Da Vero

I had my first conversation in Italian in the Milano Centrale train station.



Our late TGV from Paris caused us to miss our connection, and I stood under the board watching for the platform number for an inter-city train to post. I leaned on the gift shop's bullet-proof glass--it has revolving windows for payment for plastic cathedrals--and an older lady complained. I caught something like "manque del banco" and made my best guess, which was that they needed benches here. Thousands of people moving in every direction here, and not a seat anywhere--this had to be it. But how to respond, other than the mute nod, which is too timid. Long pause. "Da vero." I think that I remember that this means it's true. Then I try, "dové va?"--where are you going. She names a town, and I cannot tell what town it is, but I knowit is not one of the big ones near us, so it is probably a small one.

Pause. "Lei inglese?" "Si, inglese. United States."

Pause. "é a vaccance?" "Si, vaccance." Long pause, then I think: I can ask, is she Itailan? Not a hard question, and it keeps our little conversation going. "Lei italiana?" She thinks I am pretty funny now--she is so obviously Italian, at least to herself. To me, she is beige. She is wearing a beige sweater and skirt and shoes, her glasses are slightly deeper beige, and her hair has a blond beige tint. And quiet, and tired. She seems very sweet.

"Dové va?"
"Venezia."
"Ah, Venezia! Bella città!"

Then the pause is pretty long, and looks as if it might tun uncomfortable. I turn toward Dan--he's contemplating the plastic cathedrals. And I wander off after a minute to have a question answered about whether I need a reserved seat for this next train, since it is not a TGV.

Then, I'm back waiting under the board, between my fellow traveler and Dan. Her platform has just come up, and she starts to leave. But she turns back to me, smiling and animated, speaking quickly and with energy: I catch: "Bella Venezia. . . va . . . Murano per . . . vietri; Burano per le pizze." There are a lot of little words I don't catch, but they don't seem important. I repeat back to her, "Murano, vietri, Burano, pizze!"

"buon viaggi, buon vaccance, buon viaggi!" She takes both my hands. It's really a tender moment for us both.

"Arrivederci, buon viaggi!"

And her lovely welcome carried us through two hours of standing on the train. We only found seats after the stop for Verona. In the meantime, I chatted (in English) with a businessman operating men's underwear shops. It was Friday afternoon, and Venice is a weekend spot. But we arrived happy nonetheless.