Oooh whee, where am I? More importantly, where was I?
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.