Perhaps the trip really began when we were trying to catch a train from Milano to Venezia. The man upstairs told me we wanted Platform 6. Once we got there, that train didn't correspond to the information on our tickets. My companion approached a man in uniform who was sweeping the steps of a train car. They seemed to have difficulty communicating, she in English, he in Italian. So I took my ticket and pointed out the confusion. He moved my finger and examined the whole ticket. Through gestures, he showed us where we were to go. It was 8 we were looking for, Platform 8.

Then he kissed my companion's hand. She tugged away and walked to the other side of the platform as he then took my hand. But I didn't pull away and he didn't let go. He looked me directly in the eyes. Words spilled from his mouth, a flow of Italian. He told me I was beautiful, very beautiful, to never forget this, to not let anyone tell me otherwise. He said it again as he took my face between his hands and kissed one cheek, then the other and then firmly, squarely on my mouth.

I felt a little dizzy, but, oddly, I bowed and said 'grazie.'

I suppose I could have acted repulsed or insulted, but I wasn't really. I hadn't been kissed on the mouth in several years. I wasn't sure if perhaps this was a simple man. He seemed sincere and I accepted what was offered, and was moved.

I'm not at all what most people would call beautiful. But the train man was right. I am very beautiful. And you, you are very beautiful, too.