Last Train to Florence

by Barbara Montano (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Italy

I was starving as I left the Expo Milano 2015. The theme that year was, “Feeding the Planet, Energy for Life!,” and I had been surrounded by an international smorgasbord all day. But in my haste to see as many pavilions as possible, I had almost entirely missed the food, sustained merely by a Nutella gelato. Now I had to go, in fact, I had to run through the train station to catch the last train back to Florence, my home for the summer. Racing up the stairs, I stepped onto the platform as the train doors snapped shut in front of me. The Trenitalia staff, taking pity on my evident despair, said my best option was to get to Bologna and then take a taxi. With a friend visiting the next day, I was desperate to reach Florence that night and decided to follow the tenuous plan, leaping unknowingly into an adventure. The first step was to get to the Milano Centrale station. On the platform, waiting for the train, I began talking with an Italian-Swiss couple, also Expo visitors. When our train came, they insisted I sit with them, and I had the chance to practice my broken Italian with native speakers. As we disembarked, they told me that if I hurried I could still find a train to Florence. They pushed me ahead down the platform before I could thank them for their kindness. Weaving through the crowd, I found an empty ticket machine and without reading the details, picked the first set of tickets that promised Florence as their destination. Next, I was on a train to Genoa. Chugging through the night, I spun into sadness, thinking how silly I had been to miss my train and remembering my late aunt, who first brought me abroad, and who would never have let this happen. I began to cry, right there. The only other person in my compartment, an older Italian gentleman, asked if I was okay. Surprised and touched by his kindness, I assured him I was and dried my eyes. In Genoa, hunger panging at my insides, I tried to buy food at a vending machine and ended up with a packaged croissant. For some reason, it was frozen solid, but I devoured it anyway. On the next train, I struggled to keep myself awake as the hours peeled away and the night grew later. The glassy black water of the Mediterranean shimmered outside the window and the glowing lights of cities passed by. Despite the late hour, my compartment remained full as people came and went into the night. Studying my tickets more closely, I realized that the last leg of my journey was not a train, but a bus, from Pisa to Florence, and it looked increasingly likely that our arrival in Pisa would be late. I went to the exit doors, ready to race off the train, and found a woman there with her son. As we pulled into Pisa, I was able to properly ask in Italian if she needed help, and gladly assisted, bringing her luggage to the platform. Again, I ran, feeling an epic relief as I saw the waiting bus and the driver waved me on. I relaxed into my seat, knowing I was on the last leg of my journey home. But this relaxation was short-lived. While the bus was speeding down the highway, a fight broke out between some of the passengers and the bus driver pulled over, screeching to a halt and yelling at everyone to calm down. With that, I had to laugh, for now I had seen everything on what had become a wild journey. Upon arriving at the Firenze Santa Maria Novella station, I ran, for the last time that night, the few deserted blocks to our apartment. Trying not to wake my housemates, I went straight to the kitchen and cooked myself a giant pot of pasta. In the approaching dawn, I savored that warm pasta and realized I was glad that I missed my train. The whole summer I had played it safe, adventure passing me by, and now I had wonderful memories of connection and a story to tell.