It's a Sunday evening, September the 26th to be exact, and here I sit in the akwardly square and dingy seat number 126 on InterCityNotte Train 781 from Milano to Bologna. The wheels just started moving as we pull away from the smoke-filled Milano-Centrale. The stale smell of old cigarettes is so strong here I'm not even sure if it qualifies as second-hand anymore. I can practically feel the tobacco settling into the crevaces of my lungs, and although I've never smoked a cigarette myself, I'd venture to guess that it doesn't get a whole lot more first-hand than this.
It quickly becomes evident that glamorous and terrificly retro-chic train ride this is not. InterCityNotte 781, you are no Darjeeling Limited and you are certainly no Hogwarts Express. (NOTE: I have recently started re-reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, which I found a British version of in my program's office. Therefore, my deepest appologies for the HP references that will inevitably pop up in posts for the next couple of weeks). We are downright careening across the tracks, squeaking and bumping our way southward past the big grey apartment complexes in the outskirts of Milan. I suppose that in a general sense "we" could refer to all the passengers of ICN 781's nine shabby cars, but more specifically I'm speaking of the six of us sharing the tiny, smelly compartment containing seats 121-126, one of whom just ripped a big one. I'm quite sure it wasn't me, so that leaves one of the others in 121-125. Perhaps it was the woman next to me who is really loving her crossword, or the larger woman sitting opposite of me whose black leather pointed-toe boot is unneccessarily taking up all of our shared footrest.
Am I complaining too much? Yes, of course I am, and I really don't mean to seem ungrateful although I suppose we all are about something. Mostly, the periodic sessions of bitch-and-moaning helps any given situation because it is so surreal that I am even occupying this uncomfortable seat number 126 in the first place. I mean, I am on the night train from MILAN to BOLOGNA. In ITALY - where I LIVE. Is anyone else as perplexed by this as I am?
To put to good use the only Wolofese phrase I will probably ever know (kindly taught to me by the lovely Hannah D., hailing from Senegal), "ca degg degg" (translation for my non-Senegalese readers: 'are you for real')?! Well NO, frankly, I am most certainly not "ca degg degg" because it does not feel the slightest bit real that this beautiful opportunity to live and move and breathe (however stale the air may be) in ITALY for nearly half a year has actually materialized. And I'm not really sure it ever will feel real, either. This life is but a dream. One day, perhaps, I'll wake up snug in my bed at Colby in the icy Waterville, Maine and realize it really did happen, the section of my life called Italy, and fondly remember what once filled my days: gelatos galore, perfection in the form of cappuccinos, walks to class by a naked Neptune standing 5 meters high in marble. It's all just too glorious to comprehend.
But, if anything, it will be the little difficulties and annoyances of Italy that remind me that this is, in fact, real life. Like if Uma Thurman had a lazy eye or something. The discustingly thick air, the common lack of a concept of personal space, having to wait until 9pm for dinner, this rickety Train 781, the incredibly large fresh blister on my big toe from my beautiful new chocolate brown Italian leather loafers. The loafers are the surreal and the wonderful and the amazement that is Italy; the ugly blister is poor Uma's eye. Then again, she's still Uma Thurman. I suppose I can put up with a few blisters if they mean that I'm the proud owner of lovely new Italian loafers, bought in my very own Italian city, in my very new Italian life.
It seems we are now very nearly careening out of control and I half expect the flimsy wall to detach itself from ol' 781, but none of the other five sleeping members of compartment 121-126 seem to be concerned. Brakes wail as the train slows to a crawl, where it stays at a painfully slow pace for ten miunutes before gaining speed again to bump across the tracks once again. The train repeats this speeding-slowing-speeding pattern a few more times before settling with a tired sigh to stop at one of the three remaining stations between me and Bologna-Centrale, where I will leave InterCityNotte 781 forever and stumble into a taxi that will whisk me away to my apartment building where I will drag myself up the three flights of stairs and fall into my bed, where I will awake tomorrow morning and open my large, double window to the honks and curses of the blustling, tree-lined Viale Filopanti, and, while groggily pouring some water over the plant on the sill and looking across the expanse of terra-cotta shingled roofs, ask myself: Italia, are you for real?
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