Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
get me wrong, I'm sure it's lovely during the daytime. I'm sure you did a great job, but I
really have to get to this man's house because I want a bed. I need to sleep. I mean, I am
the captain of kindness, you know? And the captain of kindness never gets lost!
I stopped and realized that whatever divine spirit might be out there may not respond to
pride—it is one of the seven deadly sins, isn't it? I needed to change my approach. Maybe
the spirits would respond better to pity?
Okay, universe, God, old chap. You see, driving this bike is not easy. It's very chal-
lenging. Emotionally and physically. It's very challenging. And to be lost in the middle of
nowhere doesn't help, I am afraid. I don't know. Sometimes I honestly just want to give up
and go home. All I really want to know is where Filipo lives. That's all. I'll do whatever
you want. I'll become a Hare Krishna, and I will sell Kindness One at a scrap heap in Del-
hi. Just help me find Filipo's.
I waited. And then I looked down at poor Kindness One, whose fate I had just bargained
with.
Help me, Kindness One. You're my only hope.
Then in the distance I saw two bright lights. Either this car was going to save me, or it
was going to run me over. At this point, I was willing to take my chances. I waved it down
and asked a rather bemused Italian man for help.
“Hello, hello. Um, Roberto Street?” I gesticulated wildly, hoping that if my English con-
fused him, maybe my arms would do the translating. Thankfully, my rudimentary know-
ledge of elementary school Latin allowed me to understand that he had no idea what I was
saying, and even worse, that he had no clue where Roberto Street was. I decided to take a
different tact.
“Filipo's! Filipo's!” I began to yell, waving my arms again in what I thought looked like
“Italian Speak.” And then the miracle happened.
“Filipo?” The older man asked, peering out of the car enough for me to now see his face.
He had gray hair and the type of tired eyes that come from a long day at work.
“Yes, Filipo!” I cried, beginning to feel those champagne bubbles of hope.
The man got out of his car and joined me in wild gesticulations, “Si! Si! Filipo's!”
To my absolute astonishment, this man whom I had met in the middle of a deserted
street, in the middle of a deserted town, in the middle of a deserted field, actually knew the
Italian stranger for whom I had been looking!
In broken English and a splattering of Italian, the man proceeded to explain where Filipo
lived.
