Italian trains are a paradise for a traveler’s soul.
Trieste is the last railway station in Italy. There is no further than Trieste. A train that arrives must reverse and head back toward the rest of Italy. It is the last city before the border, the deepest port on Europe’s southern side, and the final train station. After Trieste, only on foot. Or by bus. But never, ever by FlexiBus.

Whenever I need to travel somewhere, my head starts creating combinations. My destinations aren’t for planes… they’re more for trains, buses, or BlaBlaCar. Or… what if I rent a car?!
Yes! It’s not tourist season, so rental cars are practically being given away. I’m not talking about the big, famous rent-a-car companies with downtown offices and permanent price robbery. The smaller, newer ones are quiet, shy in winter, hiding out at airports.
So I ask myself: “How are we going to organize this, May?”
Departure is Friday morning at 9. So before that, I need to take a train from Trieste, reach the airport, pick up the car, stop by home, grab the luggage, and then hit the road. Very simple…

My brain starts a full logistical and time-management operation. What’s the name of the place where the airport is again?
I type “Ronchi dei Legionari” into Google Maps and — voilà — the timetable appears. Perfect!
The train leaves Trieste at 7:20 a.m., I’m there in half an hour, pick up the car, turn on the music, and glide like butter. Exactly how it was supposed to be.

I arrived at the train five minutes early and chose a window seat. The last time I traveled by train was a long time ago. when there were still brown leather seats, dark compartments, sliding doors where you’re constantly expecting the conductor to punch your ticket. Now it felt like I’d been teleported into the future… Just like being on a plane. I am a rich lady flying to an important meeting.
The train departs. I made an online ticket purchase and confirmed check-in in the app. Fiiiuuu! Everything was done perfectly, so I can relax and enjoy the view as the train glides along the Trieste Costiera.
Thank God I thought about which side the sea was on when choosing my seat — otherwise I’d be staring at a rock wall speeding past me.
It’s my first time going to the airport by train, so I think:
“Let me just check where exactly I need to get off.”

Trieste has a beautiful Costiera — a road climbing along the coast, with the railway running parallel. I’m filled with enthusiasm and appreciation for this stunning view. The Gulf of Trieste is in the palm of my hand, the sea is glowing, and it feels like a beautiful weekend is ahead.
Oh God, how happy I am! Everything is planned… just like a proper rich lady going to an important meeting.

To avoid missing my stop, somewhere before Monfalcone, I open Google Maps. The map shows that the next station is the airport. Perfect. Almost there.
I watch the train move on Google Maps. I’m a small blue dot approaching my destination. I’m riding toward my happiness! And then, in the blink of an eye, I break into a sweat. The small blue dot has turned away from the destination.
Am I dreaming???
How? HOW?!?! Where are you going, little blue dot?! Where did you turn?!?! One thing becomes crystal clear: I must get off at the next station!

I slowly stand up, calm and confident — as if I ride this route every day. Because why would anyone around me need to recognize the panic on my face?
I get off the train and realize I’m in absolute nowhere. I approach the female conductor standing nearby:
“Excuse me, do you know the fastest way to get to the airport?”
“Well… not really. I’ve never been here.”
Great! I found the only conductor who’s here on her first day. Clearly, we share the same panic — except she gets back on the train, and I stay… wherever this is.
I tell myself: “Go. Let’s see what they say at the counter.”
The counter? What counter?!
The building that looked like a “building” is actually just a wall with hollow windows. I walk in — and out — through the same wall.
What now?

I’m in a parking lot. It’s 8:00 a.m., frost and fog all around, and I’m searching for at least one living soul. I approach a middle-aged woman getting into her car:
“Excuse me, good morning… do you know how I can get to the airport from here?”
“Oh dear… that’s tricky. You need to check when the buses go… they’re quite rare, and not all of them go to the airport… It’s not that simple.”
“Thank you, that was very clear… and where can I ask for more information?”
“Oh, I don’t really know… go over there and ask,” she says, pointing vaguely at some buildings.
I start walking with my usual confident stride. Everything is closed. No people. Nothing. I follow the blue dot on Google Maps. It says ‘25 minutes on foot.’
Well, I can do that. Morning exercise! I’ll call the rent-a-car and tell them I’ll be slightly late. Any problem? I have to walk along a highway with trucks and semis racing past… no sidewalk, just gravel and grass. Or maybe across a field?
Hmm… I’ll arrive with shoes full of mud… they won’t let me into the car like that.
Maybe it’s better to walk side by side bravely with the trucks. If our grandfathers could walk kilometers to school every day, so can I.
A car stops next to me. It’s the woman from the parking lot.
“Come on, I’ll drive you to the airport.”
“Oh no, please don’t inconvenience yourself, it’s close… I’ll manage.”
Inside my head:
“What are you saying, May?! How exactly will you ‘manage’?! Can’t you see you’re walking on a highway?!”
“It’s no problem, I’m going to work anyway… I’ll just take a small detour,” she says kindly.
“Oh, I don’t want to be a burden… you’ll be late because of me.”
While inside my head:
“May, get in the car before she changes her mind! Trucks are NOT your friends!”
“It’s really fine. Five minutes longer than usual.”
“Are you sure?” Even I’m bored with myself at this point.
I give in and get into the car. She apologizes for the mess, the dusty steering wheel, the dirty windshield, and the back window you can’t even see through.
“Oh, please, I’ve never seen a cleaner car in my life!”
I’m grateful for moments when you mess everything up — and then someone appears and gently puts you back on the right path. In this case, the road to the airport.

I made it to the airport safe and sound. Just another hundred meters and the car would be mine. I was expecting the whole procedure to be quick and painless. I’ve already done the online check-in, uploaded my ID and driver’s license, and paid everything there was to pay. Done. Finished. All that was left was a signature, grabbing the keys, and voilà — the world was mine.
Then a word appeared in my head: Driver’s license.
I asked my brain what exactly that meant. The letters turned into an image of my driver’s license. The license turned into an image of my wallet. The wallet… My brain spoke again: “It’s on the table. In your living room.”
In the living room?! No, no, no… Impossible. It’s in my bag. Of course it is. I focused on the bag. Lifted it slightly… Nope, it’s too light.
I dug through every pocket, every zipper, every hidden compartment — and my brain was right. I was just a few meters away from the car rental office… and I had no driver’s license with me. None. And I had arrived by train. The long way around.
“Don’t panic,” said the voice of my faithful Biba in my head.
“You uploaded your license during online check-in. They’ll give you the keys.”
Yes. Of course they will. Obviously.
Full of faith and skepticism, I walked up to the counter.
“Good morning!”
“Oh, welcome, Mrs. May! We’ll sort this out in just a moment so you can continue your journey,” she said, smiling ear to ear, blinking sweetly.
“Oh, you’re so kind…”
“May I have your documents, please?”
“I’ve already done online check-in.”
“Yes, I see that, but we still need to see your documents.”
“Well… you see… I’m not quite sure how to say this… but I have a tiny problem. A really tiny one. Almost insignificant.”
“Go on,” she said, still smiling.
“My wallet… with all my documents… is in my living room.”
Her face changed instantly. As if I’d pulled out a gun instead of a bag. But I bravely continued:
“I did upload all my documents during online check-in. You already have everything.”
“What is wrong with you? There is no way I can give you the keys without a driver’s license!”
“But I uploaded…” I started to feel a little insecure.
“Madam. Come back with your driver’s license. Otherwise, no keys.”
“Does uploading mean absolutely nothing to you?”
“No.”
“But Biba said—”
“I said NO!”
I turned on my heel and walked away toward the train station. She didn’t appreciate my effort to upload the documents at all. And here I was, fully expecting a Nobel Prize for digital responsibility. I was deeply hurt.

---

To reach the train station, I had to walk through a long suspended tunnel. Luckily, no side exits… once you enter, you’re committed. Arrival guaranteed. Walking through the tunnel, I bought a ticket for yet another train. Departure in nine minutes. I waited patiently on the platform, talking to my brain:
“Everything is fine, May. Nothing terrible will happen. If we want to find something positive in all this, we’ll have to be patient. Because at the moment, nothing positive comes to mind.”

I boarded the train and started looking for a seat where I could be alone with my thoughts. I was in no mood to share space with anyone. I needed silence to process the loss of my Nobel Prize, my documents, and my car keys.
Every seat had at least one person sitting in it. The audacity. Couldn’t they all just group together so I could sit alone?
I walked slowly toward the end of the carriage, discreetly scanning potential seatmates.
On my right, a huge man occupying his seat and half of the next one. On my left, a guy opening a can of beer. In front of him, a teenager with legs like a giraffe — he barely fit himself. I kept moving. Everyone was sitting by the window. And I wanted a window.
On the right, a woman wearing an enormous hat — no idea why she needed it on a train.
On the left, a man who inspired zero trust.
On the right again, a girl is trying to take the perfect selfie — bending, twisting, flipping her hair left and right, completely unbothered by the fifty people watching her. Fine. Whatever. I kept going. Candidates were running out.
On the left, a man eating a sandwich… let the man eat in peace. On the right, two elderly ladies gossiping… no room for me. I reached the very end. One seat left.
I decided this was it. Whoever my seatmate was, fate had chosen them. I felt like everyone knew I was inspecting them, judging who was worthy of sitting next to me. No second round of elections. I sat down and looked.
A Gypsy. With a capital G. A real one. Straight off a Kusturica movie poster. Well. That’s what you get for being picky.
I closed every zipper, buckle, and imaginary lock on my bag, wrapped the strap three times around my arm, and thanked the universe that he was completely absorbed in a game on his phone. He didn’t even notice me. Which was a blessing. After everything that had happened, a conversation was the last thing I needed.
I spent that half-hour texting Biba, describing my seat-selection process. Her reply:
“Yes. I always end up sitting next to a Gypsy too.” Thank God for having Biba in my life.

Getting off the train went smoothly. Trieste is the final stop. When everyone gets off, you get off too.
I’ll fast-forward through retrieving my wallet from the living room and returning to the station. Everything went smoothly.
This time, I was extremely focused while buying a ticket for Trieste Airport. No Ronchi dei Legionari nonsense — I still don’t know why that ever crossed my mind.
I boarded the train again and started scanning for a seat. Stairs. Going up.
Up?! A double-decker train?! Oh come on!
I found a window seat upstairs, settled in comfortably, and pulled out a sandwich, a little cake, and a juice. I hadn’t eaten all day, and this felt like a celebration. Only now did I truly feel like a wealthy woman on her way to an important meeting. Everything became crystal clear: A double-decker train is a level up. The view from upstairs is a completely different perspective on life.
Of course, I hadn’t thought to sit on the left side, where the view stretches over the Gulf of Trieste all the way to Africa. Instead, I stared at a rock. A nicely forested rock. And that was fine too.

During the ride, the conductor arrives. My brain shows me an image of the digital ticket and the check-in I was supposed to do upon boarding. Naturally, in my “wealthy woman” fantasy, I had completely forgotten.
What am I supposed to tell him now?
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
“Your ticket, please.”
“I have a ticket,” I said, showing my phone. “But I forgot to check in.”
“How did that happen?”
“Well… I got distracted by my sandwich. I was very hungry. Then I ate a cake. And then I forgot.”
“You forgot?”
“Yes. I was just so happy to be upstairs.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifty…” I said quietly.
“Fifty?!”
“Good Lord… I’ll just pretend I didn’t see you.”
Perfect… Amazing… Never been happier. If only he knew this was my third train ride in two hours.

I finally arrived at the airport, slightly exhausted, and walked up to the same rental agent who, ninety minutes earlier, had thought I was robbing her.
I politely threw my documents on the counter like a professional poker player and said:
“Voilà.” She smiled.
“Grazie. And you look lovely! We saved a beautiful semi-new Panda for you.”
Semi-new Panda? That sounded suspicious. I imagined hubcaps falling off on the highway, a bumper scraping the tire.
She took me to the car. White. Cute. Polished. 2.563 km on the odometer.
“This is semi-new?!”
Maybe she wanted to punish me for earlier stress. She had no idea I’d covered more kilometers than the Panda in the last two hours.

So there we were… the semi-new Panda and me, a wealthy woman heading to an important meeting… sharing stories. I told her everything about my half-day adventure. And I added:
“Panda… head up. Everything happens for a positive reason. Mine was the double-decker train.”

Vroom vroom.
From the top of the world.

Life is fabulous. ❤️