A Commute to Comment On

The aroma of freshly baked brioche from the cafes upstairs mingled with the smell of burning metal on the train tracks, and I waited for the next metro as the rest of the morning commuters shoved themselves into the train. Hands of all sizes turned pale, pressing violently against the windows while their owners tried to gain some sort of solid support before the monster of a metro took off. Bodies were compacted into the cars, like a giant human gridlock, and I gazed upon the faces of the passengers, some annoyed at the shoving of strangers, some men smiling when they found themselves snuggled next to a pretty girl, and others obviously stressed by the hustle of the city—clearly not from around here. I watched the Italians tumble on each other like dominoes as the carts began to accelerate, the younger ones giggling as they all lost their balance. The subway blurred pass me, gaining speed, and I saw an entire metro-full of people elope by my eyes. We’ve never met, but I can’t forget them and though they didn’t know me, the strangers in the metro have let me watch them, they allowed me to interact, and they have taught me more than they will ever know; these people are my teachers.

I came here not knowing how to speak Italian and I studied like a madman everyday, trying desperately to learn every preposition, verb tense, and noun, however with each day I was more and more frustrated. I sat in the metro, brooding over the fact that the Italian language had not poured itself into my mind like I wanted it to, when the train screeched to a halt at the Duomo and an old man with a rank odor annexed the cold, plastic seat next to me. He had a scruffy beard, about 45 percent of his teeth, and yet somehow, like all Milanese, was dapper in his dress (we are in the “Fashion Capital of the World,” after all). I could tell that he was looking me up and down and when my eyes met his, he smiled a toothless grin. “The Duomo is a mess,” he told me in a rough, I’ve-been-smoking-since-I-was-twelve, voice.

“Like always,” I replied.

“Yeah,” he coughed, “it’s just full of foreigners,” and just like that, a real, live Italian had mistaken me for one of them! I, of course, retorted with, “Foreigners like me,” and the man was taken aback. We spoke together in Italian as the car filled up and he listened, understood, and remarked on what I had to say. Was this really happening? The words spilled out of my mouth and for the first time I listened to myself, amazed.

I’ve been in Milan now for three months, and my daily rides on the metro have taught me more than I could have imagined. I’m no longer uneasy in the company of my fellow passengers and I embrace every aspect of my rides, observing the people rushing to work or appointments, eavesdropping on their conversations, and listening contently to the homeless musicians who play to make a euro or two. I’ve ended my habit of walking through the tunnels clutching my bags with fear, and I strut through the city streets like the models here strut on the catwalk. My fellow passengers have taught me to stop trying to rush things along, my fermata will come soon enough and they’ll entertain me as I wait.

Elizabeth Nistico