent English, "the ferry to Bastia you bastard, this way?", or words to that effect.

"Si, terminale cinque" he replied. "No, terminala nove" (four) I said whilst pointing to the digital screen on the other side of the building that displayed the departure time and terminal number.

Peeved for having questioned his authority, there was a momentary halt to proceedings. He was either going to shoot me or wave me through. After studying the board at length, he chose the latter option.

I breezed through customs and stepped outside onto an uncovered walkway. An arrow pointed in the direction to terminale four, a building located some 300-metres away.

Striding out under a burning sun, my sweaty head soon saturated my cap and the arch of my back became a sticky zone. Both armpits joined in. My aluminium-free alzheimer-fighting deodorant couldn't stand the heat and a sweaty blend began to waft about with other fishing port fragrances in the air.

7.15am. Still no one around but I could see the ferry. Having just completed the overnight voyage from Bastia to Genoa, the Moby Line vessel was docked on the outer side of terminale four, ready for the return voyage to Corsica, hopefully with me on board.

The doors to terminal four were closed and the building was deserted. The ferry would depart at 8am.

Turning on my heels, the wheels on my duffel bag hummed along as I broke out into a steady jog and headed back to the cop at customs. Unable to gain access back into the one-way zone, I found myself isolated in the baking sun between two closed buildings.

No entry, no passengers and no idea. I was a refugee on a gangway in Genoa.

I tapped on the glass window. Mr Carabinieri dismissed my anxious look and waved me back in the direction from whence I came. Turning again, I picked up the pace and covered the 300-metre sprint back to terminal four in under 30 seconds. Same result. Doors closed, no one home and the Moby ferry looked set to sail.  

I was now a wet mess and in serious danger of missing the boat, From terminal four I looked back to see a mirage-like figure in the shape of an elderly Italian woman walking towards me. She stopped halfway along the walkway and pressed a button on an unmarked lift well.

By her side before the doors even opened, I politely enquired "Bastia signora?," to which she responded with a mouthful of incoherant Italian, garlic breath and plenty of gesticulating. The doors closed and she was gone.

No speak the language and no deodorant. By now I was seriously smelly, especially in the confined lift which went in one direction, downwards and onto a roadway used by the port authority and container handlers.

Dodging heavy traffic, I attempted to walk around the perimeter of terminal four and gain access to the ferry, only to be met by barbed wire and locked gates.

Now openly swearing at myself and the silly old woman who vanished, I jumped back in the lift and prepared to give a gobfull in the direction of the customs' hall.

As the lift doors opened back on the walkway level I was confronted by two young Italian backpackers who I discovered were on their way to Corsica to study amphibians. Hallelujah, now there were three passengers and as I could well find myself swimming after the ferry, I realised these guys were handy travelling companions.

Despite explaining my sweaty saga to the would-be biologists, we walked to the doors of terminal four only to find it locked, for the fourth time. 'I could have told you that, Bastias'.

Back to the lift and we descended as one. This time, causing a traffic jam as we walked down the middle of a busy road and stopped a security vehicle in its tracks. Thinking this is where my life would end in a hail of gunfire, instead the security signor, upon presentation of our passports, waved us in the direction behind his vehicle, where we turned left, then right, followed the road for 50 metres, then right again before boarding the the ferry's stern at 7.55am.

Cool and safely stowed in the bowel of the ferry, I took stock of what had taken place in the last hour. "Sorry, this is  Italy" said one of my amphibian friends.