“Good night. Buona notte.” Then Michelle left my room and I pulled off my socks and got quickly under the covers. But then I sat up in bed and listened. I wanted to see if Michelle stopped in the bathroom on our side, the one without the shower, to puke like she often did. But I didn’t hear her. That night, she was going to let everything settle and just enjoy being herself.
9.
Olivia and Suzie were waiting for me at the station in Florence. Immediately, I noticed that the normal fun-loving Olivia had been replaced by someone who meant business. She informed me that we had about a half hour to our train. We grabbed an espresso from the bar in the station. We stood around the circular table with our backpacks between us and the table, so that we could protect them from the criminals we had been warned about. Our lives were in those backpacks. Not just clothes but passports, journals and money.
We compared the benefits of each of our backpacks and imagined the places we might go with them. Then we talked guidebooks. Suzie and I both had our own copies of Let’s Go tucked in our bags. This was the requisite guide for finding the cheap and definitely discovered places to eat, sleep and see. Suzie also had the Berkley guide, which seemed to have nicer pictures and more expensive suggestions.
Olivia clapped her hands when it was time to head to the track for the train. I was giddy with the idea that we were on our way. We were on a weekend trip to a great city, and it was possible because we were here in Italy. Any trip was possible.
“She’s been a little drill sergeant about this whole thing,” Suzie stage whispered.
“Somebody has to be,” Olivia said, matter-of-factly. She was the oldest of five, and it was in her nature to be the organizer. She made sure that each of us validated our tickets by stamping them in the little yellow machines at the head of each track.
We had our own compartment on the train. I left all the arrangements up to Olivia. She insisted that I could just show up at the designated time. She chose the slow locale train for us, so we flattened the seats and made them beds. This way we would arrive there in the morning, not the middle of the night. We wouldn’t have to pay for an extra night in a hotel.
Olivia pulled some crackers and cheese out of her bag. She divvied out slices of the hard pecorino toscano, using my Swiss Army knife. The conductor came to check our tickets.
“Attenta le borse,” he said, looking up at our bags on the racks. When the door slid closed, we climbed on the chairs and fastened our bags more securely to the racks.
“I wish we had something to tie the door with,” Suzie said.
“I’ll bring it next time.” Olivia said, handing us baby wipes for our hands.
“I’m sure you will,” I said, smiling at Suzie. Olivia set the alarm for 5:30, which was fifteen minutes before we were supposed to pull into the Stazione Centrale in Milan, according to Olivia’s new bible, Thomas Cook. Suzie shut the lights in our compartment and we said “buona notte” to each other in the darkness.
I slept poorly, aware of the lights from each of the stations we traveled through, but I liked the steady feel of the train beneath my body and the sound of Suzie’s gentle snoring.
Our giant backpacks toppled us forward as we walk up Via Pergolesi to the hotel. Olivia (of course) found Albergho La Pace in the Let’s Go. We left our bags at the hotel and explored Milano.
Gaetano told me not to expect too much from Milan, but I liked it a lot. Compared with Siena, the streets were wide and after a few hours, the morning rush began filling those streets with people with lives.
We went to the duomo because it was necessary to visit the cathedral in every city. We learned this from all of our culture classes. Going to each city’s cathedral meant you would get an idea of the style. It was a free tourist attraction, which made it more attractive. We spend forty-five minutes or so studying the sculpture and paintings inside. The stained-glass windows were beautiful, unlike anything in Siena, and so were the freaky gargoyles that lined the walls looking at us.
Afterward we took pictures in front of the duomo surrounded by pigeons. Then we got an espresso. The popular Italian pastime was perfect for backpackers because it was cheap and ideal for people watching. One thing about Italy that rubbed off on me was the ability to just sit, to observe. Things weren’t as rushed here. No one expected you to be on the move all the time. It was slow. It was walking around and looking, seeing. So I wouldn’t be able to say I saw everything you were supposed to see in Milan. I was content with what I was getting, a stillness.
As I listened to Olivia read about the cathedral we just saw, I realized that I wasn’t going to remember anything about the dates and artists represented. I was going to remember the old woman kneeling at the pew, next to the statuesque model type who sat with her hands in her lap and her eyes closed. They were both lost in prayer and would have made an excellent picture. Their duomo wasn’t a tourist attraction; it was a cathedral that was part of their lives.
The painting of The Last Supper was undergoing some kind of construction so we couldn’t see it. Olivia was bummed about this, but I didn’t really mind. Maybe I took the art in this Italian city for granted, but it was the hustle and bustle, the cool and stylish people who hurried in and out of the café that really interested me. Suzie didn’t seem to mind the missed opportunity either. There was more to traveling then checking off museums.
“I still haven’t seen the David,” Suzie said. “I just don’t want to pay the admission.”
Economics determined much of what we did. Our parents scrimped and saved to get us here, and now we did the same. And I was glad. I don’t regret any of the things I didn’t see. Instead, I remember those moments in piazzas, passing on the 10,000 lire admission fees and “splurging” on 2,000 lire gelato that tasted better than anything else.
After the duomo, we window shopped, stopping in front of many of the stores we would never be able to afford. The streets were alive. We bought some fresh bread and cheese and sat in a piazza. Among all the businesspeople, there were teen-agers gathered around a guitar singing “Imagine.” Somehow they seemed so much more determined to imagine “all de peephal leevin in ’armoneeah” than I ever could be.
Olivia read us more on the city between chews of bread. There was a pastry shop in one of the guides. It said, “Splurge for sweets like you’ve never tasted in your life.” Suzie, who had an incredible sweet tooth, insisted that we go.
“Ask the captain,” I said, looking to Olivia.
“Okay, I just hope it’s not too expensive.”
We looked like what we were, grubby traveling students, when we were seated at the pasticceria. At another table was a group of Italian ladies who lunch with extremely long hair and extremely short skirts. The waiters were in tuxes. On the table, there was a white linen tablecloth and fine china.
“We should have known when it wasn’t in Let’s Go,” I said.
“What should we do?” Suzie asked.
Then the waiter was there, asking us what we wanted in a formal way. We temporarily lost the ability to partially communicate in Italian at all. We smiled at each other, stupidly. We can’t leave, our smiles said. Finally, Suzie said, “dolce” and I said “the” and the waiter hurried off.
“What are we going to do?” Olivia asked.
“Eat pastries, I guess,” Suzie said hesitantly.
“And drink tea,” I said, more sure.
“Okay,” Olivia said, knowing, as we knew, that this would have worked out better if we stuck to the affordable suggestions in Let’s Go.
The waiter returned with a delicate pot of tea, a beautiful plate of lemon and a china bowl full of sugar. Another waiter placed a plate full of mini pastries in front of us. I looked at Olivia and Suzie, who were as equally delighted and horrified as I was. There was an abundance of scrumptious pastries. We each managed a perfect grazie.
“What are we supposed to do with all of this?” Suzie whispered.
“I have no idea.” Olivia said. “I count eigh
teen pastries.”
“How expensive is this going to be?” I asked.
“Eighteen pastries that look like that? Pretty expensive.” Olivia said.
“Plus tea,” I added.
“Plus tea,” Olivia said decisively so that we all laughed for a second and then got quiet, embarrassed. Perhaps it wasn’t cool to laugh in a place this fancy. Better to fly under the radar. “Maybe they charge us by the pastry.”
“Yeah, they can’t expect us to eat all this,” I looked around to see if anyone else was having this pastry predicament. “You think we just eat what we want and they reserve the rest? Is that what they do in Italy? Why isn’t it in the guidebook?”
“If it isn’t in the guidebook, I don’t know what to do,” Olivia said, feigning a quiet mental breakdown. We had to try hard not to laugh. I was feeling more delirious from the lack of sleep.
“But if they do charge us for all of them, I want to eat all of them.” Suzie was certain of this.
“I guess I’m pretty hungry, too.” I said.
“We’ve got a lot of time until dinner,” Olivia said, eyeing one of the chocolate delights.
“How often are we going to be eating pastries in Milan?” I asked.
“Never again,” said Suzie, grabbing hold of something covered in nuts. She plopped it into her mouth. She smiled like a satisfied cat. It was on.
“Well, I guess we have our answer,” Olivia said, and we began to eat. Once we decided, we got quite gluttonous. Six pastries each is a lot. We barely had time for our tea. At first, each time the waiter passed by, we froze, trying to gauge whether or not we were doing the right thing. Finally we gave up and gave ourselves over to the yummy concoctions.
When we were done with the pastries, the tuxedoed waiters swooped around us, taking the plate, pouring the rest of the tea.
Now we felt a part of this cosmopolitan world. I pretended that tonight we would be dining in the finest restaurant and be able to spend as much as we wanted without regard for the budgets all our parents had imposed on us. I wished that it wasn’t a hard, small bed I would sleep in but one made of feathers that I could fall into after a good hot shower.
I knew that all of those things were impossible, would be impossible for any of the traveling I could do as a student. And while I didn’t have any five-star luxuries just then, at least I ate the right pastries.
When we called for il conto, we were charged for each individual pastry.
The next morning catching the train was not as easy as Thomas Cook or Olivia led me to believe. Still not sure of the layout of the city, we ate dinner close to the hotel, barely able to keep our eyes open. We were in bed by ten with our guidebooks and journals, promising to have more energy after a good night’s sleep. I thought about rallying us out to some place in the nightclub section of Let’s Go, but I realized that I wouldn’t be doing it because I wanted to. I would be doing it because I wanted the story of a night in Milan.
But if we had gone out, perhaps we would be able to figure out where we were on the Let’s Go map instead of making wrong turns back to the station in the morning. How had we navigated it so easily the day before with eyes crusty from train-sleep? We saw a bus coming and got on that, manipulating our giant precious backpacks through the sleepy commuters. We had to transfer. All of this was more confusing because each of us was translating the Italian directions we got differently. All our limited knowledge put together only frustrated us in figuring out what we were supposed to do. And because none of us knew each other well enough to admit that, we were annoyed with the other two.
With three minutes to spare, we got to the ferovia. We checked the binario on the big board, stamped our tickets and ran for it. The conductor saw us and waved his hand for us to hurry. The train pulled away five seconds after we were on it.
But we still weren’t done. We hustled through the aisles and cars of the train with our big backpacks. We walked through first class. We walked past Italian militario who looked us over and whistled, making comments to each other in their dialects. There were no compartments on this train, but luckily we found one of the tables with four seats surrounding it.
I peeled off the sticky layers I was wearing and heaved my backpack on the rack next to the other two. The three of us sighed at the same time. And then we cracked up and slapped each other five. We made it!
“That was a bitter minute,” Suzie said.
“I can’t believe we made it,” I said.
“I’m still in shock.”
After our tickets were checked, Suzie brought us cappuccino from the dining car. She handed out packs of packaged breakfast sweets. “I’m somehow doubting these will be as good as yesterday.”
After our quick snack, we played cards and then we started letter writing and journal entries. Eventually we stopped to stare out the window at the beginnings of Switzerland. I couldn’t believe we made it, not only to the train but to the country.
In Lugano, they have a funicular. None of us knew what that was, but it was our first stop after changing money and checking our backpacks for the day in the station. We only planned for a day in Lugano and then to Luzerne in the late afternoon. Olivia got it all figured out, and Suzie and I gave the okay.
A funicular is almost like a train car that travels on a cable up a hill. And for Olivia, who was afraid of heights, it was a little scary when we took it up to the Piazza Cioccaro. We sat in the first car. Olivia squeezed Suzie’s hand and my shoulder, while I took goofy pictures with the cheap camera my parents gave me for Christmas.
From the piazza we had to keep traveling up, exploring the city. It was a long, brisk, ascending walk to a restaurant that had a beautiful view of the mountain range. We drank hot cocoa. Olivia felt calmer. Chocolate made her phobias disappear.
We could kind of communicate with people because they spoke Italian. We might have been speaking better there than we did in Italy.
The mountain air was fresh. And in spite of the cold, we hung out at the table, high up but below the mountains, discussing what we expected from Switzerland. The money was strange. The francs came in paper and coin. Suzie held up one of the bigger coins.
“This is bizarre. It’s worth like $20. I feel like I’m going to lose it.”
“Don’t lose it,” said Olivia. “Should we walk down to the ferrovia? We’ve got like an hour
“And miss a ride on the funicular?” Suzie asked.
“It costs, though, and we might get a better view of the city,” I said. I would have taken it again but suspected that Olivia didn’t want to and wasn’t going to admit it.
“That’s true,” Suzie agreed, quickly. She looked at the view and sighed. She was thinking of Kurt.
I wondered if Jonas would love it here. I closed my eyes for a second. Only a second.
“You’re really into Kurt, huh?” I asked Suzie to distract myself.
“Yeah, it’s so weird. I’m not usually like this. It’s just like have you ever had someone who just kind of gets you? No matter what you look like or what you do.” I thought without meaning to of my once-confident walk, my naked lips. Suzie looked at me and it made me scared to answer. But she continued. “He’s so cool.”
When we walked down toward the station, Olivia had the map accessible. We didn’t really talk on the way down. Each of us was in our own thoughts. The air was pure and the cold didn’t bother me. It was easy to get caught up in your head. I thought of Jonas, as usual. I wondered when I would become exhausted by the memory of him. Maybe that’s how you got over someone, just plain fatigue.
When we passed the Piazza Ciocarro again, there was a large crowd. We stopped to peer in. There were signs up that said “Strudel 100 m.”
“What the hell is this?” Suzie asked.
“It looks like a big strudel,” I said pointing to the long strudel on a table that curved around. It was the biggest pastry I had ever seen.
“Delicious,” Olivia said. I listened to the languages being spoken arou
nd me. At first I heard German, but then we heard someone explaining in Italian. It was a record-breaking strudel or at least that’s how we translated it. Who knew there was such a thing? But from then on it would always be, in our heads, the record-breaking strudel.
“This is super surreal,” Suzie said.
“No one is eating any,” I noticed. There were people standing behind the strudel table. Each had a knife and a cash box in front of them. “Look, the record-breaking strudel is 5 francs a piece.”
“I will never see another strudel without knowing that I have seen greatness,” Olivia said.
“But can we eat greatness?” Suzie asked. She was a sucker for sweets.
Olivia asked one of the men if she might buy a piece of the record-breaking strudel. He told her that it would be cut at three. Then she looked at her watch. “It’s quarter of 3. Train leaves at 3:35. What should we do?”
“We want to get to Lucerne tonight and this train is the only train to get us there in time to have one fun night out. Yet how can we pass up the record-breaking strudel?” I didn’t want this decision to rest on me. We were talking about a record-breaker after all.
“I guess we might make it if we get the first pieces and run down to the station,” Suzie said. One look in her eye and I knew she needed the strudel.
“It is down hill, but I don’t know,” I said. “We could eat it on the way.”
“We have to,” Suzie said. “Worst comes to worse, we take the funicular back down.”
“But who knows how often it comes.” Olivia said.
As we tried to figure it out, the crowd broke into song. They sang an Italian song that none of us understood, but we laughed. Any strudel of this magnitude deserved a song.
“I vote for staying,” Suzie said.
“Me too,” I said, nodding, looking over at Olivia.
A Semester Abroad Page 10
