Night Train

When Mom and I began to feel pressed for time to see everything we'd hoped to see while in Italy, we decided to save valuable time by traveling at night.  When I proposed the idea to my mother, she jumped on it, "You are so smart!" 

I shook my head, marveling at how adventurous she'd become in the few days we'd been traveling together.  This woman laughed in the face of her artificial knee, arthritic pain, and advanced age.   She was up for anything.  Who was she, and what had she done with my mother?

We packed a bag, and headed for the train station, catching the eleven o'clock sleeper from Rome to Venice.  We understood our cabin to be women-only, but found a young man sitting in the corner of a lower bunk, looking more than a little high.  I asked him about the seating, and if I could see his ticket- to which he responded, "No ticket" and made a laying low gesture with one trembling hand.  Oh my.

A college aged young woman joined us, and began questioning him in Italian.   She met our eyes, mirroring our dismay.  The conductor showed up minutes later, read the boy the riot act, and showed him the door.  We all sighed audibly with relief, and began making up our bunks.

  I watched as our cabin mate made up her bed, and decided she was the most fabulously tattooed female I'd ever seen.  She had small tattoos on her shoulder, ankles, and a delicate one behind one ear.  Dainty flowers and vines danced across her collarbones, forming a necklace of vibrant ink.  In my opinion, it is difficult to make tattoos on women look lovely, and she had succeeded magnificently.

This girl was the picture of nearly every young woman I'd seen in Rome- pretty face, enviable figure, and gorgeous dark hair twisted into a casual ponytail. The only flaw I could see was one slighted twisted tooth which I imagine her boyfriend found to be her best feature, as it made her smile like no one else's.

As the train got moving, I struck up a conversation with her, discovering she had just finished her studies of architecture and design.  Discreetly, I tucked my sketchbook back in my bag.  Yeah, don't think I'll be drawing right now.  I know I'm not very good, and I'm okay with it most of the time, but I didn't want to look like a fool in front of someone who was probably sickly talented.

Instead, I pulled out Cory's picture and passed it to her, sharing the story and the blog address.  It seemed the more people I met, the easier it became to talk to strangers and bring Cory alive to them.  At the close of our conversation, I took out my journal, and began writing for the blog longhand.  Eventually, I curled into a ball with my back against the wall, and dozed off.  I'd heard people saying they couldn't possibly sleep on a train, but that was not my experience.  I found the constant motion and white noise to be soothing, and crawled into sleep like I was entering a grouping of soft, fluffy clouds.

Occasionally, the train stopped to pick up more passengers.  I would shift position, and go right back to sleep as soon as it took off again.  In a couple hours, the train stopped, and our fourth and final cabin mate was shown to her bunk.  Sleepily, I sat up in the dark, watching as a middle aged Italian woman threw her bag down, stepping into the conductor's personal space, and speaking into his face passionately, stringing together what I assume were disparaging curses in gorgeous, fluid Italian.

I'm not sure what she wanted, our new cabin resident, but whatever it was, she didn't get it.  Frustrated, she threw her hands up in supplication, and pulled the sliding compartment door shut in the man's face.  Being an anxious type, I waited to see what would happen next.  She had me on high alert.

The woman tossed her long, wavy dark hair over one shoulder, and began making up her bunk, while muttering under her breath.  Satisfied, she tossed a pillow at the head of the punk, and proceeded to whip off her pants.

 Hey, I'm no one to judge.  Some of us are simply more comfortable with nudity or semi-nudity than others.  At home, I run around naked all the time, which delights my husband to no end, but renders my son unable to raise his eyes from the ground for a small portion of each day.  However, in public, even a group dressing room, it's a different story.  I am instantly back in seventh grade, figuring out how to swap garments without exposing flesh.

Not my new friend.  She shimmied out of her jeans, exposing some sort of hybrid-  thong and Brazilian cut panties.  Okay, then.   Good for her, she was confident.  Yeah, that was all well and good, until she laid down and began tossing and turning, shoving one long bronzed leg or another out of the blanket, finally giving up on the blanket altogether, and kicking it to the bottom of the bunk.  She may have been a restless sleeper; she may have been a gymnast.  All I know is she contorted herself into a variety of positions, revealing that she did not currently employ any type of grooming downstairs.  How do you say Too Much Information in Italian?

She was exactly what I had always imagined Italian women to be in my mind:  spirited, open, passionate, and comfortable with herself.  She was also a little grumpy, starting a blanket flapping match with her bunkmate.  The young girl in the upper bunk listened to music and texted her boyfriend, not paying the slightest attention when her blanket dipped down into the air in front of her neighbor.  I watched Lower Bunk Woman as she repeatedly grabbed the hem- which was not even touching her, only filling her eyesight- and threw it up onto the upper bunk.  In seconds, it would fall back down, and she would give an exasperated sigh, and throw it up again.  Finally, fed up, she left her bunk, putting her scantily thonged bottom directly in my mother's face as she thrust a handful of blanket at the young girl, while speaking to her in irritated and lightning fast Italian.

I watched gratefully as she put herself back under cover, and smiled as the young girl met my gaze and shrugged, What in the heck is her problem?  Isn't it fascinating how body language is universal in most cases?

I slept the rest of the train ride away, until we were almost at our stop.  As we rolled closer to our destination, Lower Bunk Woman addressed me in English with a strong accent, asking if I had been to Venice before.  I told her no, and asked her if it was beautiful.

She propped herself up one elbow under her blanket, and talked to me while pulling her hair into a messy ponytail.  "Yes, it is beautiful.  Venice is..." she paused here, perhaps searching for the best word in English.  "Venice is magical."

At my smile, she continued, "But July is the wrong time; it is better in winter."

I responded, "I came in July because of my daughter." and told her the story.  When I passed Cory's picture across the narrow aisle to her, she became what I already  recognized as uncharacteristically silent.  She studied the picture, looking to my face, to the picture, and back again.  "She looks like you."

"Thank you."  I said, feeling my heart being squeezed.

"Tell me you don't blame yourself."  she demanded.

"Well, I'm working on that."  I said honestly.

"You cannot blame yourself.  Don't do it, Nicole"  (spoken Knee-Cole).  "You must not.  I know I say to you what I say to myself over and over and over again..." she tapped a fist to her temple for emphasis, before describing the loss of her husband over ten years ago.

"You fight it.  You fight it every day.  It was her time."  she said, her dark eyes capturing and holding mine.

She waited for my agreement, which at that point, I could simply not give.  Instead, I held my picture necklace up with tented fingers to show her.  "I carry her with me everywhere I go."

She flapped a dismissive hand at me.  "You don't need things to carry her.  She is with you."  She took her long, elegant fingers and drew them passionately to her chest, "She is inside.  Always."
She went back to studying Cory's picture, before looking up to say, "What you are doing...this trip...you are very brave."

I shook my head, "I'm not.  Not really."

"You are.  And she is with you every step of this journey.  Do you believe that?"

At that question, I broke, tears streaming, as I nodded my unspoken assent.

At that moment, our stop was called.  I reached and took Lower Bunk Woman's hand.  She pulled me in, and kissed me once on each cheek.  As I pulled away, I saw she had been crying as well.

She knew what it felt like to lose someone and blame yourself.  She'd been riding that particular train for over a decade, and it obviously broke her heart to see someone else just getting aboard.

Wherever she is today- Lower Bunk Woman of the sleeper train from Rome to Venice- I hope she knows how much it meant to me to hear her say she thought I was brave. 

When you hear something often enough, you begin to believe it.