The First Bus Ride

Before we left for Italy, Mom and I would sit for hours and plan the details of our trip. We each picked out places we wanted to visit, things we wanted to do, and tried to think of things we would need to know before we landed ourselves in a foreign-speaking country. Mom purchased several travel books, which of course had some common and useful phrases translated into Italian. Being the dedicated, diligent traveler, she wanted to learn at least some of the basics in Italian to help in our day-to-day adventures. She asked me if I was going to learn any Italian before our trip, and I said “Nah.” She said, “Well what are you going to do when you need to say something to somebody? “ I said, “I won’t need to speak to anyone over there except you, and you speak English.” She said, “What about in a restaurant, when you’re trying to order food?” I said, “I’ll point” and I held up my finger and demonstrated with prideful satisfaction.

When we finally arrived in Florence, 13 hours after leaving Atlanta, Mom and I were both dead on our feet. You know that level of exhaustion where you cannot think clearly, let alone navigate in a foreign country where you don’t understand the native language. We made it out of the airport, and across the street to the bus stop. The plan was to ride the bus to the train station, and take a train to Pisa. Standing at the bus stop, backpacks strapped on, suitcases the size of Pisa itself sitting beside us, we waited. We had gone to an ATM inside the airport, to get some money out in Euros. The smallest currency we had was 50 Euros, or roughly $75. We panicked for a bit, trying to decide if we should go back in the airport and get change, wondering if the bus driver would take such a large amount, if he would even have change, and most importantly, how the heck we would ask him whether he would take that amount and if he had any change.

So, when the bus finally arrived, I left my poor mother standing on the sidewalk with our mountain of baggage, and joined the crowd of people who were filing onto the bus 4 at a time, and paying the driver 1 at a time. When it was my turn to hand my money to the driver, I held up two fingers to indicate that I wanted two tickets, and I shoved the 50 Euros into his hand. He didn’t bat an eye as he handed me my change and two tickets. Success! Except that my mother and everything I owned was still sitting outside the bus on the sidewalk. Looking back over the heads of fifteen people, I looked at her helplessly, wondering if I’d ever see her again. Haha. I must have really looked that forlorn, because some of the people in line behind me saw what was going on, and allowed mom to squeeze through, and even helped us get our luggage onto the bus. Now if I had attempted to get on that bus and say in Italian “Two tickets please” and “Do you have change for a 50?” I probably would have butchered the language, and landed us in some unknown, forsaken desert in Italy. You may be thinking, “There aren’t any deserts in Italy” but that’s what they want you to believe. It’s where they toss all of the idiotic tourists who hold up the line at the bus stop.