Italia

The stewardess greets us in Italian, though we are still on Spanish tarmac. I stop whatever it is Im doing to give her voice my undivided attention. This generic “Welcome to EasyJet, blah blah blah” airplane greeting is the most beautiful thing Ive heard in my life. “Music”, I think. I understand nothing, but for 30 seconds I am captivated by the lilt in her voice and the way her words flow together seamlessly. Her message in English has the same waves of up and down. With the accent, it sounds so similar to Italian (tho not as pretty) that I cant understand a word here either.

Its to be a short flight to Milano, about an hour and a half, and I hope to sleep thru it. I also hope that everybody remembers its early in the morning and keeps quiet. I didnt get much sleep last night and Im not in the mood.

“I haven’t seen any kids or babies yet,” Mo says

“No, I was referring to the adults. They never know how to shut up”

I start reading my book while we taxi. The Spanish couple sitting behind me, who also happen to be the ones who felt it was their right to cut in line at the gate, are talking. A lot. Actually, the man is babbling like words are gonna go out of style in an hour, and the woman can hardly get a word in. “Oh, God, shut it,” I say in my head. I consider turning around and shooting daggers with my eyes. Within 15 minutes, tho, I am in a fairly deep sleep and the annoying chatter behind me falls away…

An hour later, the same incessant chatter wakes me up, of course. I give up on sleep and wait to land.

* * *

On the bus that takes us across the tarmac, I get to see close-up what Italian women look like. Mo had told me to expect a lot of lip augmentations and fake tans.

“So they all look like Donatella Versace.”

“Basically.”

Man, she wasn’t kidding. I see some specimens that scare me. I observe one lady close up on the bus; her skin is pulled so taut from one or 3 face lifts that it looks like its about to crack. Her fake baking results in leather skin, and whatever make-up she decided to use that morning gives her an extra shiny sheen. Im assuming she was going for glamour, but instead, I find something oh-so-sad and unnatural about her face.

Wrinkles are really not a bad thing. Especially when the alternative is this.

* * *

2 buses, 2 hours and 8.50€ later, we are finally at our destination. This is one of those places that cant decide if it’s a hotel or hostel. We share the room w/ a stranger so it’s a hostel in that respect. But I am delighted to announce to Mo the next day that “This is like a real hotel! They made our beds and everything!”

We are checked in by a short, little red-headed man with some hardcore body odor. He is nice enough, tho he seems a little strange. I detect an Arabic accent in his English, but I debate whether I want to divulge that I grew up in Syria and speak Arabic. I have found that sometimes this has the opposite effect of what Id like, and the person in front of me becomes annoying and thinks they can take certain liberties with me that they would never dream of taking with a straight-up American. So I don’t say anything while he checks us in and helps us up to our room with the bags. He goes back downstairs to check someone else in, a Finnish girl we met on the street who looked equally as lost as we were, and was looking for the same place.

“I bet you he’s Arabic,” I tell Mo.

Five minutes later he brings Finnish Girl up to the room and disappears. We start settling in, leaving the door open. He pops back in and leans against the table by the door, arms crossed; very casual and at-home. I don’t like it. I consider again that he seems a little strange. Mo tells me later he looks like the kinda guy that would sniff our underwear while we’re away, and I cant shake the idea.

He starts telling us about Milan and what we should do and see, so on and so forth. We ask him what his name is.

“Ahmad”

Monet and I look at each other and laugh.

“I told you,” I say in her direction.

Over the next few days, we learn that Ahmad from Beirut has lived in Milan for 5 years. He owns this hostel/hotel with a friend of his who owns another hostel/hotel a few blocks away. He seems to be doing well for himself, which is commendable. I always feel pride for any immigrant who can go to another country, learn a new language and a new culture, and make something of themselves. The feeling that he is a little strange lingers here and there, and I just know that one day we are gonna return to our room to see him kneeling over our luggage, our panties at his nose. I stay cautious and make sure to lock the door when we’re in the room, etc. But all is fine and he is actually a very nice guy. On Friday night we decide, last minute, that we want to stay another day, and tho the hotel is booked, he shifts people around so that we can have a bed to sleep in. The body odor lessens day after day, too, which doesn’t hurt.

* * *


We go to get some nasty lunch. It seems to be normal in Italy to have pre-made food sitting on a shelf that a customer points to, which is then popped into a microwave, and served to said customer. Not exactly my idea of good Italian food. We eat our chicken sandwiches, the least nasty option on the shelf at an Asian restaurant, and go back to the hotel for a nap. The beds are blissfully comfortable and huge in comparison to the crap twin-size mattresses we’ve been sleeping on for the past month. Theres even 2 pillows, a true luxury! Next thing we know, its 830pm and Finnish Girl is coming back from a long day of sightseeing. Pointless to wake up now, I concede, and go back to sleep. I decide we’ll just have to make Day 2 in Milan our official Day 1.