The Honest Truth

I noticed him in line behind me. Atleast I think it was my line. The bus stations in Italy are zoos. For this reason they have “fast ticket” machines which can usually be identified, if not for the bright yellow colour, by someone swearing or pounding their fist on the screen.

The man looks middle-aged with balding hair wearing a green golf shirt. The only thing that makes him stand out is he doesn’t have any baggage. A local in this sea of tourists.

The guy at the machine with the towel slung over his shoulder is having problems. Maybe he pressed the wrong language button, maybe his credit card isn’t accepted. He’s looking confusedly at the screen, then to his buddies who are equally confused. They’re holding up the line.

The ordinary looking man scurries over to the group of boys. He asks them a few questions in english with an Italian accent, and swiftly presses a few buttons. The tickets pop out and the boys set off for their day at the beach. The man scurries back to his place behind me.

I walk up next, determined to conquer the machine. Cockily, I select Italian as the language. Afterall, I AM half Italian. I select my destination, Lago Como (where George Clooney has a house, by the by). From Milan, where I am, it’s about a half hour bus ride, and what my “Europe on a Budget” book calls a “delightful day trip.”

Promptly the machine freezes, and I stare dumbly at the screen. I press a few buttons and feel the heat of a million antsy travelers’ eyes on my back. The ordinary man scurries up to me. I start to think maybe this is his job, but he’s not wearing a uniform.

“Dove vai?” he asks me and I tell him.

With the same ease as before he presses a few of the touchscreen buttons and tells me my train is full. I sigh dissapointedly but truth is, I’m on vacation, and the only difference of an hour is less time for a Clooney spotting.

“We can try something else,” he says, with the deligence of one of those rare helpful customer service people. A few other quick movements of his finger and we’re at the alternative routes section. There’s another train, but problem is, it leaves in 3 minutes.

“Can I make it?” I ask him vulnerably, as if he holds all the answers.

He’s already pressed okay. “Yes, but you have to run,” he says. I put my five euros in the machine and grab the ticket. “Gate seven,” he tells me. “No,” he says, looking at a screen on the wall with all the listings. “Gate eight.”

“Thank you,” I tell him exasterbated, slinging my bag over my back. As I’m about to charge up the steps he stops me.

“Change for coffee?” he asks, politely. I give him the leftover change I’m holding from the ticket.

Frantically running to the train, I think for a second I might’ve been gyped. How do I know this train’s at gate 8? How is he so sure I’ll make it? Was this an elaborate way of panhandling? Did I possibly waste four euros and the chance to see George Clooney? Now that I think of it, he did look a little down and out.

When I arrive at gate eight, I don’t recognize the final destination on the screen. I run on anyway, and sit down beside a couple.

“Vado a Como?” I ask, catching my breath.

“Si,” the man replies. “Noi andiamo la anche.”

It was the best euro I’d spent so far.