#communicationbeyondwords

An Austrian couple on the same train advised me to rush to the Italian train as soon as we arrived at Brennero station, as there wouldn't be much time to make the transfer. When we reached the station, I anxiously looked around with other passengers who were also heading to Italy.

"Italy is that way!" someone shouted, and I followed the crowd, but my bicycle and bulky luggage slowed me down. By the time I reached the other platform, the train was already whistling, ready to depart.

The train floor was much higher than the platform, and I couldn't lift my bicycle with all the luggage attached. I quickly unloaded my bags, tossed them on the ground, threw my bike into the train compartment, and jumped back onto the platform to retrieve my gear. A train attendant saw me struggling and ran down to help with the remaining luggage. We leaped back onto the train just as it started moving.

"Thank you!" I gasped, taking my bags from the attendant. "I'm sorry, I didn't have time to buy a ticket. I need to get one now." Though I had made it onboard, I wanted to buy a ticket quickly before getting caught without one.

The attendant gestured calmly to reassure me and pointed toward someone ahead. Looking around, I realized that no one had bought tickets—the conductor was making his way through the train compartment, collecting payments from everyone.

I paid sixteen euros for the second segment of the journey. Bicycle transport on Italian trains didn't require an additional fee. I found a comfortable seat and continued enjoying the effortless travel.

By the time I reached Bolzano, it was almost midnight. Following the address I had copied into my notebook, I headed straight to my Couchsurfing host Tina's home. Tina lived with her boyfriend and a small cat that would fetch balls and bring them back for you to throw. Their apartment was on the second floor—with a guest room and master bedroom on the left, and a kitchen-cum-living room plus a bathroom on the right.

After settling my luggage in the guest room, I overheard Tina and her boyfriend discussing buying cat food the next day. Wait—how could I understand Italian? Listening more carefully, I realized they were speaking German.

"Hello!" I interrupted their conversation. "Excuse me, were you just communicating in German? I thought you were Italian?"

"Haha! We are Italian, but before that, our ancestors were German. After World War I, Bolzano became part of Italy, so there are more German-speaking residents here than Italian-speaking ones," Tina explained with a smile.

"Here, we combine the best of different cultures: the German punctuality and cleanliness, and Italian cuisine," Tina's boyfriend proudly added.

"Do you also speak Italian?" This was an interesting discovery that broke my stereotypes about language and national identity.

"Yes! Both German and Italian are our mother tongues," Tina said.

"I wish I could have two mother tongues," I said enviously. Being fluent in two languages without going through the painful process of memorizing vocabulary sounded wonderful.

"Oh! You wouldn't envy us if you worked in a government office. You'd have to type every document and make every sign twice. I'm sure you'd prefer speaking just one language," Tina laughed. Both she and her boyfriend worked at the city government office.

That certainly didn't sound like a good job. As a Taiwanese saying goes: "You can't have everything good at once." Apparently, knowing too many languages isn't something everyone would be happy about.

After leaving Bolzano, I found myself cycling on heavenly roads.

A wide, smooth bike path ran alongside the Adige River, with the riverbank on one side and plains on the other. The valley created a path that cut through the mountains like Moses parting the sea, carving out a flat road that meandered with the river's course.

Italy's northern regions had begun to snow, so I decided to speed up my journey south, hoping to escape the snow and reduce the pain of riding in the cold wind.

Where would I stay tonight? I hadn't found a Couchsurfing host to take me in. I had left my newly acquired Italian phone number on the Couchsurfing website two days ago, hoping some kind soul would offer me shelter for the night. With this slim hope, I was prepared to set up my "big plate" tent again at dusk to battle the night and cold.

Italian roads were like a maze, bewildering to navigate. Although my phone had GPS capabilities and I had downloaded offline maps before departing, I simply didn't like using them. Getting lost in Italy was too much fun! I just needed to stop my bike, and passersby would gradually come closer, close enough for me to ask: "Excuse me, do you speak English?"

"English? No, no, no! Italian! Italian!" Then they would chatter away endlessly, pointing at my bike one moment and gesturing in all directions the next.

I once saw a movie where the protagonist described Italians: their primary mode of communication isn't language but body movements. Now I deeply understood this communication style, as I could always get the information I needed through body language after some initial miscommunication. For example, when asking for directions to the train station, I just had to make train sounds while mimicking wheels turning, and they would completely understand and point the way. Alternatively, I could write the name of the city I wanted to visit on paper, show it to them while patting my bike, pointing at myself, and making cycling motions—this way, they would understand I was asking for cycling routes rather than highway directions.

I had just gotten directions from a mailman and was heading down the larger road on the left. The roads here were small and complex, with houses built into the hillsides, sometimes requiring me to pass beneath structures connecting second floors of adjacent buildings. Now, having circled around to the back of a cluster of houses, I faced two more paths to choose from. "Damn it! Which way should I go? Oh well, I'll take the larger one!" Just as I was about to push forward, a sharp whistle sounded behind me.

Instinctively looking back, I saw someone opening a window on the upper floor of a house I had just passed. He called out loudly in words I couldn't understand, but from his gestures, I could tell he was telling me to take the smaller path. He must have overheard my conversation with the mailman and noticed I was going the wrong way. I responded with a simple "Thank you" in Italian and headed in the direction he pointed.

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Closing Remarks

✨ Your Turn: Have you ever been in a situation where language barriers became an unexpected adventure? Or perhaps you've found creative ways to communicate beyond words? I'd love to hear about your experiences!

📅 Time Frame: This story chronicles my journey across two continents between November 2013 and October 2014. Published independently in Taiwan in 2021, it is now shared as an English serialized novel through AI translation, connecting with friends worldwide to share this journey of personal growth.