and letters flickered past like a giant slot machine. She rolled her luggage out the front entrance and followed signs to the Autobus, which would take her to the train station.
I am in Italy, she kept telling herself. This is an Italian expressway. This is an Italian billboard. We are passing Italians on their way to work. Everything felt novel.
Fifty minutes later she had arrived at the train station. Despite Italy’s consideration for the tourist trade, the station was confusing. On a website Sara had learned of pickpockets who preyed on befuddled tourists. At that moment she felt like the epitome of befuddlement.
Sara stood in a long line and bought a fare to Florence at the ticket counter from a helpful young man who spoke English. A loudspeaker constantly announced arrivals and departures in a language she couldn’t understand. It took several seconds to decipher the track number from the electronic schedule and then Sara walked up the two flights of stairs to get to the tracks.
The family from the plane was ahead of her, the girl’s hand securely in the hand of her mother. Sara felt like a child, too, at that moment. Someone who needed a hand to hold onto in such unfamiliar territory. She quickened her pace to catch up with them.
“Excuse me,” Sara said to the father. “Are you going to Florence?”
“Yes, Firenze,” he said.
“I am, too,” Sara said, her excitement revealing her nervousness.
The crowd carried them along as they spoke.
“Have you been to Florence before?” the mother asked.
For the first time Sara noticed how young she was. Maybe just a little older than Jess.
“No, I haven’t,” Sara said. “It’s my first trip to Europe.”
“Oh, you’ll love it,” the father said. “This is Elizabeth’s first trip abroad, too.” He put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. She smiled at him. The man’s hair was gray at the temples. He looked old enough to have grown children himself. Was this his second family? Sara wondered if Grady would get married again and start another family if Sara were out of the picture.
“Be sure and stamp your ticket,” the man said to her.
Sara followed his lead and stamped her train ticket in the yellow box beside the tracks. They approached the train and she lifted her luggage up the steps. She had packed and repacked the bag to weigh less than 20 pounds as the websites suggested, but it was still heavy. The exertion triggered a twinge of tenderness underneath her blouse, stretching the scar that remained. In her excitement she had almost forgotten the cancer that had decided to return for a second act. But she challenged herself to put that aside for now and enjoy herself.
The family found their seats in the first section as Sara found her seat further back. The conductor made his way down the aisle. When he reached Sara he smiled, winked and validated her ticket without taking his eyes from hers. Were the stereotypes true? Sara wondered. She smiled and looked away.
The train traveled through the industrial section of Milan before entering the flat, Italian countryside. Buildings were the color of the land, made with stone. Terra-cotta roofs and balconies graced every apartment building. Farmhouses in the distance rested amidst green and brown patchwork squares of land, tilled for centuries.
They stopped in small towns where more people boarded and others departed. Sara took it all in, trying to imagine what it would be like to live there and ride the train to work or school. With every stop Sara was aware of getting closer to Julia.
Three hours later she arrived at the train station in Florence with luggage and jet lag in tow, she walked through the ornate train station out into the streets of Florence. Sara stopped and stood in the middle of the square taking in the ancient city around her. “I made it,” she said to herself. She smiled. In a rare moment, she felt proud of herself. She stood tall and breathed in the Italian air. Pigeons
I am in Italy, she kept telling herself. This is an Italian expressway. This is an Italian billboard. We are passing Italians on their way to work. Everything felt novel.
Fifty minutes later she had arrived at the train station. Despite Italy’s consideration for the tourist trade, the station was confusing. On a website Sara had learned of pickpockets who preyed on befuddled tourists. At that moment she felt like the epitome of befuddlement.
Sara stood in a long line and bought a fare to Florence at the ticket counter from a helpful young man who spoke English. A loudspeaker constantly announced arrivals and departures in a language she couldn’t understand. It took several seconds to decipher the track number from the electronic schedule and then Sara walked up the two flights of stairs to get to the tracks.
The family from the plane was ahead of her, the girl’s hand securely in the hand of her mother. Sara felt like a child, too, at that moment. Someone who needed a hand to hold onto in such unfamiliar territory. She quickened her pace to catch up with them.
“Excuse me,” Sara said to the father. “Are you going to Florence?”
“Yes, Firenze,” he said.
“I am, too,” Sara said, her excitement revealing her nervousness.
The crowd carried them along as they spoke.
“Have you been to Florence before?” the mother asked.
For the first time Sara noticed how young she was. Maybe just a little older than Jess.
“No, I haven’t,” Sara said. “It’s my first trip to Europe.”
“Oh, you’ll love it,” the father said. “This is Elizabeth’s first trip abroad, too.” He put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. She smiled at him. The man’s hair was gray at the temples. He looked old enough to have grown children himself. Was this his second family? Sara wondered if Grady would get married again and start another family if Sara were out of the picture.
“Be sure and stamp your ticket,” the man said to her.
Sara followed his lead and stamped her train ticket in the yellow box beside the tracks. They approached the train and she lifted her luggage up the steps. She had packed and repacked the bag to weigh less than 20 pounds as the websites suggested, but it was still heavy. The exertion triggered a twinge of tenderness underneath her blouse, stretching the scar that remained. In her excitement she had almost forgotten the cancer that had decided to return for a second act. But she challenged herself to put that aside for now and enjoy herself.
The family found their seats in the first section as Sara found her seat further back. The conductor made his way down the aisle. When he reached Sara he smiled, winked and validated her ticket without taking his eyes from hers. Were the stereotypes true? Sara wondered. She smiled and looked away.
The train traveled through the industrial section of Milan before entering the flat, Italian countryside. Buildings were the color of the land, made with stone. Terra-cotta roofs and balconies graced every apartment building. Farmhouses in the distance rested amidst green and brown patchwork squares of land, tilled for centuries.
They stopped in small towns where more people boarded and others departed. Sara took it all in, trying to imagine what it would be like to live there and ride the train to work or school. With every stop Sara was aware of getting closer to Julia.
Three hours later she arrived at the train station in Florence with luggage and jet lag in tow, she walked through the ornate train station out into the streets of Florence. Sara stopped and stood in the middle of the square taking in the ancient city around her. “I made it,” she said to herself. She smiled. In a rare moment, she felt proud of herself. She stood tall and breathed in the Italian air. Pigeons
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