I arrived in Frankfurt at around 10 in the morning. I limped (I managed to sprain my ankle bouldering—a first—on the Friday before leaving) my way over to the next gate, but no one was there. A crisp looking German woman eventually arrived to coordinate the check-in. She turned the computer, and up on the board popped my flight info. The plane to Milan was running about 3 hours behind. What happened to German precision? Thwarted again.
Unlike Germany, Italy is not known for its culture of precision and punctuality. No problem: I expected as much and I harbor no desire to make everyone be on time. I will get to my destination, to Genova, to Maggie—at some point in time--I am certain it is possible--I will get there. But first I must arrange for the bus to the Milan train terminal, then for a train to Genova. These are small pleasures.
Milan's central train station
The bus from the airport did actually exist and it did actually get me to the train station. With the airport being in the same town as the train station, I’d say it performed this necessary service in a good hour and a half. Respectable, but perhaps they might do better? Let fate decide. The process of attaining a train ticket and riding to Genova bore a similar pattern, similarly fated I’m sure. It was only through perhaps the one thing you can truly rely on while traveling--the random kindness of strangers--that I arrived in Genova’s principle train station. These wonderful strangers were as follows: a friendly agricultural products salesman from Finland, a congenial Italian mother-daughter pair, a young and quite dapper Italian gentleman, and a random old-dude I sat next to on the train. I sincerely thank these people: Grazie!
Maggie was going to meet me at the Genova station. To her great credit, she did wait for me for three hours (she mentioned to me later that at in that span of time at the station a crazy person was captured, two women got in a fight and were arrested by the police, and someone got mugged). Her day had not gone well already, and she said she wandered home in despair. Turns out I arrived just after she left. That was when I started wandering around the train station in despair. Finally I gave in and haggled with the cabbies, one of whom undersold his stubborn buddies and went for my 10 Euro offer (I was later informed that 10 Euro was the fair price). With daring speed and a keen knowledge of the precise width of Genova’s narrow streets, my cabbie navigated blind switchbacks up a steep hill, halting in front of an immense villa, 14 Via Piaggio, owned by Clemson University. Together we cried, “Perfecto!” (really!) and away he sped. With my bags beside me, I reached and pressed the buzzer by the very large door. In a moment, Maggie opened the door. Disbelieving, she closed it in my face. Just kidding. We bowed, shook hands, and I entered. Just kidding. Let’s do the ultimate happy ending: she said, “Oh my God!”, and we flew into a 10 minute embrace. That’s what really happened. Finally, we were reunited. And it felt so good.
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