Inside the Bologna airport, the flood of Italian voices sounds foreign to my foreign ears. A placard at the information desk advertises a bus schedule and it takes a moment to realize 14:00 means 2:00. I check my watch - 1:45. The bus to Florence would be arriving in 15 minutes, and the woman working explains in broken English the bus would arrive out the door on the curb.
I grab a bottle of water from an airport cafe, feeling grateful the short request is within my 10-word Italian vocabulary. As I make the exchange with the woman behind the counter, she returns my bright smile with a cloudy look. Had I irritated her? I stride toward the glass doors and forget everything as a bus speeds past. My heart skips - Could that have been mine?
On the crowded curb, I am welcomed by a thick haze of smoke billowing from too many mouths to count. Where was the designated area? I see a bus with people clustering around it. I try asking a woman next to me if this is the bus to the Florence station, but we had too few words in common. I ask a man, who looks confused, but then nods, assuring me that this bus goes to the station. But the vehicle was dirty and impossibly crowded inside. Could Italians stand with their face in a stranger’s armpit for an hour and a half?
Unconvinced, I rush the opposite direction, although there is no bus in sight. It is 5 after 2:00 now, and I feel my panic start to rise. I stop another man who is more patient with my tragic Italian. He confidently points me around the corner, and as I turn it, see a coach labeled “Firenze.” I melt into my seat, weak with relief.
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