People We Meet On Vacation | Strangers On The Train

Ever had a stranger change the way you see the world — even for a moment?

The day started the way most of Poppy’s recent days had — anxious, hopeful, and mildly inconvenienced. She arrived in Italy on day three of an eight-day trip, thanks to either the incompetence of the United States government or the lingering aftershocks of COVID-19 — depending on who asked and how irritated she felt while telling the story.

All she’d seen of Rome so far was drizzle, cobblestone, and a fountain bathed in golden light at midnight. She ate the best slice of pizza of her life, alone under an awning. Her intended roommate never showed, which meant she had the room to herself — a small mercy. She would enjoy this vacation solo at night, surrounded by strangers during the day. It was the perfect combination for her first trip abroad.

The next morning she met the group of fifteen, who were exactly as she’d imagined: couples, retirees, and loud personalities already forming alliances. The energy reminded her of high school — not cruel, just cliquey enough to make her aware of herself. She’d always lived in that in-between space. Stylish enough to blend with the cool kids. Thoughtful enough to drift toward the nerds. Never fully claimed by either. As the women compared adventures from the night before, Poppy quietly detached and let herself observe Rome instead.

It was funny how a city could be known for honoring the past and still look like everywhere else. There were ghettos, graffiti, and homeless people. The only difference here was the glimpse of statues and historical landmarks woven in and around the city. By midmorning they were dragging luggage through the train station, which pulsed like an airport that had married a shopping mall and been raised on espresso. Suitcases hummed over tile. Announcements echoed overhead. The scent of coffee and pastries cut through everything. Poppy silently thanked herself for investing in the bright orange luggage — the multi-directional wheels were perfect for the narrow aisles. Great for everything, except lifting onto the platform.

Thankfully, he was there.

The men in her group were either busy with their wives or busy trying to impress foreign women. But he moved without hesitation. He swooped in like Clark Kent, grabbed the handle of her massive suitcase, and lifted the fifty-plus-pound bag like it was a knapsack. Poppy hated that it turned her on.

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly, hoping her curls weren’t plastered to her sweating face. She was a bigger girl, but she didn’t want to look helpless — especially in front of this fine-ass man. His mouth tilted like he was about to say something, but he didn’t. Instead, he nodded once, then turned his attention back to his suitcase without another word. No flirting. Not even a smile. Defeated, Poppy went to find her seat.

Why did I fly across the world with strangers? she thought for the hundredth time. Because being alone in Europe had to be better than being alone in a one-bedroom apartment in Detroit. For the last two years she had lived like a monk — partly due to COVID, mostly because of a heartbreak. This year was supposed to be different. No more scrolling Instagram watching other people live. She would be the one creating FOMO. So when her sister mentioned a ten-day Italy trip with a travel group, Poppy took it as a sign from the universe. So far, the universe was underperforming.

“You’re in 11C,” the trip captain announced, dressed like his glory days had peaked in 1996.

Poppy rolled her suitcase down the aisle and froze. 11C was next to him. The man who lifted her bag.

She cleared her throat. “I have the window.”

He glanced up from a red book with a spoon on the cover. He observed her for a moment, then stood without a word. As she slid past him, the scent of clean cotton and something faintly spicy followed. Up close, she guessed he was late twenties, maybe early thirties. A porn mustache. A small hoop earring. Not Clark Kent exactly — but definitely European fly. Poppy tried to recover from the unexpected spark, her eyes drifting to the four-top table across from them, where an elderly couple was settling in. The woman had white-blonde hair and bright eyes. The man wore an Einstein mustache and glasses to match.

“You’re American?” the woman asked almost immediately, in a New York accent.

“Guilty.”

“How long are you here?”

“Five more days. You?”

“Three weeks,” the woman beamed. “Our daughter works for Google.”

“She just needed babysitters,” the husband muttered.

“Oh, hush,” she laughed.

What started as small talk turned into a thirty-minute conversation about careers, longevity, and the art of choosing each other over and over again. They were high school sweethearts who had built an IT consulting firm. They had been married fifty years, and despite spending their entire lives together, they still didn’t seem sick of each other. The happiness felt real — contagious, even. Poppy’s chest tightened. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like to witness pure love, to want it so badly for herself. As the couple leaned into one another, Poppy found herself smiling without thinking. Even the swaggy European slipped off his headphones to listen, a faint smirk playing on his lips — amused and curious at once.

When the couple gathered their things at the next stop, Poppy was genuinely sad to see them go. The husband slid a business card toward her. “Stay in touch.”

As their table cleared, the stranger beside her murmured, “Kind of amazing, huh?”

“Romantic,” Poppy said.

“I don’t know about that.”

She turned toward him fully. “What? You don’t think it’s real?”

“People love to romanticize their lives on vacation,” he said in thick, deliberate English. “It’s easy to perform happiness for strangers.” His eyes held hers when he said it, like he was testing whether she performed too.

Poppy shivered under his gaze.

“That’s pessimistic.” She tried to recover.

“Or realistic.”

She studied him. “What do you have against love?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I just prefer honesty.”

The automated voice announced the next stop: Firenze.

“This is mine,” Poppy said, standing.

“Mine too,” he replied. “Would you like help again?”

“Yes, please.”

They moved toward the luggage rack together. He handed her suitcase down carefully. Poppy didn’t bother asking his name — she doubted she’d see him again anyway. He disappeared into the sea of strangers before she could change her mind.

The day unfolded easily after that. The nerdy girls gravitated toward her. The group loosened up. There was sightseeing, pasta, gelato, and more wine than necessary. That night they stumbled through darkened ancient streets surrounded by cathedral architecture, sloppily but proudly rapping along to a Beat Pills speaker. For a moment, Poppy felt these strangers were her partners in crime. Funny how a vacation could make you feel bonded to people you’d never see again.

Back at the hotel the group dispersed to their rooms. Poppy stepped onto her small patio and lit up. Smoke curled toward the moon as she exhaled gratitude and something else she couldn’t quite name. As happy as she felt, there was a sting — a quiet loneliness that deflated her bliss. She missed the intimacy of someone knowing her body. In a country known for love, surrounded by love, she had no lover at all. Hell, she hadn’t had great sex in years. Why did she come here again? She laughed to herself, finished the joint, and went to bed.

The next morning Poppy navigated cobbled backstreets — laundry strung between buildings overhead — to find the cooking class listed on her ticket. After several wrong turns and one mild argument with Google Maps, she found it. The room smelled like butter and olive oil. Long tables filled with elderly couples, families, and scattered tourists. An excited clatter filled the air. She slipped into the nearest open chair by the door and set her phone to vibrate. The clatter died down as the instructor entered, calling the class to attention in his heavy Italian-accented English.

The wind left her body as she locked eyes with the stranger from the train. The corners of his eyes crinkled in recognition as he smiled right at her. Something sparked low and steady, starting in her chest and slipping south before she could stop it. A smile spread across her face and anticipation churned in her stomach. Maybe the universe wasn’t underperforming after all.

Curious to see what happens next in Poppy’s Italian adventure? Let me know in the comments or an emoji. And I’ll see where the Gods of Love takes her next!