Sanitarpolizei, pt 1

It was August, 1988. For post-graduating fun, a summer of backpacking culminated in a week at a villa above Cortona rented by the mother of the now sadly no longer amongst us Sarah Pettit, with Sarah, her girlfriend Alexis, the scarcely imitable Roxana Tynan, and Sarah's mom and beer-loving brother Benj. With a swimming pool (the locals called the house la piscine) and much upper Appenines scenery, much fun was had.

But it only lasted for a week, and then I had to go back down the little old mountains and connect with the main train line headed north, through Milan, over the Alps to Zurich, whence I was fly back to RDU (via Washington National, since rebranded as Reagan Freedom International or somesuch hooey). At Milan, I had a couple of hours to gamble about, see the Duomo, and watch stylish youth with superfluous white sweaters tied about their necks eat panini, at that time an exotic term. At the station, I had my first ever risotto (also exotic), and you know it was good, if expensive.

Then I borded the trans-alpine overnight. It was one of the fine old long haul Eurotrains with compartments for four, with seats covered in Naugahyde or some morally superior European Naugahyde analog that folded together in the middle to resemble a bed. After a couple of beers and surely furrowing my brow over some smart guy book meant to impress intellectual chicks, I tried to go to sleep. As many of you may know, Naugahyde doesn't breath all that well, and so begins our adventure....