Oooh whee, where am I?  More importantly, where was I? Italy After my huge crush on Paris, it was time to move onto Italy.  I took an early morning train that zipped me across France into Milano, at the dead of night. I booked myself into a bare bones hostel to grab shut-eye.  There ain’t much to say about this one, it was literally a boarding school style, beds ganged up against each other. The only thing of note when you disembark a train at 10 pm in Milano was the use of benches at the platforms. Round, and I mean, the kind of men who eat pasta three times a day, used these benches as a space to lay out and sleep. I saw several scattered across the platforms, happily snoring away, their shirts hiked up to reveal a jiggling belly. Not exactly what I wanted to see at that time of night. I got to my hostel, and literally passed out into my assigned bed.  Then woke at 6:30, opening my eyes to another large, Italian man beside me, chest heaving, whistling away like a freighter train in a hurry. I couldn’t get away from them! A consolation prize was trying my first Italian cappuccino at the Milano train station before departing. My coffee palate will never be the same again.  I am ruined. Forever. Next up: Verona. Why Verona, you may ask? Shakespeare says it best. In Verona, I treated myself to ricotta and spinach pasta with a house, white wine.  Was deelish. Seems this train trip is centered on food.