Getting to Urbino was no small task.

Tuscan Italians are welcoming, friendly and seemingly purposefully unhelpful when it comes to providing directions.  A conversation I had my first morning in Siena illustrates this Tuscan characteristic. I had asked the front desk manager at the little hotel I was staying at for some help in getting back to the train and bus station (which are one and the same in Siena, depending on where you are headed), so I could head out of town for the day to Montepulciano. Our conversation went something like this:

“Scusi, how do you get to the train station?”
“Well, I have a car, so I just drive there.”
“Okay, so how would someone, say me, get to the train station?”
“Oh, just take a bus at the piazza [Gramsci]”
“Yes, which one?”
“Anyone, just ask there.”
“Surely there are some that go to the train station you know of.”
“OK, 3, 9 or 10.”

Oh, oh, but wait!  Once you get to Piazza Gramsci you have to be on a certain side of the street to get the bus going in the correct direction, which means knowing which side of the street to wait on. I erred and took a monotonous tour of the suburbs of Siena, missing my bus to Montepulciano. I did make it the next day, but learned an important lesson: Ask questions, even seemingly stupid ones, until you think they might reach over and strangle you!

Urbino is only about 3 hours east of Siena by road, but after I grilled the bus attendant, I was 100% sure there are no buses that carry travelers across the border of La Marche. (Thank you, Lord for Plexiglas so that the “molto” annoyed bus attendant could not reach over and harm the persistent American woman). He shooed me away to the train station window. I was dreading having to wear down another person with what was left of my useless American girl in Italy charm.

I walked over to the train station office.  The attendant was a jovial, small man with a thick moustache and green jacket who reminded me of the Mayor of Munchkin land.  To my surprise, he greeted me as happily as if I had arrived to rid Italy of the Evil Witch of the West.  He took me step-by-step through various train stages of getting to Urbino, which included three trains and an hour bus ride. When I returned two days later, I made sure to double-check my plans with him. He greeted me with a big grin:

“You can take the train that is here and get to Florence (my first stop) early!” he exclaimed in Italian. At least, that is what I thought he said. I tried to reconfirm through a poor mix of Spanish, English and Italian that just ended up sounding like cave woman, gutteral sounds. Understanding only my mistrust, he exited his station through the back entrance, came all the way around into the station, signaled for me to follow him, and grabbed my bags. Whistling jovially, he took me down and up the platform stairs all the way to the farthest platform, swung my bags onto the train, winked and waved goodbye, “Ciao!”  By Italian standards, it would only have been more easy if I could have clicked my heels together and repeated, “There’s no place like Urbino.”