Milan, Italy. April 4 (about).
Well hell, lost again. This time, it was in Milano’s underground, metro, tube, subway, whatever you call it. We were just trying to get back to the main train station to get tix for Nice, France. As Rick would have said if “Casablanca” had had a metro, “Of all the subways in all the cities in all the world, I had to come into this one . . .”
The Milanese are no doubt a great people, but they have flunked signage. An official will say to take Linea 1 to the train station, but the only visible signs say Linea 2 and 3. SD deduced that those signs mean your Line 1 connects somewhere down there with 2 and 3. Oh.
The official had pointed to the passageway on the right. OK, but how were we supposed to know that? We still weren’t convinced, but plowed on. At the underground stop that bore a name we didn’t recognize, we asked an intelligent-looked matron, “Stazione Centrale?” and pointed to the right. She smiled Si. Flood of relief.
We enjoyed the rest of the ride, but which exit should we take to get OUT of the tunnel and back to sunshine and freedom? There were more choices. We tried one uschita (exit) of several possibilities, but only came to a passageway back down! We wanted out! We asked the stazione question of a tall, handsome man with luggage; he laughed, pointed at his chest and made shrugging gestures, like “Im lost too!” But he pointed up to the left uschita, shrugged “maybe this one?” and waved for us to join him. We did, and it worked. Twice he looked back to see if the older couple was OK, and we were. In fact, we were delighted. At the top of a ramp we saw the welcome light of day. He looked back again and waved goodbye. I waved my cane in gratitude.
So what the Milanese lack in signage logic, they make up for with politesse. All was well once again. It usually is, thanks to considerate strangers.
SD was right: “It’s like they say about Alzheimer’s — you keep meeting new people. . .”
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Hey, I feel your pain. About ten years ago, I spent a single day in Paris–not to be confused with our recent adventures, of course–because we’d taken my husband’s mom to London and wanted to try out the then-new Chunnel train. I detached myself from the group at some point and wandered the Paris Metro–and got so lost I passed the same Romanian folk band about fifty times. Finally, with our rendezvous time at Gare du Nord looming, I asked a guy who looked disconcertingly like Jean Valjean how to get to the right line. He asked if I spoke French, and I said, “Un peu. TRES peu.”
He shook his head sadly. “C’est domage,” he said. “Je ne parle pas Englais.”
Then he proceeded to somehow pantomime–honestly!–the fact that I had to go to the blue line to get to the green line to get to the purple line…
I made it in time. Who says the French are less than cordial?
“Uschita” means exit? And all this time I thought it meant the convenience, i.e. toilet. Perhaps it explains why I found myself in Italy so often outdoors, standing next to an exit door, relieving myself on a wall.
Thanks for the note, Susan! I am delighted that I have at least two readers. Maybe 3, since my wife also reads my stuff.
I like your style! Your style and mine are not too different, I think, and your columns are fun.
Oh — what is your other website(s)? You had some other interesting stuff on the net but I lost the connection.
I’m at mcseas.com. Don’t tell les Grandes Fromages, but I have been know to toss things in the PC site that have appeared in my own, or will appear later!
Later,
mcc
Leo -
You scared me! I looked it up and found that I was right about the meaning, wrong about the spelling. No H in “uscina.” ’scuse, signore…
Thanks for the note! I always wonder if anyone is reading this stuff.
mcc