"Well, I'm gonna meet friends in Rome, but I study here, so you see..."
The rather pleasant conversation was rudely interrupted by the customary immigration officer. In international trains in Europe, rather than going through immigrations at the station, the officers board the train at the border.
"Can I see your passport?"
"Sure," Stacy said as she handed her passport to the officer.
"You are American," the officer said while at the same time smiling. This was followed by the look. The look is what would normally result in a pepper spray attack by the receiver of the look in most countries, or in Pakistan, a clubbing with hockey sticks by the receiver's brothers at night. In Italy however, the look is how the male members greet members of the opposite sex. Satisfied, the officer moved on to my passport which I duly handed over.
"Pakistano!" The customary exclamation that any Pakistani who travels abroad would be very used to had escaped his lips. Very carefully, he studied my passport. "I can not read this, do you have another card?"
"Another card?"
"I think he wants some other form of identification,"Stacy tried to help.
"I see, I have my student card if it helps." Meanwhile, another officer had joined the previous one thinking about how to deal with the calamitous occasion of a Pakistani crossing the border. They both studied my card and passport carefully for about ten minutes. I could heard the occasional "Edimburgo" in their conversation. After that they disappeared with my documents.

I was waken up again after an hour by a much more respectable immigrations officer, and by the looks of him, much more important one too. "You from Pakistan?" I could just nod. After studying it for another five minutes, he finally handed over the documents to me. The joys of being a Pakistani.