Hazel stepped out onto the tiny train platform and turned to manhandle her bulky case down the stairs of the train. It got stuck on the last step, so she yanked, tired and frustrated, and the case lurched forward, attacking the Achilles heel of her left foot. She winced in pain and stifled a yelp as the other passengers disembarked around her with scowls of impatience. It was about 2:00 p.m. and she’d been traveling all day. After landing in Pisa a few hours ago, she’d been navigating the trains quite successfully and was feeling pretty pleased with herself.

Don’t panic, she said to herself, you got this. After the wet, oppressive heat of Pisa, the breeze blowing down the platform and whispering against her sweaty cleavage felt like a gift from above.

She turned in a circle to take in her surroundings and felt the first stirrings of excitement. Italy looked exactly as she’d imagined it would. She was standing on a wide platform with signage informing her that this was track three. The other tracks stretched out endlessly to her left and her right. To her left was a mountain, and she could just make out the dark gap of the long tunnel from which she had emerged just before pulling into the station. In front of her was a pale yellow concrete building made quaint and picturesque by the coffee colored shutters on the windows above a wide porch-like overhang with black, iron supports. A row of tall, graceful double doors gave access to what was clearly the station building. Next to the station building was a tiny cafe almost hidden behind a large pergola that was buckling under the weight of grape vines. The vines were lush and green and in some areas had pulled patches of the creamy plaster from the wall of the building. The disrepair only added to the charm. A clutter of red, plastic seats under the pergola called out to her. Come and have a coffee and rest your legs, they said. But she had lots to do and could not be distracted.

The conductor was tapping her shoulder. “Si potrebbe allontanarsi dalle piste del treno, Signora?”

Back in Jacksonville, Hazel had driven out to St. John’s Town Center and parked herself in front of the language section at the Barnes and Noble. She had poured through every “Italian Conversation” book she could find, eventually choosing one solely because it was small enough to fit in her back pocket. It was in her back pocket right now, but she didn’t bother taking it out. After reading and repeating every phrase in the book since her first flight took off, she was no closer to being able to say anything. She frowned. Not a word the conductor had just said had sounded like anything in that phrase book. She stared at him blankly. He puffed out an irritated breath and repeated his sentence while motioning dramatically with his hand for her to move forward.

“Si potrebbe allontanarsi dalle piste del treno, Signora?”

“He wants you to move. You are too close to the train.” She felt a shy tap on her arm and turned to find a small girl smiling up at her. She was all of maybe ten years old and standing alone on the platform. Hazel looked around for her parent; surely this little girl wasn’t alone in the middle of a train station, in the middle of nowhere. “You must to move,” the little girl said. The conductor sighed behind her.

“Of course!” Hazel leaped forward into the center of the platform, dragging her heavy case behind her and feeling distressingly out of control. “Mi Scusi!” The conductor rolled his eyes at her and waved down to the engine compartment as the train hissed and began to slowly pull away.

As Hazel headed toward what looked enticingly like an elevator, she took another worried look around for the small girl who had helped her. Finally, she spotted her in a group of girls gathered together on the platform, all wearing school uniforms. Did they go to school on a train? On their own? At ten years old?

It was hot again. The breeze she'd been so thankful for had died down and, although the air felt fresh and clean, the sun was beating down on her head. It was time to move on.

Hazel took the elevator down and crossed under the tracks, emerging onto a walkway that took her out to the front of the station where she hoped to find a taxi. There was not a single car in the small parking lot and not a soul in sight. Wait, was that a taxi stand? She hauled her massive case toward what appeared to be a “Taxi” sign in front of the little cafe and discovered, yes, it was a taxi stand, but there was no one in sight.

Don’t panic Hazel. You’ve been doing so well up until now. You can handle this too. Just find someone to ask.

All of her recently built up confidence started to waver. What on earth was she doing in a country where she didn’t speak the language, on a mission with her mother, of all people?

“Posso aiutarti?” A man had just emerged from the little cafe with a pile of empty boxes in his hands. He was wearing a crisp, white apron and a short-sleeved, white t-shirt that showed off his olive skin and worker’s muscles.

Aiutarti. Her mind puzzled over the word for a few seconds and then blessedly made a connection. Aiutarti sounded like aiuto, which she knew meant “help.” She had memorized aiuto.

“Yes please!” she said, dragging her case toward the man quickly. “Hablo Inglese?” Wait, no. That wasn’t Italian, that was Spanish. Darn her high-school Spanish classes; they were screwing her up.

The man laughed and turned to dump his pile of empty boxes onto a dumpster which sat unobtrusively at the edge of the wooded area next to the cafe. He turned back to face her, wiping his hands on his pristine apron. “Non parlo Inglese,” he said.

Why, oh, why hadn’t she taken Italian instead of Spanish? She’d never used a word of Spanish in any conversation. Starting to feel a bit desperate and slightly embarrassed, she waved her hand at the taxi stand sign. “Taxi?” she asked the man hopefully.

“Sono solo due. Stanno ancora riposando,” he replied and gave her a grin.

Due. Due meant two. She knew that much. The town only had two taxis? She looked around in frustration. By the looks of things, this was a tiny town. Why would she imagine they had more than two taxis? She could wait - but the idea of sitting here under this punishing sun wasn’t appealing. Plus, she’d been traveling so long she just wanted to be there already. Wherever “there” was.

“Can I walk to Via Bellinzona?” she asked the man, half hoping he would say no. He shrugged and headed back to the cafe, summoning her to follow him.

“Ti disegnerò una mappa.”

A mappa - that had to mean map. She sighed in relief and followed him into the cafe, wincing as her impractical left shoe rubbed against the sweaty blister on her heel.

“Is it a long walk?” she asked.

He shrugged and grinned at her again. She realized he had no idea what she was saying.