Flying Back in Time

Can you imagine trying to fit four months worth of living and shopping into one piece of luggage? Maybe your geometric mind can, but mine could not. Two days before I was to depart my lovely town of Viterbo, I stopped by a local shop to pick up a duffel bag. I thought my five euro plastic bag that I could literally fit inside of was the perfect thing to cure my packing anxiety. Well….with now two huge pieces of luggage packed to their max of fifty pounds, I still had a good portion of my small Italian bedroom to pack away. I began to unpack things which perhaps were not as important as I had first thought they were: underwear, socks, wool jackets, books, etc.  The more important things such as souvenirs, gifts from my new found friends, and maps found their way into the disaster of a packing job

Nothing was as organized as it had been when my grandmother, father, and friend, Jamie had assisted me in packing for the beginning of my journey. My mind had been confused, chaotic, and crazed while my luggage had been organized, cataloged, and secure upon my departure for my adventure. Now that my adventure was coming to a close, my mind was organized, cataloged and secure, while my luggage was confused, chaotic, and crazed!!!

Goodbyes were difficult. I wouldn’t allow anyone to actually say the word “Goodbye” because it sounded too final. Instead, amidst tightly-gripped hugs and tear-stained cheeks were numerous “Ciaos.”

On the day of our departure, Kiara and I woke early, gulped down some steamy hot starbucks coffee and walked through the house like zombies, checking everything one last time. Our bags were stacked on the floor of the living room waiting for us to be tempted to throw them down the spiral staircase we had awkwardly struggled to maneuver when we had first arrived.

. Up and down we went, carrying one incredibly heavy piece of luggage at a time to the cobblestoned street below. Surprisingly there were others up at this ridiculously morning hour—others heading toward the train station to begin their journey to work in the city. Within fifteen feet of our apartment, one of Kiara’s wheels broke on one of the five pieces of luggage she was attempting to carry as well as an oversized blanket that wouldn’t fit into any of her bags. I was already in front of Massimo’s butcher shop while she was still barely away from our front door. When she finally caught up to me in less than a chipper mood, the strap on my body bag broke. Rather than taking the time to curse the day such a cheap bag was made, I swung the bag over my shoulder pretending I was in bootcamp. We had left with plenty of time to make it to the station, but with our cumbersome load, we were making slower progress than anticipated and we still had an amphitheater of stairs to tower with all of our bags before crossing a wide road to the train station.

Thank goodness for early risers. While I carried all of my bags to the top of the stairs with little more trouble than an aching shoulder and perspiring temple, Kiara was struggling. Five, FIVE, different rushing Italian passerbys helped her to the top of the stairs and we made it across the road to the ghost-like train station. Once we had loaded all of our bags onto the train we collapsed onto the plastic lined seats. I felt like throwing up. 

Several stops later the train was beginning to fill up. One Italian man began to curse us in Italian for taking up so much room with our luggage, but what could we do. Mi dispiace!

When we finally arrived in Roma, we had to switch trains, not an easy thing with eight bags total between the two of us. Awaiting our next train we encountered two other USAC students on their way to the airport as well. When we got onto the train we took up the entire standing space in front of the sliding doors. When the train pulled to a stop ten minutes later, we created an assembly line to get all of our bags off. 

Conveniently the train’s final destination was the airport. No more overpriced bus to reach the airport in Rome which RyanAir flew out of. We had made it. Almost. As we were walking into the airport, I was stopped, by airport security. They took my passport as my friends continued on into the airport with puzzled looks on their faces. Apparently I looked like a terrorist. What were they going to do with me? Was my Italian good enough to explain? What should I even explain? Where I had been? Why my luggage was so large? No, there’s no body in there! After what seemed like forever, they returned my passport and let me go on my way. My friends were waiting for me, but only a twenty step walk later we parted ways to reach our separate terminals. 

Security was a pain, as it always is. They stopped to search my bag, saying there was liquid inside of it. No there was not. There was glass, but certainly not any liquids! Once I made it through security, after a defensive debate about the good naturedness of Italians (some tourists had not had the most pleasant of experiences) I found a café to have a much needed breakfast. While I was devouring my last Italian pastry, two more USACers found me. Although none of them were on my flight, I was comforted at the fact that I could still see these people that I would most likely never see again. 

My first flight landed eight (I get confused with all of the time changes, but I think it was about an eight hour trip) hours later in Dulles Airport. After a delayed flight due to the rainy weather, I made it into Denver. I love the Denver airport, but at this point I just wanted to be home. I did however have enough time to go to the TCBY which I had staked out in my memory from the previous time I had been in the Denver airport (a period which lasted 18 hours waiting for my return flight). Landing in Sacramento a huge sense of happiness and relief overwhelmed me. Coming down the escalator I could see my Mom and Dad waiting for me, smiling when they saw my exhausted, sweaty, sore self descending. It was past midnight, thanks to my delays, and I wanted to tell my parents everything with my eyes closed. 

We waited around the one operating luggage wheel, watching one black bag after black bag circle around. My Dad laughed as he lugged my overstuffed black bag off of the conveyer and we waited for my second bag to make its way up from the belly of my plane. Less and less people stood with us eyeing the bags anxiously. As the conveyer screeched to a halt, my fears were confirmed: my body bag was lost. The small airport office was still open. I gave them my information and was told my bag was still in Denver. Perfect! It would be fed-exed in the morning and would arrive several days to Sonora after I would. 

To complete my journey in full circle my parents had mini doughnuts and a Dr. Pepper in the car awaiting my growling stomach. Not the healthiest welcome back, but I was grateful! The ride home was difficult because I was tempted to close my eyes but my adrenaline was pumping too strongly from flying so far back in time. I hadn’t seen nighttime in 27 hours, until I touched down in California. 

Climbing into my own bed was one of the best sensations I have experienced. I instantly dropped into a deep coma, already readjusted to the sound of the crickets outside my window and the speeding cars on our road. I only slightly missed the sound of the church bells ringing at seven in the morning to announce a new day.

Parigi-the long awaited

Exactly a month has gone by since four girls set out for a long night in the airport. After a carefully worded debate with my roommate, I convinced her a night spent in the Rome airport was going to be a much more restful night than the night we spent in Termini sleeping on pee-soaked concrete floors.  By the time we reached the airport most of the clean tile floor was already occupied with the sleek lumps of sleeping bag-covered bodies. 

 Curling up in front of a humming Coca Cola machine I punched my backpack into submission beneath my head. Three hours later I was still awake and my toes had begun to tingle from the cold. Another two hour wait and we made our way into the terminal to wait for airport security to open.

I saw my first sunrise in Paris—the city of love—from the blurry window of our two hour bus ride. First stop was breakfast. And what better than freshly made crepes!

A short walk later and we were at our first main attraction: The Arc of Triumph. In the center of a huge roundabout, it took us a moment to figure out how to cross the busy road. Fifty feet from where we stood admiring the beautiful architecture there was what appeared to be a subway entrance, but in fact it was not, An underground tunnel lead us up to the beautiful monument in all of its glory.

 These are converse shoes--very creative

 Boat race anyone?

Walking down the main shopping strip I was greeted by several familiar faces: Gucci, Sephora, Starbucks, Cartier, etc. Street performers stopped my window shopping on several corners. A large crowd pulsed around a group of young men flipping in the air and spinning on their heads. I was just walking away when Michael Jackson’s Thriller came on their boombox, pulling me back to watch their performance.

The shops dropped away as we made our way closer and closer to the Louvre. Several different waterworks allowed us to pause in the horrible heat and enjoy the waters mist. Then, there it was. In all of its sunkissed glory: the Louvre. Of course my first thought upon seeing the spectacular glass pyramid was Tom Hanks. That may seem weird, but for those of you who have seen The DaVinci Code, you understand. Surprisingly the line did not take long and then we were inside the incredibly humid museum—the glass acts as a large magnifying glass and we humans as small ants being sizzled alive by the sunbeams. Photography was allowed inside the museum, but only with no flash, so some of the photos are a bit blurry. 

It is said that the majority of people who go to the Louvre solely go to see the Mona Lisa. I hate to admit it, but I am one of those people. As soon as we were inside, I found a map, charted my course and set out. The room was swarming with people, mostly Asians with large hats and even larger cameras. I was pushed and pulled, jostled and stepped on, until I was in front of the Leonardo’s bella. I had been warned that she would be smaller than I would expect, and yet I was still surprised. Someone so great as DaVinci, and someone so famous as Mona Lisa, I would have expected a painting at least the size of The Virgin and Child with St. Anne and St. John the Baptist, which I saw in the National Gallery when I was in London. However, great majesty comes in her small size: such mystery could be seen behind those faithful eyes that follow you about the room.

Artists and art where everywhere!

After a long, sweaty day that had begun the day before, we were all ready to curl up in our beds and fall into a blissful rest. Our host, Dafol, had other plans for the evening. After stopping to pick up two bottles of wine, we headed to the canal for a late-night picnic. The underground was packed with girls dressed in short skirts and too much makeup and tall men with cigarettes stuck behind their ears. There wasn’t enough space to hold on to one of the grips, so we held on to one another, swaying with the lurches and stops of the train.

When we got to the canal I was amazed at how many people were lined up along the water edge. Groups of friends drinking wine, singing along to a guitar, or playing bocci ball were laughing and calling to one another all around me. Sitting with Dafol and her friend Emmauelle, I embraced Paris culture. The food was fantastic. All of it was finger food and Dafol had made these amazing crackers with more spices and herbs than I can name. The bocci ball games continued on behind us until they had to squint to see the small plastic ball they were aiming for. My own eyes began to ache, not only from exhaustion, but from straining along with the players to see whose ball came closest. A little past midnight we made our way back to the apartment more than ready to collapse.

We began the next morning very early. After a quick stop in a bakery, we made our way to stand in line to climb the Eiffel Tower. For almost an hour, we waited in line being hounded by the men walking up and down the line with miniature Tower keychains and silk scarves. Soon we realized we were standing in the wrong line. We were standing in the line for families with reservations, obviously we were not a family and we did not have reservations. We moved to the next line over, a much longer line and waited for another hour and a half.

Climbing the Eiffel Tower was like being on a thigh master for three hours; my legs burned. It did not take three hours to climb the Tower, but I felt I could have stayed on top of that tower looking at the beautiful city below freshly painted by the morning light. 

Notre Dame was breathtaking. No hunchback was in sight, but I did spot many gargoyles adorning the outside of the cathedral. Inside the cathedral I was surprised upon finding Mother Teresa’s tomb. Apparently though while I was standing in awe of Teresa I missed what was right next to her: Joan of Arc’s tomb. How I missed it I have no idea, but when we exited the cathedral I wanted to go back in for another round but we had more sights to see.

Musee d’Orsay was our next stop. Unfortunately photography was not allowed in this museum, which was a shame because some of my favorite artists were featured: Monet, Degas, Manet, Renoir, etc.

However, as everyone does, I did sneak some photos in, shame on me.

After dinner at an American restaurant, not our choice, we climbed to a viewpoint where we could see the entire city stretched forth below us. The view was spectacular!!! The Eiffel Tower was so beautiful lit up.

After enjoying the view we began a hunt for our last Paris chocolate crepes. As we began walking back down the hill, most of the creperies were already closed. We found one still open with a character behind the counter. He poured the batter onto the hotplate in front of him like a magician waving his wand. Within moments he flipped the thing pancake onto the other side spreading a thick layer of chocolate onto the hot, golden surface. With his other hand he expertly cut a banana into slices placing them into the warming chocolate. It was the best crepe I have ever, and possibly will ever, have. 

 The real Moulin Rouge!

Our time in Paris was over. The next morning we had to wake up earlier than necessary to reach the airport in time. On our last ever RyanAir flight we all fell asleep before lift off.