Italian trains are so complicated that no one, not even Italians, especially not Italians, understand them.
Whole caravans of families stop and ask whole other Italian families, who happen to be picnicking in the corridor.
"Where are we? Where are we going? Followed by, Are you sure?"
You can tell this is an important moment, they stop eating.
In contrast, on German trains, everyone has that look of certainty, the look that says: Yes, I know where this train is going, when it will arrive and what the weather must be like there.
Let’s anthropomorphise, shall we?
Italian trains (or train schedules, but let’s not quibble) are the worst kind of lover, the one who loses things – her house keys, all her money, her car – and shows up at irregular times (5:00 A.M., your wedding – to someone else). Yet she makes you forget the cold nights on the platform, waiting – alone.
German trains are a baker´s daughter, up at dawn, day after day, producing pastries that are delicious and good for you – full of integral wheat and fruit. She does this so routinely, you forget it´s hard work.
Now a quick tour of my neurosis. I prefer the surprise of the former rather than the regularity of the later. And I have no idea why.
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