Il Capitolo Due -- Run Donna Run

When we last saw our hero (that’s me. No rilly!) she was looking for the ticket office in the snowbound Milan airport -- the next leg of the Gotta Get To Rome Odyssey.

I darted off, from the good airline helper lady, as soon as she gave me vouchers for travel south. At a dead run, winter coat on, sizable backpack in place, I wondered, naturally, if I was burning enough calories so I could get a big lemon gelato in Rome. I had my priorities totally straight! While sprinting down an empty corridor, a baggage handler called out to me, wondering where I was headed in such a rush (flirt. I was being flirted with. Awesome!). I shouted over my shoulder "bus ticket office (pant, wheeze, gasp)!" He lifted the red velvet rope -- I ducked under, galloping down the short cut he’d let me in on. He was speaking (in as much as our communication was verbal) Italian and me English.  Truly, the amount of successful communication that happened, without a common spoken language, amazes me still.

 Turns out there were two bus offices so...more communication, more bolting, more amazement that I was having such a relatively easy time understanding everyone. I managed to get my ticket, and took my seat as the bus pulled out into a near blinding snowstorm. No plows and I was quite sure that the bus didn’t have snow tires, let alone chains, either. There was much slipping, sliding and more shimmying than a solidly coked up exotic dancer on a hot night. No accidents though -- YEA team!

Finally into the train station, I had 10 minutes to:

A) redeem my voucher for a ticket,
B) find a pay phone to call Giovanni’s cell (hopefully catching them before they’d left home) and... oops, forgot to buy Euros in Boston so a sprint to a cash machine now, now, NOW!
C) find the correct platform, and finally take my seat on the train.

The first two accomplished with three minutes left to find the right train. I asked someone in a train operator type uniform and boarded the train I thought she’d pointed out. I sat down and then had a creeping unsettled feeling. I asked another passenger “parle inglese,” nope, “Roma?” No, it was the Vienna train. Rats. I collected my crap and leapt to the next train over, asking, before sitting down this time, “Rom Zug?”  Nein. Scheisse!  (A lot of German speakers up Milan way)

The third train was it and packed tighter than a mosh pit at a Mission of Burma reunion show it was. I finally found a compartment with one seat left. I was six days past ready to stop running and start sleeping but was wedged solid into this tiny compartment with 6 other people. Sleep seemed a distant fantasy.

An hour in, the conductor came ‘round for our tickets and asked, accusingly (well,  it was an accusing look anyway), “what are you doing in this car, you have a first class ticket, and this is third.” I stood, melodramatically (of course) gathered my coat and bag, looked to my compartment mates, who were all staring at me as though I was some kind of odd, possibly dangerous bohemian bird, and said “I have no idea what I’m doing here.” Then, entering full Seinfeldian mode, I gestured to all and pronounced magnanimously, “not that there’s anything wrong with here.”  My six soon to be ex compartment mates continued to stare and blink. Either I was definitely the strangest mammal they’d seen lately, or they knew no English. Maybe both.

Pack on my back again I made my way up one million and two cars in search of first class and that elusive, quite possibly mythical seat. All the aisles were jam-packed with people and luggage. None of them seemed much up for moving to let me by. I bumbled my way through “scusi,” “perdóneme,” “Entschuldigen Sie mir, bitte,”  and plain old “coming though!!” to no useful effect. At that point I just leaped into the crowd, riggling my way northward, thankful for my mosh pit experience.

I eventually wiggled and jiggled (pass the baby oil please) my way to the right car, found a seat and dove, not ran, straight into blessed napville and hoped for a day or two of lower adventure levels.