A Lonely Night in Milan

While studying abroad in London, I arranged a trip for fall break to Rome, Bergamo, Milan and Paris.
Everything was going so well until it was time to go to France! I loved Rome so much, and really want to go back. Milan didn’t move me much but there was a cathedral that was so beautiful. I’m a sucker for beautiful churches. I mean, it was more gawjus than the National Cathedral.

But the problem happened when me and the girl I was traveling with had plane tickets for different times. Mine was for 6 am and hers was for sometime in the afternoon. So she recommended that I not go to my flight (since it was so early and it would be really difficult to get a cab) and just go to hers and ask them to let me on. At the time, this made sense. In retrospect, it was the stupidest thing.
They didn't let me on. So then the next best option was to buy a train ticket for that night. But like the Einstein I am, I once again listened to someone else who had no stake in me getting to Paris. My ticket was marked 22:58 but the sign on the wall said the train was coming at 23:58. I asked the station manager which one was right and he said the sign was and my ticket may have been misprinted.
I decide to walk across the street to this hotel and wait in there. I go back 45 minutes before my train was supposed to leave which ended up being 15 minutes after it actually had.
So then I just started crying. because what else do you do when you’re in a country where you don’t speak the language, by yourself and have no way of getting where you need to go?
These two Italian guys who spoke more English than anyone else had been willing to speak to us for the entire trip, were just like “don’t cry, stop crying, please.” They helped me get to Milano Centrale. There was no train going anywhere until 6 am. So I spent the night in the Milan train station, which is about as glamorous as it sounds: cops harassing homeless people, runaway teenagers and the glorious smell of piss.

I was under dressed But after a couple hours this guy comes up to me, offers me a jacket and says, “my sister…do you speak French?” I’m like “no” but I ask him where he’s from and it turns out he’s Senegalese, which was wonderful. He lent me a jacket and we spoke in Wolof (our only mutual language, how often does that happen?) about Senegal for the greater part of the early morning which was much nicer than sitting by myself.

The next morning I caught a plan to Paris! The roughest times make the best stories!