We reserved tickets for the train to Venice, which was good because it was packed. We found our seats, one already occupied by an Italian woman. The woman next to her swore that we were car 15, not car 6, so we went back along the train and found a conductor in the restaurant car, who confirmed it was car 6.

We went back and found the seats again, and now the other people Be was also occupied, by a man. The woman who swore we were in car 15 accepted our assertion and told the woman in my seat she had to live, which she did, but the man took out his glasses and closely inspected our ticket before grudgingly switching to the one empty seat across the aisle.

So we are now on the leg to Milan, with two grumpy seat mates.

(For Americans unused to passenger trains, they are often arranged with two sets of two facing each other, with a tiny table between them. That’s what we’re in—we have the outer two seats facing each other.)