When traveling back to Torino, across northern Italy, I learned that things don’t always go as planned.
I ran into the station, frazzled, soaking wet, and dragging my hot pink roller suitcase trundling along behind my back. My train back to Torino pulled out just as I stopped on the platform. Organized as I am, I seem to be physically incapable of being anywhere on time. It appeared my inexorable tardiness had struck again. I dragged myself over to the ticket kiosk and found out the next train from Venice to Torino did not leave for another 2 hours. Great. I purchased another ticket and wandered over to a café to buy a croissant and coffee, the two cheapest things on the menu. I sat down at a table and stared longingly at the family next to me, the kids happily munching on fresh sandwiches their parents had bought them, and that I was too broke to afford. I finished my croissant, and sat, exhausted and slumped over in my seat, feeling unsatisfied after my puny meal. I pulled out my phone to pass the time, but my screen went black; my phone was dead. My heart sunk even further. I sat, starring blankly ahead with nothing to do. The family got up and left to board their train, and an old man sat down at their table. He gave me a nod and smiled eerily, starring at me with an unbroken gaze, sighing exasperatedly, I turned my chair away from him.
Feeling bored, I looked out over the concourse and decided to people watch. Families speaking a variety of languages strolled towards their train or rested on the platforms, waiting to board; businessmen in freshly pressed suits sat on benches, guarding their briefcases with a protecting arm; young people sat on the ground, chatting and sleeping with their heads on backpacks. I was mostly too tired and frustrated to be amused. The time slunk by, but finally my train arrived and I walked to the platform to board. I climbed up the steps onto the train and stared in amazement at the high quality of the car. The seats were wide and comfortable and glass panels separated each group of four seats. I stowed my bag and sat down, relieved to be on my way home. The train pulled out and I dozed lightly as two nicely dressed women across from me discussed business. The attendant came around to punch our tickets. Half asleep I handed him mine; he took a look at the stub and began yelling at me in Italian. Shocked out of my reverie, I attempted to convey to him that I didn’t understand. In slow, bothered sounding English, he told me I was in the first class car and had purchased a coach ticket. I apologized and asked him if I could just stay since the train was already in motion and no one else was sitting here. “Absolutely not!” he exclaimed. Huffing, I stood and reached up to the above compartment to grab my bag. I bent over slightly to set my bag, very heavy from all of my Venetian souvenirs, on the ground, and heard a ripping noise. I looked down to see the zipper on my white shorts ripped in half. I yelled out exasperatedly, pulled my sweatshirt down over the eight-inch rip and headed for the door leading to the coach cars. The attendant followed me, making sure I actually left, and gave me a disapproving glare as the first class door slammed closed behind me. Still dripping went, pants ripped and banished from first class, I dragged my suitcase back through seven cars to reach my actual seat. Overwhelming, frustrated irritation rose up inside me. It took all of my effort not to just sit down in the aisle and cry.
I sat in my true seat, which was much smaller and less plushy, and rested my head against the back. A strange smell bombarded my nostrils and I looked over to see an enormous woman next to me, eating some strange steaming food out of a box. Perfect. I closed my eyes and fell asleep.
I awoke just as we were arriving in Torino. Standing up, I yanked my sweatshirt down, trying to cover the giant rip. I stumbled off of the train, suitcase in tow. I got to the bus stop just as my bus was departing. I was on the brink of throwing a tantrum. But standing on the sidewalk, frazzled, in wet ripped clothes, feeling drops of an oncoming rainstorm drizzling on my head, I threw the handle of my suitcase down exasperatedly and laughed.
When traveling, things don’t always go as planned. You get lost, you miss trains, you make mistakes and get caught in the rain; and it’s frustrating and confusing and exhausting. But, as irritating as it might be, it’s a part of the journey. It’s those moments that teach you how capable you actually are, that no matter what traveling or life throws at you. As bewildering and insurmountable as it might seem, you can deal with it and you will get through it, and rather than fight every imperfection along the way, sometimes you just have to go with it. I plopped down on my suitcase, sitting out in the now pouring rain. I accepted that sometimes, in life, all there is to do is to laugh and enjoy the storm.
