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Rome

Lost in Transit

gloria fallon

geneva had been a disaster, and the six of us couldn’t wait to get to Italy. A violent windstorm in Switzerland’s peaceful capital had blown away our plans for sightseeing: The river cruise was canceled, the Jet d’Eau fountain was shut down, and we were nearly flung from the top of a cathedral tower by what seemed to be a Category Four gust of wind.

So Italy looked golden and promising to the south, offering all the sightseeing a tourist could dream of in Rome, and gondola rides galore in Venice.

We came early to the Geneva train station, but when our train to Rome finally arrived, we couldn’t find our car. Under the enormous weight of our rucksacks, the six of us frantically began lumbering down the platform in search of Car 311. This ludicrous sight probably would have made me laugh if overnight trains to Rome had left Geneva every 15 minutes instead of once a day. We couldn’t afford to miss this train. When our search finally proved futile, I yelled, “Just get on!” and we scrambled into the nearest car. Well, me, Patty, Eileen and Stephanie did.

“Where’re Deb and Rachel?” Stephanie panted. As Eileen and I briefly cast obligatory looks around, certain that our friends had made the train, Patty slung off her rucksack and hopped back onto the platform to look for them. And with no warning, no “All aboard!,” no call to action that we typical English-speaking-only Americans could comprehend, the train doors shut. And the train started moving. Were only three of us on our way to Rome now?

And with no warning, no “All aboard!,” the train doors shut. And the train started moving.

Hunched and wild-eyed under my rucksack, I went barging down the narrow corridor and threw open the doors to the adjoining car. There were Deb and Rachel, but no sign of Patty. She had been left on the platform.

I started to panic. Not since our bacchanalian weekend in Amsterdam had I felt so sick. Could we stop the train? How would Patty get to Rome by herself? What would I do if I were left behind in a country where no one spoke English?

We regrouped in our crowded compartment and tried to put ourselves in Patty’s shoes. As her closest friend in the bunch, I knew that she carried her passport in the money holder she wore around her neck, so we were comforted knowing she at least had that. We got out our Eurail timetables and figured that, to make her way to Rome, she’d have to board a train that stopped in Milan. After some quick deliberation, we decided that Stephanie and Deb, with their faltering command of French (the best we could do), would go to Milan to meet the train we all hoped Patty would take. Satisfied that we had successfully planned her journey and arrival time at Roma Termini, we started to arrange our couchette for the night ahead.

As the designated keeper of Patty’s abandoned rucksack, I had to dig through her bag to find the alarm clock we all depended on. In our little group, each of us played a certain role, and Patty’s absence was noticeable. She was our cheerful traveler, the one we lovingly called “Pollyanna Patty.” She was happy to sightsee through rain and wind, and willing to share whatever she had when one of us was in need.

It was heartbreaking to rummage past the canary-yellow jacket she brought so she wouldn’t get lost in a crowd, and I sadly held up her favorite Yankees cap for all to see. We started sharing our favorite memories about Patty, until Eileen, the realist of the group, piped in, “She’s not dead, for God’s sake, just lost. We’re going to see her in a few hours.”

This lightened the mood a little, but we all had trouble falling asleep, not knowing where Patty was sleeping.

The next morning we awoke to the beautiful sight of the Italian countryside, with green rolling hills and sweet little cream houses topped with terracotta tile roofs. The gorgeous scenery wasn’t enough to lift our spirits, though, because now our group was down to three—Stephanie and Deb had switched to the Milan train in the middle of the night. Eileen, Rachel and I pulled into Roma Termini around 9:30 a.m. and sat down at the snack bar to wait for the rest of our group to arrive.

Not an hour later, a smiling Patty emerged from the Milan train, followed by Stephanie and Deb. We were overjoyed. Our plan had worked! We were together again! We crowded around Patty, hugging and kissing her and asking her how she spent the horrible night. We couldn’t have been more surprised by her response. “I had the best time! Italians are the nicest people on earth!” she exclaimed, showing us a stash of cigarettes, candy, a magazine and numerous phone numbers she had received from sympathetic travelers.

“I’m just really tired because I didn’t get much sleep,” she said. “I spent most of the night talking to this hot guy named Francesco. We’re supposed to meet up tonight at the Trevi Fountain. Talk about romantic. Boy, do I love Italy!”

The five of us who had worried all night and all morning looked at each other in disbelief. Now each of us wished we were the “lucky” one who had gotten lost.

GLORIA FALLON is a travel and humor writer, and co-author of the humor book, I Hate This Place: The Pessimist’s Guide to Life. An anglophile since studying abroad in London during her junior year at Siena College in New York, Gloria frequently visits in-laws in England and France. Since their European vacation, Gloria and Patty have traveled together to Germany, Wales, Ireland and Iceland, and neither has gotten lost.