Hopping off the bus and grab my suitcase and backpack, I wonder where in Milan I am. I don't stop to gaze up at the enormous white-stone building in front of me; I, instead, pause and gaze at the people milling around, and carefully watch which way they are headed. I panic slightly; this doesn't look like a train station to me- which way do I go? I surge forward, noticing quite a few people heading into a door way a short ways down. I thank the powers that be upon noticing a Tren Italia sign stuck to the inside of the dingy office window. I squeeze my way through the door way, behind a man and woman wearing hiker's backpacks with Canadian flags sown on the back. The space is small and dark. The walls are covered in dark paneled wood, and the only light streams from the doorway, windows high on the walls, and small lights hanging above the counter, behind the glass. I wait patiently in line, listening to people chatter in Italian. Finally, it is my turn. I step up to the window and smile at the heavy-set balding man with half-moon spectacles.
"Bon Giorno," I start. After "good morning", I become uncertain. I search my brain for the right words: "Ehhh, Solo Andata por San Remo, por favore?" I inquire.
"San Remo?"
"Si." I say. At least my Italian isn't so bad that I'll end up in the wrong city. The man starts rambling in Italian and writing on a piece of paper, and trying to ask me when I want to leave, I think.
"Scusa?"
Finally, he takes pity on me. "English?" he asks.
"Yes." I say, relieved. Minutes later, I leave with a train ticket for my destination and an important lesson, one that will stay with me the rest of my trip: mostly, if you attempt the language, the locals will have pity on you. This picture is one of the very first on my trip and the beginning of what turned into a five hour train ride.
"Bon Giorno," I start. After "good morning", I become uncertain. I search my brain for the right words: "Ehhh, Solo Andata por San Remo, por favore?" I inquire.
"San Remo?"
"Si." I say. At least my Italian isn't so bad that I'll end up in the wrong city. The man starts rambling in Italian and writing on a piece of paper, and trying to ask me when I want to leave, I think.
"Scusa?"
Finally, he takes pity on me. "English?" he asks.
"Yes." I say, relieved. Minutes later, I leave with a train ticket for my destination and an important lesson, one that will stay with me the rest of my trip: mostly, if you attempt the language, the locals will have pity on you. This picture is one of the very first on my trip and the beginning of what turned into a five hour train ride.
