“Vorrei una Vino!” the old man said, after telling me his story.
Italians have a similar quirk to Malaysians in the way they speak. They somehow need to add an ‘ah’ to a word whereas a Malaysian won’t finish a sentence without a ‘lah’.
“Ok lah, can lah, come lah,” was how I was persuaded by him to write this story.
The old man had turned his grey mop on his head to almost white in a matter of two days since leaving Milan. The night before, he ordered a tagliatelle in Bellagio which he considered to be the best pasta he had ever had.
“It’s-ah best-ah,” the short waitress with very short blonde hair said.
“There’s-ah white-ah truffle-ah with-ah lots of-ah cheese-ah,” she struggled in a language foreign to her.
“Mi dispiace,” she said in her sweet voice.
“My-ah English-ah is bad-ah,” she apologised.
The old man and his travelling companions were in Bellagio only because they had decided Egypt was too risky to be visiting whilst the war raged between Israel and the Palestinian civilians in Gaza. He had not considered that travelling to a town of three thousand would pose any risk to them. One’s imagination seldom matches reality. Had they gone to visit the Grand Pyramids, they would be sailing on the Nile telling one another Agatha Christie stories.
In Milano, Zegna, Prada and Versace weren’t suitable stores to step into. He couldn’t imagine himself wearing a haute couture coat, such garments only look great and make you feel great, but only if parading oneself pretending to belong to high society mattered. He would rather boogie in Boggi or goose around in Canada Goose or in a Liu-Jo. He knew the difference between being rich and being wealthy.
“You’re rich when you can buy almost anything but you’re wealthy when you can buy anything without having to sell your time,” he said.
At 65, he still had to work even while officially on holiday and working is of course, selling one’s time. When his travelling companions were in bed in the wee hours of the night, he would be hunched at the dining table selling time, always consciously avoiding making bodily noises in case those sleeping weren’t asleep. He found it extremely uncomfortable that he couldn’t just cough to clear his throat or release the pent-up air in his bloating stomach casually or put the kettle on or simply hum a stubborn tune that kept playing in his head.
The Trenord Express from Milan to Como San Giovanni was to take 40 minutes and from there an idyllic hour’s ferry ride to Bellagio. That was the plan. When plans aren’t followed, goals aren’t met.
“It sounded so easy but we forgot we were in Italy,” the old man said.
The truth is they weren’t trained to travel by train. They were well advised to travel light, heavy and bulky luggage bags aren’t friendly in Italy where the height differential between the station platform and a train could be enough to twist one’s ankle or wrist especially when one had to heave a heavy bag up or down. The advice should have also included instructions on how early one should get their luggages off the overhead racks.
“You’re too eager to get them down,” Eva Green told the old man as he was about to take his backpack down.
“It’s safer to wait till the train comes to a complete halt,” she added.
It seemed like good advice. The old man tacitly agreed with her, oldies should slow down and take things nice and easy. They were on a happy holiday.
“Relax, unwind and live life, free and easy,” she had reminded him.
They had been engrossed in a long conversation with a young couple from Saudi Arabia since the train left Milan. Having checked that their station was the fourth stop and they still had plenty of time, the old man said, “I know I’m not supposed to talk about politics, religion or race, but can you tell me why the Shias and Sunnis don’t get along?”
The husband sounded like a professor as he explained to the old man the main differences between Sunni and Shia beliefs. The old man soon forgot to check the route board adjacent to the overhead luggage racks and believed they had already left Como Camerlata, the third stop. As the train slowed down, he glanced at the board and was pleased to see Como San Giovanni lit up.
“Ok, guys, let’s go!” he said excitedly, as he got to his feet like a young panther and started to haul down the bags.
“Move along, move along,” he told them to hurry, as newly arrived passengers rushed to claim the vacant seats. Impeded by a big bloke, he struggled to bring the last bag down.
As he approached the sliding doors, he noticed they were starting to close.
“Hey Eva, don’t let them close,” he called out.
Eva stood still, right in front of the closing doors as her sister waited outside on the platform. Her husband, James Bond, didn’t flinch either. Both seemed to understand each other perfectly well. Eva wasn’t about to risk scratching her new luggage bag. She had heard that some doors can damage bags that are placed to stop them from closing. She was so wrong to think the big round button on the door would open them. Horrified that her finger that was madly poking at the button had failed to open the doors, James tried to prise them open but for once, his muscular arms were useless.
And then, their train started to move. The old man looked out and saw his Mrs was about to burst into tears. She had the look of a tortured Gazan, her face contorting and twisting into a mixture of agony, fear and hopelessness.
“Stay there! Don’t leave the station! Wait for us!” James shouted, his muscular voice as useless as his muscular arms. The Mrs soon disappeared into a black dot.
When they arrived at the next station, they discovered that they had arrived at the right station! The old man was too eager and therefore too early to unload the bags at Como Camerlata!
James and the old man strode up the flight of stairs with the flair of James Bond and the nimbleness of a gazelle. Poor Eva was stuck behind a group of old people all wearing black garments. She shouted in vain for the two men to wait for her. The old man’s bright blue backpack became the beacon for her in a vastness of black in front of her.
Follow the blue bag! Follow the blue bag! But she couldn’t keep up until all she could see was a blue dot, with the two men running towards the taxi rank in the distant. In their haste to rescue the damsel in distress at the other station, they had left behind another damsel in distress at this station.
“None of them turned back to even check on me!” Eva exclaimed as she dragged her bags up three flights of stairs.
“That was how we missed our connecting ferry to Bellagio,” the old man explained to me. The last ferry was at 5.10 pm, by which time the beautiful and idyllic blue water of Lake Como had turned black and the supposedly gorgeous scenery of autumn colours was just a vast body of black with a shimmering of distant light on a moonless night.
The following day, Eva and James were to try their roles in the re-enactment of the Casino Royale at the Villa Balbianello in Lenno but James felt a kissing scene at the villa would be more interesting, so he would be Anakin Skywalker since Eva said Padme’s role wasn’t so difficult to play in the now not-so-secret wedding in Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones.
Eva didn’t miss the boat from Bellagio to Lenno but she almost missed Lenno. James spotted her as she was leaving their boat at the stop before Lenno.
“Hey you! Come back!” he shouted at her.
Lesson learned. Before travelling with a group of oldies, train them how to get off a train first and then make sure they don’t rock the boat when they leave a boat.
Whist waiting for his Mrs to turn up, a pretty lass asked the old man to take a group photo of her and friends. They were young, chirpy and attractive. She reminded him of a younger Marion Cottilard, oozing a sensuality that was foreign to him now. Tilting her head, she asked in stuttering English, “Come-ah, take-ah photo with me-ah.”
Urghhlings 