Only in Italy do the train doors not open upon arrival at the platform. Only in Italy do you need an instruction manual to get from point A to point B. Only in Italy can I be so scared of a train… shall I say scared… yup, scared just about covers it. 

In order to get from point A, Latina, to point B, Buonconvento, I had to take two trains, there was no direct train. For the love of God, not only did I have to get on a train in a foreign country with a language barrier by myself, I had to get off one and get on another. 

Okay, I am a grown-ass woman of a certain age, who worked in a prison, surely I can do this. One would think, unless of course, well… you are me. 

Thankfully my cousin Judit understood my fear and helped prepare me for the journey. She got the schedule, sent a picture of it to my phone, explained exactly what I needed to do, and physically put me on the train, in the best car, for the best departure strategy. Did I mention I had luggage with me on this adventure. Not only did I have to take the train and switch trains, I had to do it with luggage. Are you getting a visual yet?

All proud of myself for taking on the task, for going way out of my comfort zones (I have more than one zone) and getting on the train I relaxed a tad while I traveled on train number one. It was the same confidence I had while rollerblading back in the day. You know the point when you think you are the most amazing rollerblader that ever lived, you are blading so well you think it’s time to add in a few dance moves while speeding down the pavement with no real way to stop… so you do… and you lose your balance and can’t auto correct and end up in the bushes? Yup that kind of confidence.

As the train went along I was paying attention and noticed it was not following the time line I needed in order to make the connecting train. It was 2 minutes late arriving at one stop, then 4 minutes late at another until we were 8 minutes late when I only had 10 minutes to spare. This gave me 2 minutes between arriving and getting on the next train… not ideal. 

I guess in Italy the train schedule is really just a suggestion. 

As the train was ‘roller blading’ along I am now slightly nervous but still hopeful, paying attention to the stops so I won’t be caught by surprise when it was time for my departure. 

A few stops before mine the train car I was riding emptied out, odd I thought, but a few stops later it filled with a bunch of teenage kids. Not that it matters who else is riding the train with me but it is important for what was about to happen.

My stop was next so I take my self and my big ass bags and wait by the door to exit. 

The train pulls onto the platform, stops and I wait… hmmm… the door is not opening… hmmm… why is the door not opening…. How do I open the door? I begin looking for anything, something that would open the door.  No button to be found so I assume I need to use the huge red handle in front of me. I try to move it left, I try to move it right, it is not moving at all. I am now in full blown panic mode, I need to get off this train and quick. The only way I had not tried to move the handle was up… ok… maybe in Italy the handle needs to be pushed up. With all my super hero strength I push the handle up, and up, and up and off the door completely. Yes, the entire handle came off the door, metal plate, four screws, the whole thing, I am now standing at a door that won’t open with the only handle that could have opened it in my hand. Completely panicked I dropped the damn thing and ran through the car full of teenagers like a crazy woman wheeling my big ass bag behind me.

The next set of doors to exit this damn train were not open either and now the train starts to move. Maybe the Italian teens can help, I know they all speak English, the learn it in school… I know this for a fact… so I stick my head back into the car and start loudly asking (ok, I was technically screaming) how do I get off the train? I need to get off the train? How do I open the doors? To which I got blank stares from the group of teens who now tell me they don’t understand English. By this time the train is moving to the next destination, they don’t understand me, I don’t speak Italian and I have no idea what to do next. Through the help of Google translate we communicate enough for them to tell me I can’t get off the train. No shit, really, like I didn’t figure that out once the train pulled away from the platform. 

What happens next is a flurry of panicked texts and phone calls to my cousin Judit and my sister Sheryl, who happened to be in the U.S. during this adventure. Sheryl was the train travel guru while we were traveling together in Italy and knowing my inability to deal with trains in general, she was following along by phone and text to make sure all was well. 

All was not well, not well at all.