Top 25 Italy Moments – #12 The Wrong Train

My first experience in Florence was a solo Christmas shopping excursion in 1992. I took a train from Rome in the early morning on a Saturday in December while the rest of my classmates went to visit Tivoli Gardens near Rome (I have still never been to Tivoli).

I was wide-eyed and thrilled by the carnival atmosphere of the leather market in Florence. I knew nothing else about the city other than the David Statue (11 trips to Italy and I still have never seen it in person). So, my Florence was leather belts, wallets, silk ties, and a few other personal and family Christmas gifts. I do not think I even had my camera so I could carry all my bags of goodies home.

I think I ate a slice of pizza or something for lunch from a crappy vendor with pictures on the walls. Speaking no Italian was a big #fail on this initial journey to the boot. After lunch I took my treasures and headed back to the Santa Maria Novella train station.

An Italian train station like most in Europe is an open-air space connected by one covered building which houses all of the essentials of train service. The platform area is divided into tracks, binari in Italian. There is a good and usually accurate schedule of the departures and arrivals all over a large station like this one. (usually accurate)

According to the schedule the next train to Rome left from binario 8 and so I moved over to track 8. I was carrying a few bags of stuff as I did not have my backpack, like an idiot, as I tried to play it cool like the Italians. Nevertheless I got to track 8 and looked at the sign above with its rotating letters much like an old baseball scoreboard. The sign said 14:24 Roma Termini: my destination.

I had a Eurail pass which allowed me unlimited travel for the 2 months we took trains so I could pop on any train that did not require reservations. As per usual a regional train was sitting on track 8 when I arrived. Of course there is also a train number on that train and that number will correspond with the sign above. I did not notice the train number on this day, I simply boarded the train and found an empty seat in a room without a reservation tag on the outer glass. At this point, and after traveling all over Europe I really thought myself to be a train pro. I put my things on the rack above the seats and sat down with my journal to write about Florence.

3 more people joined me in the 6 person room on the train. 2 very chatty Italian grannies and a young military guy in a perfectly pressed blue overcoat and uniform. Of course I said nothing to them as I could not speak more than 10 words of Italian and within minutes we were on our way. I remember it being cool enough for a sweater but not at all cold. The Italian women were wearing what looked like Parkas and the military guy shed his overcoat as the room began to swelter.

After 20 minutes or so I did not recognize the landscape being the same as on the way into Florence. This was not surprising to me because I am terrible with recognizing landscapes. When the conductor came and checked our tickets I could see the young military guy's ticket read Firenze - Bologna. I just assumed that Bologna was a final destination because I did not know Bologna was the opposite direction of Rome. I was a real Italian geography moron.

After another 10 minutes the military guy spoke to me in English: good English. He asked me if I was American. I affirmed his question, and then he asked me the zinger. What was I planning to do in his hometown of Bologna? I laughed and told him I was going to Rome.

[caption id="" align="alignnone" width="259"] The Typical Italian Train[/caption]

He told me, that the train did not go to Rome and that Rome was in the other direction from Florence. In that moment all of my confidence, my joy of Christmas, my impressions of Florence, and my hope went mercilessly out of the partially cracked window of the train car. I could not believe what had happened! The sign, the schedule, and even the big sign at the end of the platform had told me this was the train to Rome. We had left binario 8 on time so what the hell happened?

It turns out that the train to Bologna was late by 20+ minutes and that it was still on the track even though the automatic signs had switched to the next train: the train to Rome. The Rome train was sitting out somewhere on the track and it is very likely we passed it on our way out of the station. In effect, I was hosed and near panic. Why? Because I did not have the money to miss dinner back on Campus. I had spent pretty much my final lira on gifts and so not getting back to Rome by 7pm dinner would be bad.

The young military guy must have noticed the horror on my face and he told me that there would be a train to Rome every hour from Bologna. He then made a gesture to me that I would never forget.

The young man told me he was in the air force serving his military conscription. It was only then that I learned all Italian men had to serve a mandatory 2 years in the armed forces. He had been stationed in Sicily and was on his way home to see his mother for the first time in several months (I did not realize how big a deal that was at the time). He explained that his Mom had been cooking a feast since the day before preparing for his arrival. He suggested to me that I come home with him as his guest and dine with his family and return to Rome the next morning.

Like an absolute fool I politely declined, citing some lame reason I cannot begin to recall. Can you believe that The Blissful Adventurer turned down a s welcome-home meal from a Mom in Bologna, the fucking food capital of Italy? This is clearly and I am not kidding, one of the biggest and only regrets of my life. What a dim tool I was for turning down such an amazing cultural opportunity.

Of course the air force guy, likely no older than me, helped me hustle off the train, find the track, and get back on the correct train to Rome. He must have been so happy to be home, yet he still took time for me for no other reason other than culture and his desire to speak English. I made it home to campus as dinner had begun. I stuffed in my usual pasta and moon-rock but I could not help but think what they were eating in Bologna.

This was long before email and cell phones. I cannot remember my buddy's name nor did I write down his information. I am sure he is out in the professional world with a family and a wonderful life. I have spent most of my adult life returning to Italy and have experienced so much similar hospitality, and I promise I have never again said no when offered a home-cooked meal in Italy.

Yet, I have indeed gotten on the wrong train numerous times.

Top 25 Italy Moments - #13 Why I Was a Lousy Tour Guide

In 2006 I became a cycling guide in Italy. I wasn't much of a cyclist and at the same time I was certain my passion for Italy and knowledge would be more than enough to lead clients through the region and give them a great experience.

After all, I basically served in this role in 1995 on my University campus and again in 2002 leading two friends on two occasions through Rome and Tuscany. I passed the Italian language test in order to work in Italy and so I assumed my language was at least "good enough".

I quickly realized my language was not nearly enough and on my first week off in Italy I went to language school. I loved being in school and staying in the stunning Sicilian town of Taormina. I loved being there so much I really hated that I had to actually go to work the following week. I was fortunate enough to be able to shadow my first trip in Sicily and watch 2 professional and talented guides do a job I knew, even at the time, I would not be able to do.

Within the first few days of my guiding it was apparent to me that I lacked a very particular skill for being a guide in a foreign country: nurturing. My colleagues, mostly female, were so naturally adept at putting the client first, even to the guides' obvious discomfort and frustration. I was amazed by the energy and stamina these women possessed, and I knew I was in trouble.

Why? Because I was in Italy! Italy was my place, my home for discovery, my soul-seeking enterprise and no client, no boss, and certainly no language barrier was going to get in the way of MY journey. I was in Italy, someone was paying me (very sparsely) to be there and I would be damned if anything was going to hinder my pilgrimage of self discovery. Of course this is hindsight. At the time I was a nervous wreck. Was I saying the right things, would I be on time? My head hurt so badly from dehydration, I was so tired, so tense, and without experience to show me when it would ease.

The very talented guides I worked with seemed to have limitless energy and almost a macho need to test their mental and physical capacities. If two talented guides worked side by side for the first time it was easy to see that they naturally competed to see who was the bigger martyr. Sacrifice was indeed the game, and I had no compunction to join nor any concept of the rules. From who swept the floor the most to who took out more trash, loaded more bikes, cleaned more dishes, read and wrote more notes; this was about the JOB.

Now, please know that I respect these talented folks enormously and this was the first job in my life where I faced the stark reality that on my best day I would NEVER and I mean that, be as good as most of these talented people. The problem was: I didn't want to be. I wanted something else. I wanted a menial job so that I could be there and learning, experiencing Italy. I simply needed to survive and for the first time in my life I did not feel the burn to excel.

Sure, I gave a few wine seminars while I was there and I cooked some outstanding food for the group. I loved doing these things because it was the only time in my whole experience that my colleagues saw that I was more than a useless sack. I was so slow at loading bikes, terrible with knots, nearly sub-human with verbal directions (always have been), and not even proficient with the language. I was working uphill all the time and so when clients needed me, I was not 100% present.

I remain guilty to this day and damned near regretful about my intolerance of clients. Yet, I should be grateful. Because it was the client that showed me I was not in the right place. I was most definitely in the right country, just at the wrong time doing the wrong thing.

This was most clear one bright morning in the Maremma district of Tuscany. There were always 2 guides on a bike trip. One guide would cycle while the other would drive the support van. On this particular day I was the cyclist; my favorite job in the world because I had 1 clear task, to manage the riders and chat with them.

We had taken a short break mid-morning after riding through the tufa rock town of Sovana. Some of the faster riders had gone out ahead and now I was about to join the main group of riders for the remainder of the journey. I was already very tired as the hills were intense and steep in this region and I had been forced to double back on a couple of occasions to encourage timid riders to get down the hills. As we all were exiting an excellent coffee shop in town I heard a guest say loudly to another guest "my God I really miss my Starbucks!" I was devastated. You can miss cheeseburgers, fast flushing toilets, self-serve gas, and drive thru food while you are in Italy. You are allowed to miss wide roads, big parking lots, and reality TV if you are inclined. However, when you are in Italy, you cannot be forlorn for motherfucking Starbucks. You are in the land of coffee pressed through the clouds of heaven and laid in your cup by Maestros descended from the Renaissance. I could only think to say vaffanculo! So I knew I had to go.

I told the group that I was going to go out ahead and catch the lead riders and I would meet them in a few at the next town. I waved goodbye as I put my map in my pocket and went down the nearest road that would lead me as far from anyone in the group as possible. I rode alone for 1 and a half hours in the beautiful iron-rich hills of the Maremma. I thought about my future and my past. I knew this was not what I wanted to do. I had just left a very interesting job as a wine cellar manager and consultant to come here. I had broken up with a girl to come to Italy and finally live my life here. Yet, that was not the expectation of the company where I toiled. They had no interest in my romantic notions or my arguments to let me create wine-based trips in Italy. I knew I was in the wrong place and so did the company.

At the end of that trip I was told of my very discouraging client ratings regarding my performance. I was not shocked, and at the same time I was crushed. I had just spent the previous 10 years of my life making customers happy with my work. I had made life-long friendships with many of my clients and so the idea of being disliked and in some cases, despised, was more than I could handle.

The company offered me another chance (albeit one set on a collision course with failure) to right the ship. Instead, I informed them I had seen the writing on the wall and asked would it be possible to help in another way as I was not going to succeed as a guide? The company seemed surprised and at the same time obliged and sent me on a great trek across France and Ireland to deliver a van and bikes. It was my greatest 10 days on that trip to Europe. Sadly at the end my money was stolen (see the story here) on my return from Ireland to Italy. I left Europe in 2006 with my tail between my legs. I was a beaten man who had failed miserably at something where I thought I would excel.

I knew I had done a poor job and it would take me several years and even another attempt in the travel business to know why. I am now on a path the resembles very much my lone ride through the hills of Tuscany. I am free to see what I see and to tell of its greatness and wonder. Working for the company in Italy taught me much more about who I am not, as it appears I already knew who I was.

Top 25 Italy Moments - #14 Siena Language Barrier

In 2002 my good friend and talented chef Keith was studying cooking in Siena. I happened to be on vacation in Tuscany and made my way back to Siena a 2nd time (the first time is in the Top 5) on this journey to meet Keith.

I returned to Siena on a foggy evening in September. Keith had given me his address and we had arranged to meet that day; however, the time had not been pre-selected and I roughly knew Keith's class schedule so I figured I would find him.

This is pretty much how things work for me in Italy and especially before cell phones became an affordable option. I would tell someone or someone would tell me where to meet them and then the dance would begin.

On this occasion I had a map of the city and Keith's address. My Italian was serviceable at best so I had to ask things slowly and use lots of gestures. That is another funny thing about Italy, their gestures are a language unto themselves and so misuse of gesture is the equivalent of a non-verbal Malaprop. My ignorance of the language and gestures would really come to bite me in the ass the next day.

After 2 conversations with a pair of smartly dressed women and one with a merchant I finally reached what I believed to be Keith's place. The street was completely sepia and wet. There were rows of single-story units much like duplexes lining the street. The road itself was flat which is a rarity for Siena. After receiving no answer when I knocked on Keith's door I quickly found myself pacing. I happened to have a few smokes left from the previous night and wound up smoking alone in the misty evening. A curious pair of children continued to pop in and out of their home to see what the tall foreigner was doing.

I wish it was like this in America. Where I come from if we saw a foreigner, weapons got loaded and comments like "can I help you Mr?" and "you sure are far from home ain't ya?" were the norm. I am certain this is why it has always been a nervous endeavor for me to wander aimlessly into a store in a foreign country because I assume someone will be suspicious of me. As was and is often the case in Italy, people are mostly curious without being overt. Kids tend to like people in general and especially if they seem like something new.

I began to make silly faces for the kids and they laughed and giggled running in and out of their front door. It was only around 7pm, however, the lights and the mist made it seem like a medieval midnight. I was growing weary of my own pacing and the cigarettes were clearly a bit stale. There was a bus stop about 150 meters from Keith's door and each time it made a stop I assumed Keith would emerge.

After the kids went inside for good and I couldn't possibly smoke another cigarette I decided I would leave Keith a note and make my way to a nearby bar for a sandwich and a beer. I went to the bus stop and when the next bus arrived out popped Keith just as casual as you could be as if I had been living with him forever and this meeting along a Tuscan road was nothing out of the ordinary.

I attempted to regale him with stories of my journey and within minutes Keith was at the stove cooking porcinis and making a tempura batter for vegetables. I was so jazzed to be getting a home cooked meal I soon forgot the ordeal of my last 2 hours and Keith and I drank beer, smoked his much fresher cigarettes, and discussed our next day.

I had not slept much in the previous days so Keith offered me a mother's little helper and thus began my awareness of such miracles. 13 hours later I awoke as Keith was leaving for school. I walked with him to class and met his teacher before I disappeared into Siena for a foggy day. I was not really supposed to stay at his house without paying and of course the typical nosy Italian landlord knew I was there because he had spotted me wandering aimlessly up and down the street the night before. Che palle!

On our way to school Keith informed me that the old geezer had requested the honor of our presence that afternoon to settle my lodging debt. I was not looking forward to the formality of meeting with this guy.

I spent most of the day in an internet cafe and when Keith and I met just outside the cafe when he finished class we stopped by the pharmacy where I used my bad Italian to score an entire box of little helpers. We then moved on to a local bar for coffees and some smokes.

In Italy, the Bar is the central hub of each street area. Each neighborhood has its streets and on each is usually a Bar. Some bars are filled with jocks, gamblers, and douche-bags. A few bars are mixed-sex venues with high quality coffee and snacks. There are those for the blue-collar denim crowd, and these are usually a bit rough and tumble. Lottery tickets, freezer-burned ice creams, strong coffee, thick local accents and dialects are all ingredients in an Italian blue-collar bar. This is the kind of bar Keith chose for our coffee. Of course you can always buy cigarettes in a Tobacco shop but since we had just had a coffee we ordered smokes as well.

The proprietor was drawn and tanned like a raisin with a grey edge. He wore a denim jacket even though it must have been 80 degrees in the shop. He smelled of strong cigarette smoke and the Italian equivalent of Old Spice. I wanted to call him Vecchia Spezia. There were the usual cronies on both sides of the cash register. These guys were standing directly...actually they were leaning on the cashier's part of the bar when we arrived. The reluctantly moved as we placed our orders but only to the two sides on our left and right. In essence we were surrounded by cronies.

Keith gave the guy a 20 euro bill for our 6 euro 10 tab. The guy gave him back 3 euro 90. It was apparent to us that the guy shorted Keith and he told Old Spice in English, "hey I gave you a 20." The guy did not grasp the exact words Keith used but it seemed apparent he knew the gist. Keith went back and forth with no success so I interceded with my way-too-direct Italian. In Italy if you simply come right out and say something it is assumed you are angry and that you do not respect the person you are addressing. This was not my intention, but boy was it ill -received.

At this point Old Spice reaches in the register and shows us a 10 euro bill he claims to have gotten from Keith. I look at Keith in hopes that he was in error, but Keith persisted with "that's not what I gave you man." I knew this was not going to go well as now the cronies were involved and each of them professing the proprietors virtue and pleading his case. Time seemed to slow as I assessed which one of these guys I would hit across the head first when it all started getting ugly.

It was at that point that Old Spice said something in Italian that I understood to mean,"this is not Naples sir, we are not thieves here!" I began to chuckle and the cronies began to gesture with two fingers in affirmation of this little-known fact and a certain didn't you know that you stupid foreigner gesture. Keith still seemed unwilling to acquiesce so I told him I would give him the 10 euro, as once this kind of statement is invoked there was no hope of our proving the point.

I will never know 100% whether or not Old Spice stole 10 Euro from Keith. I do know that Mother's little helpers did their job moments after we escaped the Bar with our lives.

I was quite stoned and very relaxed when we met the landlord. My Italian, failing and miserable in the bar an hour before, was now fluid and dulcet. I told the landlord I had come unannounced and that because of a train strike I was stuck in Siena. I explained that I would happily pay my way which of course the landlord very graciously refused. Keith was impressed I had swayed the crotchety old bastard, and I simply was happy to deal with a man that didn't smell of Old Spice.

In the end, Keith and I quit our corporate jobs to chase the dreams only these kinds of experiences can illuminate. I continue to frequent blue-collar bars in all Italian regions and it never fails that someone is wearing denim.