The Adventure Begins

What kind of sports equipment? Is it ... a bicycle?

The Lufthansa agent did not hold my attempt to dodge the $200 bike fee against me. She switched me from a middle seat to an aisle, in a center row with just one other passenger. Consequently, I was able to curl up (more or less) comfortably across two seats and sleep through much of the long flight. There are some advantages to being small.

My first language encounter came before I even took my seat, as an older gentleman stepped aside for me. Prego, he said. Grazie, I replied (more or less). Like most Americans, I am fluent only in English.

I was seated behind an Italian family with two young boys, and one of them (watching cartoons) delighted me with the purest laugh I have ever heard. In the rearmost section of the cabin, it was easy to forget the enormity of an Airbus 380 (more than 600 passengers on board, and yet some seats were empty). Luckily, I failed to discover the three cameras mounted on the jet's exterior until the flight was nearly over [else, I would not have gotten the sleep I needed].

In Frankfurt, I chuckled at a fellow countryman who balked at forking over $10 for his sandwich at the airport, and began to feel less ignorant for having successfully coaxed some euros from a Deutsche Bank ATM.

In Milano, I was overjoyed to collect mia bicicletta (though the guy at the oversized baggage door was happy to exercise his English). I must have been quite the sight: a tiny gray-haired signorina with a backpack, tiny rolling suitcase, and a huge bag—almost as big as she is—slung cross-wise over her shoulders.

Next hurdle: renting a car and then ... driving it. The rear seats in my (pre-dented) Citroën C3 folded down, my bags fit, and off I went. The clerks at Auto Europa were friendly and helpful, and likely highly amused at the tiny gray-haired American signorina (see above), traveling alone, who rented a car with a manual transmission. Trust me, this is not something they see every day.

I headed for the autostrade to find my hotel on the outskirts of the city. My strategy: fall in line with the traffic in the right lane, decipher the road signs, and try to stay out of trouble. First observation: Italian truck drivers change lanes whenever they please, give them plenty of space. There were no attended lanes when I reached the toll booths at my exit; I managed to pay without irritating any drivers behind me. [Whew.]

The hotel, on a major thoroughfare, was clean and economical. Next to a bar, a pizzeria, and an adult store—not the best part of town. I failed at my next two challenges: finding a place to recharge the Italian SIM card I had acquired in advance, to get data service on my phone; and finding dinner. No data service = no Google Maps. No Google Maps = no Navigation. After driving more or less in circles for an hour or so on my quest, I did manage to find my hotel again. The nearest restaurant was closed: summer holidays.

Thus begins the story of my first solo international trip.