“‘SOP.’ What can that mean?” I wonder out loud.

“Soppresso. Suppressed, cancelled,” says a fellow traveler.

“Ugh,” I reply, silently, I think.

I’m standing in the Sarzana train station hoping to travel to nearby Savona to visit with my friend, Andrea Bagnasco, who, with partner Alessio Casati, operates Italy’s only vintage guitar repair shop, the aptly titled “Guitar Repair.”  I’ve planned to ride the train approximately three hours to Savona, lunch with Andy, Alessio, and their families, spend some time in their shop, and then return for the final night of music at the Acoustic Guitar Meeting.  Alas, my plan has been suppressed.  It will take me four hours to journey to the nearby town and over six to return.  Andrea (“Andy”) will later say to me, “Oh, Italian trains, you can’t rely on them.”  Indeed.

But, I do manage both to catch the next train and to navigate my transfer of trains in La Spezia and Genova.  Because I’ll arrive late in Savona, I pull out my mobile phone to advise Andy.  Alas, I’ve no service!  Hmm, what to do?  When I get off at Savona, I approach another traveler to borrow a phone, but Andy arrives just as I’m about to dig out his number.  Still, I’ve noted the friendliness of Italians, which will serve me well later in this supposedly short journey.

Andy drives me to his lab, or shop, which is located in a small, modern industrial building at the harbor.  After a quick tour, we stroll off toward a seafood restaurant located next to the dock.  Andy’s son and wife and his partner Alessio and his two children join us.  We spend the next hour dining and talking and, faced with a marked language barrier, I communicate with the kids by making paper airplanes.  I do manage to introduce a bit of joy to their day, though I’m not sure that the other adults, as they scramble to ensure that the kids don’t end up for a swim in “il mar,” appreciate the festivities as much as the kids and I.

With lunch over, we begin to stroll back to the lab.  I enlist Alessio’s son as my “maestro de Italiano” and he schools me in the word in his language for nearly everything we see along the way.  By the time we reach the lab, I’ve got both a language teacher and new, young friend.

“The lab,” says Andy, “is small, but it’s all that we need.” It seems perfect to me.  They’ve got room for tools, have guitars in various states of repair hanging from the walls, and have a loft to hold other guitars and cases.  Being Italy’s only site for the repair of vintage guitars, this modest shop sports some great instruments. We pass around a pair of lovely 1937 Martins – an 0-18 and a 000-28 – and a 1944, maple, “Banner” Gibson LG-2.  I manage to play a couple of my arrangements so as to continue to spread my low bar through Italy; Andy and Alessio run through a number of bluegrass standards.

Unfortunately, my schedule and the train beacon, so the gents schlep me back to the station and I head back toward Sarzana.  But, Andy, Alessio, and I do make plans for next year’s festival.  So, I board the train knowing that I’ll return within the year.  Plus, my spirits are buoyed by knowing that I’ve only a single train transfer to navigate on my return.

The train ends up being a “local” that seems to stop nearly every kilometer. I begin to worry that I’ll miss all but the final set or two of tonight’s music.  At least I’m transferring in the small La Spezia station with which I am already familiar.  Three hours later when we pull into the station, I’m not worried about making my connection.  I hop off the train, march directly to the listing of departures to determine the appropriate platform, or binario, look up to the screen and see …  “SOP.” Uh, oh.

“Not suppressed,” I utter.  “Oh, yes, sir, the train is suppressed.”  I look to my left and see a smiling young couple.  The young woman, in spectacular English, says, “Come with us, we will find another train.”

Alas, there is no other train.  “We will call our friends,” says my guide. “It is the only solution.” Sarzana is only a twenty minute drive, “So our friends will be here in only forty minutes.” What do Italian youths stranded at train stations do? Why, eat at McDonald’s, of course.  So I tag along to that establishment that I consistently avoid in all countries, including my own.  But I do manage to generate smiles when I treat my guests to some Italian fast food.

Finally, the friends arrive.  The driver impresses by blazing along the narrow, poorly light roads while rolling a cigarette in one hand.  The kids chatter away and occasionally my translator summarizes the conversation.  “All the way from America!” “Here for a music festival?” And, “He’s only summarizing today’s football game.”

As we part, we trade email addresses and I invite my hosts to visit me in my home one day.  “Oh, that would be a dream come true.”

I arrive in Sarzana far too late to see the festival’s culmination.  But, I spend my final evening here secure in the knowledge that I’ve experienced what my saviors tonight called “the real Italy.”

I hope to experience more of it next year.