Why do people say, “All good things must come to an end?” Like why? I’ve never really understood that. Nor do I understand the expression: You can’t have your cake and eat it, too. So, what’s the point in having the cake? To just look at it?
These are things I ponder when I can’t sleep, which is most nights. Truth be told, every night. But more on that later.
So, if all good things must end…it was time to leave my enchanted island of Venezia and take a train to Florence.
When I arrived at the train station, I was an hour early. I’m always in a hurry going nowhere, but this time I had a wonderful place to visit and I didn’t want to waste sixty minutes waiting, if I didn’t have to.
I was delighted to learn that there was a train leaving to Florence within five minutes, and I was able to change my ticket for only an extra eight Euro.
Although I’ve been working out at the gym for longer than I wish to confess, Olive Oil, Popeye’s dream girl, could arm wrestle me to the ground with me screaming, “Uncle!” So, the thought of lifting my sixty pound suitcase onto the train was a bit daunting and totally unrealistic. It was hard enough to schlep my tote bag.
There are no porters to assist girlie girls like me or ramps to wheel my luggage up to the top level of the train. Fate intervened: A Tall, Fair and Handsome stranger graciously volunteered to help me lift it into the train, which was no easy task even for the gentleman, whose muscular physique I couldn’t help but notice.
I’m sure T.F.H. got a hernia or at least back strain picking up the suitcase and placing it on each step one by one until the overstuffed luggage, the size of a Buick, made it to the top level of the train. Panting and schvitzing, he then pushed and squeezed and cursed it into submission. He shoved it into what was supposed to be the “luggage compartment.” Talk about the size of a sardine can. Just like my room in Venice.
I didn’t know whether to hug him or apologize profusely. I was so embarrassed.
We boarded the bustling train and I took a seat by a window, pushing my tote bag under the seat in front of me. Next thing I knew, T.F.H. was sitting next to me. Fate intervened again. Or did he?
We chatted all the way to Padua, the first stop. Out of nowhere, an Italian authority guy hurried down the aisle and asked to see my ticket. He looked at it and then at me. His English wasn’t very good and my Italian was less than mediocre. Through hand gestures and fractured English, he insisted I was lying. He didn’t believe that I had changed tickets in Venice.
I feared he would force me to get off the train right then and there. I’m sure Padua is fabulous. It’s in Italy, right? But, I had hotel reservations and museum tickets for a week stay in Florence…the land of the Medici’s, Renaissance art and architecture. How could I stay in Padua, when I had a date with David…the statue, that is and I wasn’t going to leave Italy before I saw him drenched with the glow of morning light in the Galleria dell’Accademia. Not happening.
As the guy continued yelling at me, I suddenly felt like I was plucked out of the train and placed into a cartoon. Some sort of weird surrealist’s animation. He looked ridiculous dressed in a fluorescent orange one piece jumper, throwing a temper tantrum. He was relentless.
T.F.H. shot out of his seat and towered over the ticket-taker, causing the little man to fall back a step. Gaining his composure, he immediately placed his hands on his hips and began yelling at my hero. I listened to the duo duking it out verbally, only understanding half of the conversation. T.F.H. insisted that he witnessed the conductor change my ticket and the little man who looked like an orange sherbet gelato refused to back down. As did the T.F.H. man. No one has ever fought over me before. It was kind of nice. Chivalry isn’t dead, I thought as I watched T.F.H. defend my honor.
“You shouldn’t talk to a lady like that!”
More Italian words were bellowed with wild hand gestures, flailing above his head like a maniac.
I watched with such gross fascination, not really hearing anything. I was lost in my own fantasy. It was as though there was a bubble above his head with an arrow pointing to his mouth: “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.”
Suddenly he reminded me of one of Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s prisoners in Arizona, whose inmates are forced to wear pink uniforms, like that would make them feel less hostile or macho.
I tried to hide the smile that was forthcoming because the comparison was pretty funny. With his diminutive size, he obviously had a Napoleonic complex especially standing next to T.F.H., making him more determined to get his way.
I think it would be difficult for even a tough guy like The Terminator to gain any kind of respect while ranting and raving in an orange jump-suit. All that was missing were stilettos and a matching purse. When you think about it, it’s a hard outfit to pull off, especially for an authority figure. And a short, hot-headed one at that.
Finally, he shut up. His jaw jutted out with fierce indignation as he pointed to the front of the train. “Speak. Conductor. Go!” I couldn’t help wonder if he deliberately knew he was imitating Tonto with one word monotone commands. I would have been amused if I wasn’t a little scared of the tiny tyrant.
I ran to the front of the train and told the conductor what the village idiot was doing. He stormed down the aisle, reprimanded him and confirmed that he himself had made the change minutes before departure. The conductor winked at me, stole a glance at my long legs and strode back to take the driver’s seat
The ticket-taker glared at me and the T.F.H. gentleman and then scurried off to harass someone else, I’m sure.
We both sat down with a long sigh of relief and a nervous giggle at what could have happened to me. Imagine…Me… Thrown off the train…Now that would have made a good story to blog about! I thought. Glancing over at T.F.H., I realized a new chapter might be beginning. Much more interesting than being thrown off a train. Romance in Firenze…The possibilities made me smile. But so did T.D.H in Venice. And then I thought: What if they both met? Oh Heavens!
“Where are you staying in Florence?” he asked, stopping my ludicrous scenario from unfolding.
“Hotel Baglioni.”
He looked at me in disbelief.
“Don’t tell me…you, too?” I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Obviously we were destined to meet,” he said.
“Fate?”
The plot thickens!! Sweet :})
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