Coffee to go
Now here’s a memory….
Have I told you about the train from hell? It was in our young and stupid phase which now seems to have been an unnecessarily long phase, but anyway, when the world was much younger we were scheduled to catch the express train from Rome to Geneva. The word “catch” will pop up again later in the story so be on your toes. As will the word “express.”
Anyway, we had been in Rome for 8 nights and were more than ready for some cold mountain air. Our tickets were booked and as usual we were late getting to the station. Our (Deed’s) heavy suitcases bulging with all the bargains that Rome had to offer --- such as leather gloves for everyone east of the Mississippi at $2.50 a pair and silk scarfs for those in New England at $3.25 each. I stumbled my way to the platform arriving 10 minutes late. But this was Rome. And the train left 45 minutes late, so being 10 minutes late meant we were early. Don’t ask.
Just a slight diversion. The year was 1965 and the women’s lib thing was only beginning to bubble. In 1965 I was still expected to be the gentleman and carry the luggage or hire a porter, but I was too young to know about porters so like every stupid man I was left to stumble. Deed was expected to carry the umbrella, and so she did with Hepburn like grace.
Now back to the train. As we found our compartment we discovered that our travel companions were two sweet little old tweedy English sisters from Devon. One sister looked like Christie’s Miss Marple, and the other sister looked like Miss Marple “lite”.
Once the train was finally under way the Miss Marples opened their food hamper to share with us a thermos of tea and cookies and assorted chocolates. But wait --- in 10 minutes the train stopped somewhere on the outer edges of Rome to take on more passengers.
If I don’t stop here and move this along this post will soon be a novel.
The train, we soon found out, was an Italian express which means that it gets you to every tiny little village quickly but gets you to Geneva as you age. Eight hours after we left Rome we had not yet reached Milan. The hamper was empty. The thermos was empty. My tweedy companions were becoming different shades of red --- actually, as I recall, they were a pretty shade of purple and fast losing the good manners so common to the people of Devon.
I will have you recall that this was my gentlemanly phase of life so I said to our companions that the next time the train stopped for a length of time I would get off to get them a coffee and refreshments. And with that promise I opened the compartment door to find an attendant. Soon I was back in our compartment with the news that our next stop would be Milan and that we were scheduled to take on more cars and would be in the station for at least 45 minutes.
We celebrated our pending rescue with three cheers. I was cast as the hero who like one of the Wise Men would soon be bearing gifts.
When the train pulled into Milan I was the first off. The station platform was lined with shops, but I was determined not only to be selective but to be fast. Soon my job was completed and with a shopping bag full of goodies I returned to the platform to board the train.
Are you ahead of me? You’re right. The platform was empty. As I looked down the track, not more than 150 feet ahead I saw my train.
I put the bag down and like in every Hollywood “B” movie I ran after the train hoping to reach the last car and like in the movie grab the rail and swing myself aboard. I ran as fast as the wind.
Place your bets.
Walking slowly back to the platform to a standing ovation I found my bag. It was empty. The coffee was gone
Deed was on the train.
More than 60 years later I still believe I saw a smiling conductor give me a lusty wave.
Rules of life
Never trust the Italian train system. The train was not in Milan for 45 minutes --- maybe 10.
Never get off the train without your passport.
Never try to help little old women.
Never try to be the hero type.
All’s well that ends well. I’d like to get ahold of the guy who first uttered that nonsense.
But I guess it did end well. I got back to Deed.
How you might well ask.
I firmly believe in a crisis situation --- I mean in a real full-blown crisis like getting to Switzerland from Italy without a passport. The first step is to panic. Yes, a full-blown panic where you scream every word that you learned back of the barn. Scream at the top of your lungs. And if there are any walls nearby beat the walls until something cracks. Then in about 10 minutes calm down and solve the problem.
I HAD A WONDERFUL 10 MINUTE PANIC.
Then I searched out the trainmaster’s office. After I explained, in my broken Italian the situation, he called a few of his colleagues over to have me repeat my story. Laughter in any language is contagious and soon everyone in the office was laughing.
When a sense of maturity was restored the trainmaster made a few phone calls and took me to the ticket office to buy a ticket to Geneva.
This is the final mishap. Who carries the money? Do I? Does Deed? Right!
I told the trainmaster that my wife had our money.
A few more phone calls.
Finally the trainmaster took me by the hand and led me to a train and carefully placed me in a compartment. Before he left gave I was given specific instructions on what I may or may not do. He gave me an apple.
Shaking his head he left and soon I was in Geneva waiting for Deed. I got there first.
Someday I need to tell you about her reaction.