The Sky’s Falling, I’m Not Surprised. (part 3)

This is the third chapter in our ridiculous story.

The flight was actually largely uneventful and I even slept most of the time. I had an incomplete idea of how we were to get to where we wanted to go. We were flying into Milan airport and then we were going to take the supposedly one hour train ride to Torino. That is really as far as I had been able to plan it out. The flight only lasted an hour so our spirits were high as we exited the plan and entered the airport. Naturally, I assumed this was THE Milan airport, however, my suspicions were raised when I kept on seeing Bergamo on all of the signs. I had to be sure so we found an information desk. I asked the women if this was in fact Milan. Our course, she answered NO. We were in Bergamo which is about and fifty minutes from Milan. So defeated and yet not surprised. Of course Ryan Air would land us in the furthest most airport still legally allowed to be called Milan. We purchased bus tickets which would deliver us to the famous Milano Centrale train station where we could hop a train to Torino. If that sounds far away from our final destination it was. More than you can know.

From the window of the double-decker bus which speedily carried us along the Italian super highway, I noticed that northern Italy was much different than were I lived. The hills and fields of Viterbo were replaced with sprawling factors and snow capped peaks. Smog hung thick over the entirety of the region. Vagabonds and slums were prevalent. If this was Milan I was not impressed. We finally arrived at the train station and it actually lived up to its reputation. The structure was enormous and very ornately decorated. I am sure at any other point in time I would have been far more appreciative of the spectacle; however, I was tired, hungry, and frustrated. I cared only about delivering our little band safely to our hotel in Torino. We bought our tickets and waited about forty-five minutes for our train to arrive. Once were on the train we were made aware that the duration was in fact two hours instead of the one hour we were lead to believe. Time was compounding on itself. I felt like I was in a time warp stupor. Little did I know the truly mind-boggling was still yet to come.

The train was slow and made frequent stops. Darkness had descended and promised to make our already obscure path even harder. I did not know where the hotel was located nor by what means of transportation we could reach it. We had hurriedly scribbled down the contact info that morning so I figured I would just call for directions. How naïve I still was. Nothing on this trip could be so simple. The Torino train station was right in the middle of the city so I figured we must be centrally located to our hotel. Once there I tried to call the number on our scrap piece of paper. No dice. I tried every way possible and was only met with an Italian operator likely informing me that I was to dumb to know how to use a telephone. I was really stumped this time. It was past 7:00 pm all the information booths were closed by this point. With nowhere else to turn we made for the closet familiar face we knew: the Best Western Hotel across the street.

I felt foolish and more than a little touristy, but my options were extremely limited and the people behind the counter seemed to have kind faces, so I crept over and sheepishly lifted the tattered piece of paper into the women’s view. At first she just looked confused as if the scratches were from another planet. Ellie’s handwriting is pretty bad, so I deciphered the message to which she said, “Candiolo? Why would you ever want to stay there? That is very far outside the city.” I crumbled head, over hands onto the counter and wept. Ok not really but I felt destroyed inside. All I wanted was for our little band to reach our Torino hotel safe and sound. That did not appear to be happening anytime soon. The woman pulled her colleague over and explained our situation to him. He spoke extremely good English, definitely a relief. Mr. Nice English speaking hotel man plainly stated that the sole purpose anyone frequented this town, Candiolo, was for its renowned prostitution ring. Nigerian prostitutes to be specific. Yes, he was serious and I was laughing, hysterically. It was one of those chuckles that is somewhere between laughing and crying as if the emotion can’t make up its mind so your body just gives up whatever comes first. Thankfully, it was just a few giggles and genuine ones at that. I was ready to pull my hair out. The nice man said he would find a valid number for us and get us directions to the hotel. Of course I was thinking should we really go to this hooker hotel in the middle of nowhere? But we had already made the reservation and they had our credit card number. We would be charged either way so I determined this last leg of our journey was a necessary one. The hotel man explained that a bus would stop at the top of the street and could take us very close to our hotel. He clarified how we were to go about purchasing the needed tickets and then all we had to do was wait. Oh, wait we did.