One night in Italy

Milan, Italy
3 August 2008

My hostel was hard to find. In the end, it took about three hours, a bus ticket I never found out if I actually needed, and four kind strangers who took pity on me.

The station I arrived at (Milano Centrale) is enormous. It has 24 platforms and serves about 120 million people per year. From the station, my directions said to board the 92 bus. The bus loop is out behind the station, through a park-like area, and across a street. An Italian boy (correctly assuming confusion) guided me onto the bus and off at the stop I needed. From the stop, it should have been a quick two-minute walk across the street and up the block, but I turned the wrong way and wandered for over an hour. For this I blame confusing Italian street names that sound like addresses.

Stazione Centrale di Milano

Italian summer nights are hot.

I may have been propositioned by an older gentleman from his car window, but what do I know? I don't speak Italian.

By the time I made it to my hostel, I was sweaty and digusting and tired from a very long day. I stayed at the Hotel America, home of this sign. It's actually a very nice, very clean place, and contrary to my earlier experiences, conveniently located.

In the common room, there were two lads from London, a girl from Australia, and a boy from Atlanta, Georgia (who looked and sounded just like James Dean!), who invited me to watch The Simpsons with them. We talked about our travels, about home, and about patriotism, and then we answered Rob's (from London) insane questions (he assured us that he was genuinely curious to know the answers).

I love staying in hostels because of the people you meet. In hotels, you rarely see anyone, but hostel-dwellers are a special breed of people that exude camaraderie. Hanging out with a multi-national group in a city where no one speaks the language is quite fun. It was a lovely wind-down to the day.

My balcony view in Milano

My return to the station in the morning was comical. At the bus stop, I asked if this was where the 92 bus stopped, but the English word for "92" is nothing like the Italian. A tiny elderly lady, who did not speak a word of English, tried her best to help me, but unfortunately for foreign language communication, speaking slowly and loudly in Italian is still speaking in a foreign language. She finally dragged some man off the street to assure me (also loudly) that "yes, bus 92 stop here, go to stazione."

I missed my train back to Switzerland by one minute, so I remained in Milan for two more hours, soaking up the sunshine and watching the goings-on in the home of my sister's "boyfriend," Pato, who plays for AC Milan. =)

I loved Italy.