Cycling Trips
- U.S. East
Coast
- Maine to
PA
- The Edge of
N.J.
- Fahrradtour
Canada
- Skiing
Whistler Mtn.
- Canoeing
Wilderness
Lakes
Europe +
- Exploring
Heidelberg
- Bad Luck
In Germany
- A Week In
Israel
New Zealand
- Volcanic Vistas
U.S.
North
- Remote
Alaskan
Roads
- Navigating
the 1,000
Islands
U.S. West
- Miserable
Hawaii
- California
Redwoods
- Omaha
Surprises
- Summer at
Tahoe
Even More
- Recent
Travels
- My Quest For
All
50
States
- About Bob
 Find out what I did in your state. |
MILAN, Italy--I glanced at the line of
bright yellow taxis waiting patiently in front of Milan's
central train station, then gazed over at the orange trolley
clattering toward me on its steel tracks, metal arms sliding
along overhead electrical wires.
The trolley route, according to the man at the station's tourist information desk, ran right past my hotel. A taxi, of course, would get me there more directly, but it would also whisk me through the city too fast for me to see much of it--and I wanted to see as much of it as I could. I was only in town for three days, having been sent here on business to attend a trade show. That didn't leave much sightseeing time. I decided to start with the trolley ride.
It was a cloudless, flawless spring morning, a Friday, and I had arrived just an hour before from New York. My body was sluggish, convinced it was 4 a.m., but my mind was pulsing with the thrill of being alone in a foreign country.
The
trolley eased to a stop and I saw, with satisfaction, that
it bore the route number given to me moments before by my
friend at the information desk. All I had to do now was keep
an eye on my city map and jump off at the right stop.
With the casual grace of a native I climbed aboard, dropping my baggage on the floor and reaching for my wallet. Then it hit me: I had no idea how much the fare was. And what's more, I had no way of finding out; I didn't know a word of Italian. I decided to bluff.
Digging out a handful of the strange currency, I held it toward the driver, a burly man with a thick moustache. To my astonishment he turned his back on me and drove on, leaving me standing there awkwardly with a fistful of bills.
I could feel the blood rushing to my face as I stood straddling my baggage, terrified to move. I had overlooked something, but what? There was no fare box in sight. Sweat began pouring from my face and soaking my T-shirt. I wiped my forehead and heard coins jangle to the floor.
A stout, short-haired lady standing next to me tapped me on the shoulder and pointed down at a dime on the floor. I stared at it, uncomprehending. Was it mine? Of course it was mine, I realized suddenly. Who else would be dropping American money?
I stooped to pick it up and my suit coat tumbled out of my arm and onto the floor. A stocky, bald man sitting across the aisle brought this to my attention. Smiling in mute thanks I picked it up, too.
By now everyone on the trolley was staring at me--except, of course, the driver, who didn't seem to care about the thousands of Italian lira I was thrusting in his face. But as I made another frantic scan for some type of cash receptacle, something happened that I had been dreading all along. The lady in front of me began to speak to me in Italian.
"No speak Italiano," I sputtered, instantly forgetting the translation I had spent a week studying. "English?" It had no effect. My humiliation was now complete. Whereas moments ago the passengers merely thought I was an idiot, they now knew I was an American idiot.
The lady held out a slip of paper for my inspection, then unleashed a musical monologue of Italian words, all of them incomprehensible. I deduced that she was showing me her ticket and telling me that I needed to have one of my own in order to remain on the trolley. Was it too late to jump off and flee back to the cab stand? I smiled wanly at the woman and shrugged to show my confusion.
The trolley slowed to a halt, the whirring of its wheels fading into a surreal silence. The woman gazed at me with a pitying, tight-lipped smile, then pulled something out of her pocket and pressed it into my hand. I looked at it. It was a ticket.
I opened my mouth to say thanks, but she had already slipped past me and out the door. Seconds later she had disappeared into the crowd.
I stared at the ticket, wondering what to do with it. The bald man across the aisle, who had been watching me silently, now began to speak, pointing frantically to the back of the trolley. Did he want me to move back there? Was I annoying him? I smiled and shrugged.
Without another word he rose, plucked the ticket from my hand and strode to the back of the bus. There he inserted it into an orange metal box, and I heard a stamping noise. When he returned it to me I saw that the date and time had been printed on it. I had just been clocked in. Later I learned that riders had to do this at the beginning of each trip, validating their tickets for the next 75 minutes.
I looked at the man and, in a sudden flash of genius, spouted, "Grazie!"
"Prego," he answered with a quick nod. He beckoned me toward the empty wooden seat next to him and I took it, proud of my conversational breakthrough. I wanted to continue talking, though; ask him about his family, his job and his life here in Milan. But all we could do was stare at each other. The silence became awkward.
Digging out my map, I showed him the location of my hotel, then pointed uncertainly in the direction we were headed. "Hotel Raffaello?" I asked.
Instead of nodding to confirm that I was going the right way, he dipped his eyebrows in contemplation. Then he threw some more Italian at me, apparently hoping that if he did it enough I would eventually break down and answer him. It was obvious by his sharp hand motions that he was trying to explain something important to me.
"Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" I tried. He stared at me blankly.
Across the aisle, a dark-haired, matronly woman in her 50s who had been eavesdropping spoke a few words to the man, and soon the two launched into a discussion, with frequent glances in my direction. After a while they seemed to decide on something and both settled back in their seats. We rode on in silence.
Outside, the
streets of Milan drifted slowly past. I glimpsed a
multi-spired cathedral adorned with arched passageways, each
sheltering several lifesize statues. A blue-shirted
policeman wearing a white, bell-shaped bobby cap stood watch
on a corner, while a gray-haired woman stepped slowly across
a tree-lined cobblestone street, tugged along by a tiny,
white poodle on a leash.
Wanting desperately to break the silence--and the communication barrier--inside the trolley, I dug out a business card and showed it to the man, pointing from my name to my chest. He contemplated it, then nodded to show he understood. I wanted to offer it to him as a souvenir, but before I could, the trolley shuddered to a halt and the man jumped to his feet. He headed for the door, followed closely by the woman. They both motioned frantically for me to follow.
I froze, paralyzed by this unexpected turn of events. This was all wrong. The man at the information desk had assured me that this trolley would take me to my hotel. Yet now I was being ordered to jump off.
The two beckoned more urgently, and I realized I was causing a scene again. Reluctantly I grabbed my bags and followed them out onto the dusty street.
No sooner had I done this, however, when something even stranger happened. The man spun around, bolted across the street and leaped onto a waiting trolley. Seconds later it pulled away and he was gone, leaving me staring after him in utter bewilderment.
Had he intended for me to follow him? Or was this all some grand Italian hoax?
Unsure, I turned and tried to reboard my original trolley. The woman saw me and grabbed my arm, gesturing with her other hand for me to follow her. Resigning myself to the fact that I was now completely in the hands of strangers, I did as I was told.
We crossed the street to another trolley stop and joined a group of weary-looking commuters leaning against a wall. Cars and motorcycles whizzed past. A man in a black business suit pedaled by on a bicycle. Another man strolled past with a cellular phone pressed to his ear.
What was I doing here? Why hadn't I taken a cab? That horrible man at the information desk had obviously tricked me, and now I would have to spend the day bumbling around Milan, lost and baffled, riding trolleys back and forth to nowhere.
My new tour guide, apparently forgetting my linguistic incompetence, tried to explain something to me, and I made a pretense of listening, but it was a futile effort on both our parts. Nearby, a bearded man in a suit and tie took a drag from his cigarette and stepped closer. He and the woman began speaking, while I stood by awkwardly, unable to participate, yet certain I was the topic of discussion.
After they had shared a laugh or two--at my expense, no doubt--a trolley clattered toward us and the woman stepped toward it. I tried to follow her, but the new man motioned for me to stay. Puzzled, I glanced quickly at the woman and she nodded her assent. I had changed hands once again.
I turned to my new benefactor.
"Parla inglese?" I asked, bits of memorized Italian coming back to me. He shook his head. I pulled out my map to show him where my hotel was. He glanced at it and quickly nodded.
"Si, si," he affirmed, and I realized that he already knew where I was going. The lady had told him everything. And she, in turn, had been enlightened by the bald man on the first trolley. I was in awe at how these four strangers, counting the lady who had given me a ticket, had come together, unbidden, to help me, a total stranger.
Another trolley appeared and the man motioned me aboard with him. We had to stand, holding tight to the leather straps dangling from the ceiling. I gazed around at my fellow passengers in the crowded car then out the window, where I tried to catch the names of passing streets. I could find none of them on my map, though, and my disorientation intensified.
Seeing my perplexed countenance, my new friend smiled reassuringly and held up three fingers, accompanied by an Italian explanation. I didn't grasp his meaning until after the trolley pulled away from its next stop and he displayed just two fingers. Two more stops? Could it be? Was I this close to my hotel?
The next stop came and went, and the man gestured me closer to the door. I stared through the glass at the passing buildings until one in particular caught my eye: Hotel Raffaello.
They had done it! Somehow, without my even asking them--without even waiting for a thank you--these strangers had guided me through this bewildering maze of a city. I looked back at the man as the trolley slowed to a halt, scarcely able to contain my gratitude.
"Grazie! Grazie!" I gushed. He grinned, modestly, embarrassed at the attention. I wanted to do more, give him something perhaps, but there was no time.
I hauled my gear through the open door, dumped it on the sidewalk, and then spun to watch him go. He lifted his hand in farewell, and I returned the salute. Then the trolley pulled away, and he disappeared down the sunny, tree-lined avenue.