For this particular blog, I have to set the stage. I was born 50% Italian by heritage – my last name means “little shoe”. That probably explains my shoe obsession.
But I’m 100% Italian when it comes to passion, loyalty and anger management. And so begins my tale.
Our good friends had shared they were heading to Milan, and given how close and easy it was to get there from Zurich, they invited us along. The very next day my other friend and I bought our train tickets. She had an SBB train account, I had a Swiss credit card,we’d figure out the money later.
Friday night our travel companion, the friend with the SBB account, started falling ill. The train ride the next morning would have to be a game time decision and we kept our fingers crossed she’d be well enough to come along. Sadly her ailments continued so Tony and I took our tickets and boarded the 7:00am train without her.
And then the trouble began.
About an hour in, the ticket guy came through to do his check. We handed over all of the appropriate paperwork and waited for his stamp.
“Where is your 3rd person?” he asked.
“She got sick so she couldn’t come.”
“But it’s her name on the tickets.”
“Yes but we paid for 3 people, all the same order number. We even have the credit card they were paid with.”
“I’m sorry but without your friend here these tickets are not valid.”
Say what?!?
Basically we had to buy our tickets again. 102 CHF down the toilet.
“Cor, why is your face so red?” Tony asked. I couldn’t even look at the ticket jerk-store as he ran our credit card. I knew my eyes alone would melt his face off. What a joke, paying twice for the same stupid ticket.
Afterwards, given we still had 3 hours to go and Tony didn’t want the Indian couple sitting across from us to think I was a serial killer, he tried to distract me by the beautiful landscape out the window.
“Cor, look at these mountains. And see those houses? Could you imagine how beautiful it would be to live there? What do you think of those mountain homes? What if we lived there?”
I paused. “I’d be pissed if we lived there.”
Poor Tony. And the story isn’t even over yet.
After we arrived at Milano Central station, we found out from our ill friend that we indeed needed to buy another set of return tickets as well. That way, we could make a case to refund the “invalid” tickets that were under her name. Since we were already at the station, we headed towards the ticket counter to get it over with. Tony agreed to wait while I went to the bathroom.
Following the toilet signs, I found myself almost outside the station. Confused, I turned around and headed back. I looked at the sign again, and began walking in the direction I just came from.
“Why does the toilet sign keep taking me outside?!?”
By now I was convinced even the small children walking in my path were out to get me. It took me an additional 15 minutes to figure out there was a 1/2 level in between the main floor and the 2nd floor where the bathrooms were located. Have you ever encountered a 1/2 level? I pray you don’t, especially when you are already in a foul mood, because you will curse the architect like I was.
And then of course. The toilet was 1 euro to use…..while I only had francs. Just keeps getting better.
I stomped back down to the ticket counter convinced we would at least have some good news – that Tony had the tickets already. Only no, he was number 32 out of 989. 45 minutes later it was our turn. We explained the situation to the ticket agent and just asked if we could buy tickets on the same train we had originally booked, the 5:10pm.
“Sorry, that train is full. You will have to take the 7:10 that gets in at 11:30pm.” Only since he was Italian it sounded like, “Soddie, dat a train eez a full-a. You will ave to-a take da saven-tan dat gets in ada elefen-durty.”
For the love of all that is holy. Just give me the damn tickets.
If we had a bulldozer, at that point I would have used it to run over everything in my path between the train station and the hotel. But with Tony’s broke-ass phone as our GPS, it probably still would’ve taken us an hour. We were taken the longest route possible to the hotel, which took a little over an hour, and when we finally found it, discovered it was literally a matter of crossing the street from the train station. The fact that the room and hotel itself looked like a serial killers club house was just the maraschino cherry on top, and perfectly fit my mood up until that point. How many more things could possibly go wrong?
“Cor, do you have my 1/2 pass card? I can’t find it and if I can’t find it then we have to pay a full fare ticket home.”
Forgive me, Father, for I will be sinning in the next 30 seconds….
Luckily we found his pass not long after and went and got ourselves some big ass beers, and took a big old nap. I will pause for a momentary intermission.
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After we woke up, we felt much better. Amazing how a big ass beer will put things in perspective. By this point, it was roughly 6pm and we had dinner plans at 8pm with the friends that had originally invited us to Milan. We took our time getting ready and were off. The restaurant was located in a really cool part of town and had a fun, funky vibe. They made their own pasta, which meant it was delicious, and we felt like true Europeans, sitting and talking and drinking wine for two and a half hours. The tiramisu was to die for, and Tony commented on what snobs we were, reserving our favorite tiramisu for Italy and our favorite creme brulee for France.
As the night progressed, we couldn’t help but notice that the patrons got younger and better looking. I knew Italians were good looking people overall but holy moly. Of all the traveling I’ve done, I’ve never seen a collective group of amazingly good looking people in one place. It was like a model bomb had exploded, and yes, I stole that line from Sex and the City.
We decided to check out the nightlife a bit further. We had already finished dinner at 11pm like good little Italians, and now it was time to continue the evening. We stumbled across what was literally the old entrance to a kingdom and found hundreds and hundreds of young Gucci models lounging amongst the ruins, solo cups of beer in hand. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Except maybe in a Vogue magazine, of course, but how fun. To be partying amongst the stones and mortar of ancestors past.
We didn’t stay out too much longer given that (a) we were overdressed and (b) we were over 30, so we headed back to get a fresh start on the next day. On Sunday, after a shower fit for a murderer, we were off. We wanted to try and see Da Vinci’s Last Supper painting, look at a castle and visit the Duomo before getting on the train home.
Upon arrival to the church where the Last Supper was held, we came to learn that we needed to reserve our tickets way in advance. I was stunned that one could not buy tickets that day, and realized that all of the Japanese tourists had conveniently purchased them through the end of the year. Good thing Milan is only 3.5 hours away, we would have to try again. We did, however, get to see some of Da Vinci’s original drawings as a consolation prize.
From there we headed to an old castle that was very wonderfully preserved. Tony explained that back in olden Italy, there were a variety of patron families that ruled the local cities. These families would fight against each other for power and land and therefore each had castles with walls, moats, and their very own Super Mario Brothers to protect themselves.
We finally made it to the Duomo and I cannot even begin to justify how magnificent this place was. Let’s just say it took 500 years to build – if that doesn’t give you a clue about it’s specialness, well then you just need to figure out a way to hang out for another 400 years. I mean America isn’t even 300 years old if that gives you a better understanding. It is the 3rd largest church in all of Christendom and even had preserved Cardinals and a crypt inside. I would definitely want the Super Mario Brothers with me if I were to head there at night.
We finished off with some yummy Italian coffee treats served by extra creepy and touchy feely waiters, and headed back to the seventh layer of hell, I mean, Milano Central, to go back to Zurich. The train ride was uneventful and we had no issues what-so-over, just proving Murphy’s Law, as my friend Katie said. Tony and I were so glad the trip took a turn for the best, and have already started planning our return.
It was nice to be in the land of my people. I never felt more proud to be Italian to be honest and I feel so fortunate that I live so nearby – it just means I can explore my heritage that much more closely. It also cracks me up how much the stereotypes are true – Italians are loud, we talk with our hands, love food, border on inappropriate, and cannot control our temper – but hey, isn’t that why we are so loved?? Good thing Tony learned early on not to anger an Italian woman….fuhgeddaboudit!
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