Pisa and Pizza

After conducting research, reserving trains, and booking hostels all month, I was all set to go to Italy for Toussaint, the week-long holiday at the end of October. The morning before I left, butterflies pressed at the inside of my stomach, fluttering up my throat and bursting through my lips in a series of half-nervous, half-excited giggles.

If we didn't hold up the tower,
it would have fallen already (Personal Photo)

My journey began with a locksmith.  

Since I had an early train (read: 5:30am) the following morning, I crashed on the couch of one of my classmates, who had the apartment to herself. I live about half an hour from the train station by speed walking, whereas she lives only ten minutes. Considering buses don’t run at 4am, taxis are expensive, and solo strolls in the dark often merit unwanted attention from men, I thought it was a smart move. Plus, she was having some other guests over for dinner, and it would be a good time. 

 I arrived, and lo and behold, I discover that my hostess has locked herself out of her apartment (oops!). While she called the locksmith, her other guest and I attempted to pick the lock with two hairpins. Neither of us had done it before. While I read from tutorials online, he followed my impromptu tutelage and wiggled the pins. 

The Baptistery at Pisa (Personal Photo)

An hour later, just as the locksmith is coming up the stairs, he successfully opens the door (Murphy’s law!). His triumphant cry was (almost) worth the 30 euros it cost just for him showing up. “Achievement unlocked,” I quipped, before proceeding to enjoy a fantastic evening of wine, food, and laughter.

Nothing exciting happened the next morning until the ticket machine ate my Carte Bleue (debit card).

The security guard said a guy could come open it at 7:30am. Since I had a train to catch in 20 minutes, and since I also had my Canadian credit card and plenty of cash, I figured I'd plough on ahead and notify my bank when I had wifi. (More on this subplot later.)

I was on the train, reviewing my itinerary and my next steps:

1) arrive in Ventimiglia,
2) get my Eurail pass stamped, and
3) board my reserved train to Pisa.

I would have eighteen minutes. Plenty of time, right?

Wrong.

It's really heavy, trust me (Personal Photo)

Partway to Ventimiglia, the train stopped. My heart crashed against my ribcage with anxiety, thinking that every passing second was one fewer I would have to do the aforementioned tasks. It was only when I saw another train pass by that I realized why we had stopped. 

(I would later learn, after several more train trips, that Italian trains have an unhealthy habit of being late, much like university students.)

However, the delay meant that I only had six minute to make my connection, not eighteen. Eek! Thankfully, I am well-trained at running to catch trains, planes, and buses, so I made it.

As I wandered around, looking for a seat, I bumped into a Brazilian guy named Diego. As luck would have it, he was my seatmate and was also going to Pisa. We became travel buddies for the day, snapping touristy photos of the Leaning Tower of Pisa and splitting a pizza. He even carried my travel foodstuffs in his backpack. Diego was a gentleman, the kind of man who helped people with their luggage and offered to take pictures of people without being asked. We parted ways when it was time for me to climb the tower (that's right, I climbed it, warped steps and all!), and then I caught the train to Rome.

Warped steps from tourists (Personal Photo)

View from the top of the tower (Personal Photo)