An Unlikely Tour

by Danny Trigili (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Italy

I woke up to the yellowing plaster ceiling of my hostel, car horns floating in from the balcony, and went to the kitchen for microwaved coffee. A hostel-mate walked in and said something I didn't understand. “Sorry?” “Is there coffee?” she said. I nodded at the clear pitcher of black liquid sitting on the table. She smirked, “That is not coffee.” Then came Anami, from Hungary. Anami was able to talk to me, because she spoke English, and to the other girl -- who turned out to be Italian -- because Anami knew Spanish, and Spanish and Italian are similar. Relatively. After a bit of mismatched conversation, the Italian girl left and Anami stood up. "We're going to get food," Anami said, and she turned to me with a smile. I was still in pajamas. "Wanna come?" I should admit something: I'm 20 years old, and before this trip I had never been truly alone in my life. Last October, I made the most adventurous decision yet and planned a solo ten-day excursion through Italy. My first night in Naples had been spent wandering through museums and along shorelines, too self-aware to take selfies; all of my photos from that night have a detached loneliness to them. With the offer of two companions to break the silence of my trip, I chugged my coffee, threw clothes on, and chased after them. After twenty minutes we stopped at the entrance to a cafe, the windows dark. The Italian girl turned and kept walking. "Where are we going now?" I asked Anami. I heard "dondé" before Anami turned back to me. "I'm not sure." We dodged drivers, squeezed down sidewalks made narrow by pizzarias, and avoided the waving hands of restaurant hosts. Anami and I threw each other glances with nothing but bewilderment; what had we gotten ourselves into? The Italian girl turned to me. "You're from?" "I'm American.” "Don't speak Italian?" "I speak a little French," I offered. The Italian girl grinned and asked me in French, "Where did you study?" (I think). "Uh… J'ai étudié français aux États Unis," I attempted to shout over hawking vendors. She made a face, and didn't speak to me in French any more after that. We continued our conversation this way, through our patchwork of three languages. The Italian girl would occasionally point at a building or distant monument and shout some detail that we rarely were able to absorb, or that Anami would attempt to translate with, "I think it's... uh... a church, maybe?" The conversation wasn't easy, and much of it was misunderstood, but for a few brief hours my trip wasn't solo. It was noon when we arrived at what was apparently our destination: a parking lot, overlooking a picturesque rocky coast, with a booth set up next to a bright red bus. "Where are we?" I asked Anami. "Aren't we getting food?" Anami shrugged. Italian girl led us to the booth, and explained something to Anami. "It's a tour bus," Anami translated for me, "I guess it'll take us on a tour around Naples. It's an hour." With a flight in two hours, I said, "Sounds good." We got in line and bought our tickets; before boarding the bus, we paused and looked around the lot. "Where did the Italian girl go?" Anami asked, and this time I shrugged. She had vanished completely. "Did you get her number?" I asked Anami, who hadn’t. We couldn't even be sure what her name was, and were suddenly stranded two hours away from our hostel. With no way to get back and no one to turn to besides each other, we boarded our bus. I haven’t spoken to Anami since. I still can't remember the Italian girl's name. But for a few hours we were friends, and I loved their company. I don't know what I expected to gain while traveling; my friends who returned from similar trips seemed to learn how to bring lifelong bonds home from every city they visited. I didn't -- but I did learn something about being alone, which was something I never even knew I needed. And, after all, it was a great tour.