White Socks

I hate it when trains are late. It is universal. All over the world, trains are always late. I do not like trains, but I like train stations. There is something surreal about train stations – a microcosm of modern society if you will. I enjoy sitting on a platform bench observing the world go past, entranced by the multitude of cacophonous sounds that echo around the high ceilings. Yes, I like train stations; trains are a different matter altogether.

The train I was on was scheduled to leave Napoli half an hour ago but it was still gleefully idling at the station like a fat boy in a Mark Twain novel. I was not pleased. I was stuck in a small compartment with Hann for company and the air conditioner was not running. I tried to make small talk with Hann but he seemed engrossed in the colorful complimentary magazines in the seat pocket. I don’t know what he was reading – it was in Italian, and neither of us spoke the language. I looked outside the graffiti stained window to wile my time and a glum silence filled the compartment…

Leaning my head against the wall, I was about to fall asleep when the sliding compartment door was violently pushed apart and a dirty little man with a large mustache and a navy blue knapsack walked in. He looked at us with leery eyes and snorted, and with a magical sleight of hand produced two packets and tossed one to each one of us. I caught the packet on my lap. It was a set of white socks. Bewildered, I looked up and caught Hann’s equally confused eyes looking at me. People usually don’t hand out sets of white socks.

“Socks.” The man said as if he had answered the question to life, universe, and everything else. We looked up at him.

He scratched his rough chin and sighed. “Ummm… twenty Euros.”

I look at Hann and he's busy inspecting the goods. I look down at my packet, not sure what to do, so I look at the stubby Italian expecting some sort of an explanation...

"For you only twenty Euros..."

I look at Hann. His ears were turning red. Suddenly Hann throws the packet of socks at the Italian and with a Fonz expression says, "Aieaaa, these are made in China man, my family probably made them, and you're trying to sell it to me?..."

The stubby Italian snatched the packet out of my hand and walked out with a solemn face. Once again the compartment lapsed into silence. I resumed my vigil on the platform, waiting to get to Rome.