TheKnothead - First Assignment -
"Tell me a story about being lost when traveling and how you found your way to safety. Give a short adventure...use your imagination. Have fun with it.. Give descriptions. Have fun." She said. Great topic submissivewife, caught me totally off guard. Hope you enjoy it! ...
We’d been sailing around in circles forever; well, at least two, maybe two and a half months. As I walked out of the division meeting, the wheels in my mind were already spinning at full tilt. My ship, an air-craft carrier had somehow bent one of the shafts for one of the propellers and it required repairing. I didn’t know what that meant and I didn’t care. We’d just been informed that we were going to pull into Naples, Italy; tie up to a pier, (we never did that), and fixing whatever was wrong didn’t involve me. Better news, we were going to be in Naples for two weeks. Unbelievable news, the captain had even arranged for a couple of charter planes to ferry some of the crew back state-side, or for some of the wives to come to Italy to vacation with their husbands.
I could barely contain myself. Normally when we pulled in somewhere, the ship dropped anchor a mile or so out in the harbor, which meant I had to run the liberty boats. That was my job, maintaining and operating the various small boats the ship carried. Since we were going to be tied up to the pier, there was no need for the boats and no need for me. I was single, no wife, no girlfriend and no desire to go back to the states. I did, however, have a huge desire to go skiing in the Swiss Alps and had always considered myself an adventurer. Though at twenty, my biggest adventure to date had been joining the Navy, which had thus far been a major disappointment. Sensing that this may be my first opportunity to really venture out into the world, I rushed to the ship’s library. Since it was September and not really a great time to go skiing, I decided on Mount Corvatsch as my destination, it had a glacier that was open year round. St. Moritz was the name of the nearest town. I’d decided to take a train from Naples to get there. I now had a plan.
I wasted no time in approaching my division officer to see if there was any way that I could go skiing in the Alps instead of going home. At first, he looked at me like I had a third eye, but then said, “Put in a request chit; it’ll have to go all the way up to the Captain.” Having anticipated that exact response, I pulled it out of my back pocket and handed it to him. I’d already gotten the approvals of my First Class and Chief Petty Officers and been down to Medical and gotten a certified copy of my shot record.
Three days later, my sea-bag packed and on the deck at my feet, I was standing in line waiting for the ship to dock. My leave papers, shot record and ID card, the military equivalent of a passport, were safely tucked in my wallet. I’d done some after hours work for my first class to get off of the line-handling detail, so I could sprint off the ship the second we hit the pier. I had three months pay in my pocket and today was the first of ten full days off! I was good to go and the tugboats were easing the carrier up against the pilings. My first real adventure was about to begin.
My spirits high, I trotted down the gangway onto the pier and made my way quickly into the city. This wasn’t my first time in Naples, just the first time I was actually trying to get somewhere specific. In the past I’d only had time to wander around a little, or grab something quick to eat and drink. I’d never had more than a few hours off at a time, because I had to run the damn boats. I had a rough idea where the train station was; due north, so that’s the direction I started walking. After a couple of miles, I figured I was pretty close to where the train station ought to be. I could neither speak nor read Italian and only knew about three words in Spanish, so I hadn’t bothered tying to ask for directions yet. I just been looking for signs and to my amazement found one depicting a train car with an arrow.
I was completely unprepared for the chaos of the train station in Naples. It was huge and noisy. There were people running and rushing in every direction. There were rows of counters to purchase tickets. There were shops and signs and placards everywhere and not a word of it understandable to me. My adventurer’s heart pounding in my ears, I stood there in the doorway somewhat overwhelmed. Out in the middle of this sea of chaos was another booth, with the sign “Cambio” in bright red letters. That word I recognized and it reminded me that I needed to convert some of my cash into lira to buy a ticket. I made my way over to the booth and as discreetly as possible fished out a couple hundred dollars while waiting my turn.
When I got to the window and as I slid my money to the teller I said “Lira, Por Favor.” And then I asked hopefully, “Habla Ingles?” She glared at me like I had just insulted her family name. I was taken aback. My poorly spoken Spanish had never worked very effectively, but it had never elicited that kind of reaction either. Eventually she burst forth with a short flurry of dialogue which I didn’t understand. I could only guess by her impatient expression and raised eyebrows that she’d asked something along the lines of what denominations I wanted. Apparently this was not going to be a pleasant exchange. Not knowing how to reply I just said “Whatever.” Eyes narrowing she started counting out my currency. When I added up what she’d handed me and it tied out with the current exchange rate, I tried one more question. “St Moritz?” Her eyes narrowing even further, I think she growled at me, but at least this time she stabbed a finger at a booth off to my right. “Thank-you!” I replied emphatically and moved off to get in that line, rattled, but trying not to let that teller dampen my spirits.
When I got to the ticket window, I smiled at the elderly gentleman behind the glass and simply said. “St Moritz.” He smiled back, and then asked me, “American?” “Yes!” I exclaimed, the tension palpably draining from me, “Do you speak English?” I asked. “A little.” He replied nodding. My adventure was taking a turn for the better. “How much to St Moritz?” I asked. “You come back?” He asked me in return. I had to assume he meant one way or round trip. “No, one way, I’m coming back, just not sure when.” I replied. He quoted me an amount that seemed fair and I paid him. I really had no idea. I asked where the actual train was and he kindly pointed directly to it for me. I was once again in high spirits. The only possible hitch in my plan now would be that I had to change trains in Rome later this evening and he’d warned me that it was a very short stop over.
I had about an hour to kill, so I wandered around the station looking at maps on the walls, found a place that sold snacks and bought a few things, including a pocket-sized, English-Italian Dictionary. I was really too excited to think about food, but mostly, I didn’t want to lose sight of that train. As soon as they started boarding, I hurriedly made my way over and got on the third car from the end since the conductors waved me past the two end cars. I found a seat by the window on the right-hand side of the car, tossed my sea-bag up into the luggage rack and sat down. This was a comfortable, modern train, the seat reclined, so I pushed it back and just relaxed gazing out the window. After a while, the train began to ease out of its slip, (or whatever it’s called), the conductor came by and took my ticket tore off part and returned the rest.
I watched the city buildings rush past my window and then gradually fade into country-side and then fade into darkness. We’d be arriving in Rome at about 11:30PM. I studied my ticket closely, but everything on my ticket was written in Italian and I just really couldn’t make much sense out of it even with the use of my new dictionary. I knew I’d only have twenty minutes to catch my connecting train, but for now, all I could do was try to relax and maybe nap a bit. If I’m rested and alert, I’ll be ok, I thought. I dozed off until the train slowed. As we entered Rome, I pulled down two of the big cookies I’d bought earlier and gobbled them down; time to get the energy level back up.
The train station in Rome was even bigger and more intimidating than the one in Naples. At this hour, there were however, far less people. I could not find anything that looked like an information booth with anyone in it. Most of the ticket counters were closed and the one’s that were open had long lines. The flashing arrival and departure boards made no sense to me. I’d looked at my ticket again, trying to find a connecting train number, or something to match to something on those schedules. Nothing matched and I was beginning to panic. I realized that standing here gawking at the boards was a waste of time and I had none to spare. I decided to make a very fast pass around the train station. Shouldering my sea-bag, I started off at a trot. On my first pass around, I had noticed one train that was already in the process of boarding, which had a sign on it that read St Moritz, but the sign was not lit, the lighted sign above it said Zurich. The number on the train and the number of the Gate/slip, whatever you call it, didn’t match anything on my ticket. The old gentleman hadn’t mentioned anything about Zurich when I bought the ticket, only Rome, so I kept going. As I was passing by it again on my second pass around, I heard the conductor, one foot on the step and one hanging in the air, call out something that could only mean “last call”, and the train started to move. My twenty minutes were up. Right, wrong or otherwise, I was getting on this train. I bolted straight past him and up on to that slowly moving train.
The conductor eyed me suspiciously and approached cautiously as I fumbled for my ticket. I’m sure that I was quite the wild-eyed sight who’d suddenly and dramatically breached his doorway. He took my ticket, backed up a half a step and began looking at it carefully. I held my breath. In a moment, he made an okay sort of a shrugging nod, tore off a section, handed the rest back to me and brushed quickly past me without a word, or another glance. I let out my breath, but rather than the expected great sigh of relief, I was filled with confusion. Heart pounding, irritated and not feeling much like an adventurer, I made my way to an empty seat, shoved my bag up into the storage area and slouched down into my seat—on a train apparently headed for Zurich.
After what seemed an eternity, another conductor came by and I flagged him down. “Sir, does this train go to St. Moritz?” I asked, dreading the anticipated answer. He gave me a look that smirked, “You’re on a train and you don’t know where it’s going?” Initially, I was surprised he understood me, and then I was back to just irritated and replied with a half-smile that said “Yeah, I’m a dumb-ass, just answer the question.” He hesitated a second or two as if debating whether or not to reply, then simply stated in a thick German accent. “Train stops next in Zurich, don’t get off train, it then goes St. Moritz.” He turned to a lady across the aisle and added, “American’s, eh?” She smiled. He continued on down the aisle. I didn’t care. This dumb-assed, American from South Dakota was going skiing in the Swiss Alps.
