I Hate Italy...maybe

Time out from rapturous descriptions of Istanbul. I'll get back to that, but I thought I'd post my immediate reaction to arriving in Milano. Italy will probably redeem itself within a few hours, but I haven't gotten off to a great start. I wrote the following as I waited in the Milan Central train station to be rescued by Gauss's cousin, Costanza:

I am in Milano, and so far I hate it. Nothing seems to work, at least not for me.

I get off the plane and stop in the bathroom. There is a line, which is fortunate because it gives me time to study the chic-ly designed yet confounding door knobs on the stalls. These knobs must have had a reputation for foiling users, because a label is pasted above each, instructing patrons how to use them. The instructions are in Italian but I can read enough to figure them out. However, I see an Indian woman try four or five times, unsuccessfully, to latch the door to her stall before asking her daughter to hold it shut from the outside. 

When I emerge from the confusing bathroom, I look for information about the train to Cadorna, where I was supposed to meet Gauss's cousin, Costanza. There is a machine that sells tickets, but there appears to be no English language option and I cannot discern if the machine dispenses tickets to the correct station. I get my luggage and follow the signs to the train. Ah, there it is! A ticket counter.

I know enough Italian to ask for “un biglietto a Cadorna” and hand the guy my credit card. It works. I have my card and head down the ramp to the track. There is a train on the right, labeled “Milano Central.” I know that there are trains to both, but I don't know if it is the same train or two different ones. There is no map anywhere, and no information booth. I get on the train, then think better of it and get off. People whiz past, nobody seems to notice me. I follow a guy back onto the train and try my Italian. “Scusi?” I venture. He doesn't respond. Maybe, like me, he is from somewhere else and doesn't know anything. Another guy strides onto the train. He seems to know what he's doing.

“Questo treni va a Cadorna?” I ask.

“Si, si,” he says, nodding.

OK, I'll get on this one.

I watch the stations carefully—there are no maps on the train, either, like you see on the walls of the New York Subways or BART or the Istanbul Tram. The train stops at a platform but it is unlabeled and there is no announcement. I move to a different seat so that perhaps I can see the station names as they whiz by. I catch Busto Arsizio, Saronno and Garibaldi. Next we roll into Central. “Fini!” says the conductor. I point to the “Cadorna” on my ticket and he answers, “Metro, green.” Everybody piles out of the train, so I do, too.

I phone Costanza to tell her that I won't be there for awhile. I have to find the subway and buy a ticket. That should be easy. I've done it a hundred times in scores of different cities, including Milano a few years ago. “Can I just buy one with a credit card?” I ask. She tends to talk over me, and the train announcements are echoing in the cavernous station. I can't hear, and tell her I'll phone her back in a few minutes.

I walk toward the Metro and see a tobacco shop that advertises ATM and Metro tickets. Great! I also see a map, so I pick that up, put it on the counter, and ask for 5 biglietti di metro. She nods, but when I slide my credit card toward her, she shakes her head. No cards!

OK then, I'll use the machine. I find a machine that sells metro cards and push the button for English. The instructions are sketchy and rely on unlabeled pictures. The first option is basic subway ticket. OK, I'll buy 6 of them, three round trips, so I don't have to do it repeatedly. The machine says “insert card” and “follow the instructions on the green screen,” so I do both. My credit card is in there, and the screen tells me to remove it. So I do. Then I get a message ?376? and it starts all over again. Maybe my card is bad. Luckily I have three different credit cards with me, so I try another—same thing—and another. I guess this isn't going to work.

Well, if I can just find an ATM, I'll get some cash, but I see that in the Milano metro, “ATM” seems to mean a multi-ride ticket on the subway, not a cash machine. And I can't find a cash machine anywhere in the Metro or the Train station. I phone Costanza again. This time she tells me to find a bookstore called “Sentrinelli” or at least that's what it sounds like to me over the cell phone with her Italian accent in the noisy station. She's about a half hour away, so I have some time to find it. Hey!! Here it is. But it's not “Sentrinelli”, it's “Feltrinelli.”

I'm staying put. Stay tuned for more.

Update: Costanza finally found me. We discovered that all three of my credit and debit cards are missing an electronic chip that European ATMs and credit card kiosks require in order to function, so I am tethered to human beings to get cash, buy tickets, etc. Also, I was right, that ATM in Milano refers to the transit system so I can't assume that an ATM window is a place where I can get cash. This morning I will visit a bank with her so that I can get some cash.

Like the Turks, Italians don't seem to believe in window screens so last night the mosquitos feasted on me. I this morning I am itching in new places. This too shall pass...this too shall pass.