And to think, as recently as a month ago I would have told you that I didn't really like Italians all that much.

Just let me know when I can remove the size 45½ (my "when in Rome" size) shoes from my mouth.

The turnaround began at Christiania, the hippie commune enclave in the heart of Copenhagen. An Italian couple -- Andreas and Luisa -- asked me to snap a photo of them on the bridge. Three hours plus a round of beers later, we were exchanging email addresses, hugs and promises that we would see each other again someday.

Then there was Mateo and Sara -- the first two people pictured from left to right below -- who happened to be the ones I asked for help in finding the No. 41 bus from Utrecht Central Station to the StayOkay Hostel, fifteen minutes away and in the middle of nowhere. We shared a room together the first night; they bought me a big Heineken in the hostel bar; and we were all breakfast buddies the next morning.

But it was Martin and Daniella (yes, Daniella was a guy, who ironically rocked a pony tail) who fully completed my conversion to the "Italians are okay in my book" camp.


If life always went as planned, we would miss out on all the exciting stuff. Things that seemingly suck at first glance don't always suck when you look back on them. Some of the best memories grow out of the worst of circumstances. And that is the story of my friendship with Martin and Daniella, two best friends InterRailing Europe before they had to go home to Genova.


I only had one bullet on the itinerary for my first night in Utrecht, once I had returned to town to get a taste of the city: Make it back in time to catch the last 41 bus at 12:55. It wasn't hard. Just one thing. 12:55. Last bus. Utrecht Central. Or else I'd have a lot of walking to do.

I almost made it. I was in the middle of a great conversation -- on a bench beside a beautiful canal, having a great time -- and cut it short for the explicit purpose of making my bus.

"It's the last one, I've got to go," I explained to Regonja and Rien, a Dutch couple who both work for different American multinational corporations.

And I left, even though I would have loved to have chatted with them for the rest of the night about Mars, PepsiCo., their views on the American "can do" spirit versus the Dutch acceptance of birth status, and the fact that Rien apparently meant "Nothing" to his parents -- who I hope and pray did not realize the French translation of their son's name.

But I just had to get those goddamn french fries and mayonnaise, didn't I? Couldn't wait until the morning to eat. Had to get those fries. Well, they sure tasted good as I was running -- no, make that sprinting -- back from the canal, trying to catch that precious, oh so precious 41 bus.

Not only were the fries keeping me from turning on the jets all the way until I tossed them before eating even half, but this was in the final days of my green Chacos [my mommy has since mailed me a new pair :)]. If you've ever had a pair of shoes where the sole is literally 95% ripped in half, and you fear with every step that it could be your last in a functioning pair of footwear, than you can envision what it might have been like to have had to sprint for nearly ten minutes in a desperate attempt to make that last bus.

I missed it by two minutes. And I sat down on the bench, head bowed in defeat, plotting my next move with the clock approaching 1 in the morning.

And that's when I met Martin.

Just a few seconds after that, up came Daniella, who joined his five-o'clock-shadowed friend in poring over the bus stop time table, their faint hope of a miracle shuttle flickering like a candle in an oxygen-deprived air raid shelter.

"We missed the last one, don't bother," I said from my perch, trying to put them out of their misery.

"I don't understand," Martin retorted -- referring to my English, not the fact that he had been at least seven minutes too late.

"Termino. Finit. Kaput." I hoped a stew of foreign languages would convey the gist of our situation.

"Are you going to the youth hostel?" the stranger looking like a California beach kid asked in a yet-to-be-identified Mediterranean accent.

"Sí."

And so the three of us went into the train station, hoping to find some other means of getting back. But we were clutching at straws. There were only two options: Split a cab three ways, or walk the six kilometers back in the dark.

"I think we should walk," Daniella said.

And you know you can't chicken out once the first guy mans up.

I'm no stranger to long walks back to my bed in an unknown city with only nondescript bus routes as a guide in the pitch black -- my first night going out while studying abroad in Geneva, the same thing happened to my eventual best friend Coop and I. But no matter how many times you've done it, a four-letter word is always the first thing to come out of your mouth when the realization that a death march awaits hits you.

And a death march it was.

In those same Chacos -- the ones in worse condition than Ariel Sharon -- I began a long, grueling journey back to the hostel that I hadn't even sought out in the first place. None of us really even knew where we were going. English was the only option (nada español, pas de français); and their English wasn't too great. Just thirty minutes into what turned out to be a two-hour journey (we got back at 3 a.m.), my right leg mysteriously began to fall asleep, until the sensation of pins and needles throughout the appendage was so intense that I had to walk on the other side of the slanted road in an attempt to counteract the pain.

But we did establish some common ground.

"What are you doing in Holland?" they asked me, our names still a mystery to one another.

"I am going to a reggae festival, a reggae concert, in Eindhoven. Do you listen to reggae music?" I said as slowly and as phonetically as possible.

"Why yes, of course," the short one -- Martin -- said with an unspoken "Duh."

They knew all of the the bands that I was to see just two days later, but that wasn't what really cemented our bond. About twenty minutes after we took a break to chill and take a breather together, I started the conversation back up with a question.

"Do you know Gentleman?"

Both of them stopped dead in their tracks, they were so excited.

"He is our favorite!" the big one -- Daniella -- said with a grin. "We saw him at a festival in Italy two years ago. We no know him, and then, we hear, and we say, 'This, this is good!'"

After that, it suddenly seemed ridiculous to me that we still did not know one another's names.

"What's your name?" I stretched out my hand.

"Martin," the five-o'clock-shadow said with a smile and a firm grip. "Daniella," the pony tail said in the same fashion.

"Bayless. Nice to meet you."

And on we went, until we came to the bus stop that we would have reached about 100 minutes earlier had we all just been a little more punctual.

"YES!" We all did a little jig and slapped palms, a bolt of energy injected into our legs for the last ten minutes of the walk.

I never thought I'd be so happy to see a bunch of cows in my life. Our hostel's next-door neighbors were still awake -- and I swear I heard one of them say, "Missed the bus, huh?"


Martin and Daniella didn't have the cash to accompany me to the Sundance, unfortunately -- they were on the last legs of their journey, and if they had handed over 30€ each for the show, they wouldn't have been able to do what it was they had come to Holland to do in the first place.

But after that night -- and after my experiences with Andreas, Luisa, Mateo and Sara as well -- Italians are most definitely okay in my book.