We left Montreux and Switzerland on Friday, using our beloved Swiss Travel Pass for the last time, and caught a train for Milan. Milan is a huge city and the home of the 2015 World’s Fair (Expo) so the city is crowded. We saw parts of the fair from our train coming into town.

I realized that the railroad station near our hotel was not the one we were coming in to. It turns out that there are 22 railroad stations in Milan, and five more are being built! So my plans for walking two blocks to our hotel were no good, since our train was terminating at Milano Centrale, the big station on the north (i.e., other) side of the city.

Getting off the train in Milano Centrale was an overwhelming experience. The place is enormous, and packed with people. We decided to go to the Tourist Information Office to get their advice on how to transfer us and our bags to our hotel. I know that Tourist Information offices are designated with a lower-case “i” on signs all over Europe, so we followed the signs – but there was no Tourist Information office. “They have closed and moved to the Duomo” we were told. Welcome to Italy!

Okay, time for plan C. We decided to get taxis. With a group our size, two would be required. We followed the signs to the taxis. As we approached the taxis, a man came up to us and offered his taxi service. I told him what we wanted: two taxis to Hotel Palladio, on via Palladio (what could be easier?). But he was confused, and called for help. Linda, who is quicker on the uptake than I am, decided that this man was not a legitimate taxi driver and said “We’re going over there” while pointing to the now-obvious official taxi stand. So we walked away from him, and he immediately went over and began hustling somebody else.

The taxi line was really long but it moved quickly. We got to the front, loaded ourselves and our luggage into two taxis and set off for Hotel Palladio. Our driver was without speech – didn’t say a word. Until we got to via Palladio and he said “What number?” I said “Eight.” He repeated, louder and more angrily “What number?” Again I said “Eight” (only a little louder) and this time he was listening, since he acknowledged me with a small grunt.

We got out and unloaded the luggage. I said “How much?” He said “fourteen” so I handed him a 20. He gave me back a five and the first friendly look I’d seen. I waved him off and we both went away happy.