Thursday, September 13, 2007
Trains, Planes, and Automobiles
I am on a train somewhere between Pisa and Florence. My luggage is somewhere in Canada routing on the Blue Jays while I am anxiously awaiting it’s arrival to an address I don’t yet know. It is 9:53 pm on my second day in transit. Gloria, the oh-so-friendly women I spoke to at the baggage claim in Pisa informed me that I could not file a claim until I reached my final destination. I suppose my final destination is Boston. Living without that suitcase would prove difficult, but definitely not impossible.
I was woken yesterday by my refreshingly naïve eleven year old cousin at 8 am.
“Shelly, it’s five of eight, I have to leave for the bus soon. I know you told me that you would walk me to the stop, but if you want to sleep, I -“
“I’m coming baby, let me just brush my teeth.”
Tori missed the bus by 45 seconds, while my Aunt Linda was still packing her lunch that would have to be dropped off later. I ended up dropping Tori at her generic elementary school in the middle of suburbia. We sang ‘Born to be Wild’ in it’s entirety on the way to 6th grade. I should have taken it as a sign when the blur of the big yellow school bus and flashing lights whizzed by us before we could open the front door, that this trip across the pond was going to fall dangerously on the line where easy intercepts really flippin’ difficult.
I suffered from a ridiculous case of anxiety all day. It was the type of anxiety that you want to curb with coffee and nicotine, but really should be treated with a balanced breakfast and counting backwards from ten. The only two times I remember the anxiety leaving me were before I even left the South Shore.
The first was playing one on one kickball with Jack on my Aunt’s perfectly manicured law, the only one on the block that manages to remain an envious shade of green while a water ban is in full effect. Jack, my four year old cousin does not fall for “The quiet game”, “The let’s see what’s on Nickelodeon game”, or even, “The I’ll give you some ice cream if you leave me alone for five minutes game”. Jack is way too smart for the latter of the three, he can now push a chair across the kitchen floor and open the freezer to get his own ice cream. Kick ball was nothing more than me kicking a 3-dollar rubber ball from Wal-Mart in the air and Jack trying to catch it. The game of kickball was mindless, and quite fun to watch Jack, the miniature man run around aimlessly with this eyes on the sky trying desperately to catch a blue rubber ball. I eventually convinced Jack to take the puppy for a walk. The new puppy, as you will have it, is actually not a puppy at all. Benny, even though he came from a puppy mill, is actually 3 years old and has the muscle strength of a veal chop. Therefore, ‘walking the dog’ is a loosely used term for, ‘ Let’s put Benny on a leash and have Jack follow in around in a 4 foot radius for ten minutes so the grown ups can actually get something done’. Benny gets walked about 25 times a day.
The second time the anxiety left me was actually during a conversation about going number 2. I’ve never been one for bathroom talk, menstrual talk, or sex talk, but for some reason, I felt it necessary to share my fear of having to poop in public places for the next three months. The conversation stopped almost immediately after a few jokes about Hershey, not the candy bar, and a few about Crop Dusting, and we were nowhere close to a corn field. The whole idea of having that conversation put me at ease and reassured the validity of on of my favorite pieces of literature as a child, “Everybody Poops”.
I was greeted at Logan with a cellular telephone call from Mum. My flight was delayed due to the weather at the JFK International Airport in New York City. The Delta customer service representative reassured Mum several times that I would absolutely make my connecting flight to Heathrow in time. The Delta customer service representative convinced me that there was no way that I will make my connecting flight, and should hop on the next Delta Express to LaGuardia and take a taxi to JFK. I said sure, as long as I make my connecting flight to London. Somewhere down the line, I ended up boarding my initial flight to JFK and my one and only suitcase was on it’s way to LaGuardia. Womp. Woomp. Wooomp.
I eventually arrived in Rome and a sparkle of hope that I would finally have my face in the Tuscan sun was fizzled the moment I realized my six hour lay over quickly became eight, as my 35 minute plane ride to Pisa was two hours delayed. I toyed with the idea of skipping the flight and taking a train straight to Florence, but thankfully remembered I had to argue with the women at the baggage claim at the Pisa airport. So, I decided instead to find a chair and sleep instead. Before naptime though, I needed one large bottle of water, and il panino formaggio. To be honest, that is one of the only phrases I know in Italian, a cheese sandwich. While in the Rome International Airport, I spoke entirely in the English accent I picked up on my layover in London. I did this for two reasons, to ease my frustration with not speaking Italian, and well, because it was terrifically fun to say words like ‘bloke’ and ‘fag’, and not have those two words enrage someone. I spoke in my new English accent until I found myself chime, “Hello Puppet”, to a small child. One look from the child’s mother and I realized it was better to sound like a dumb American than a pedophile from Chester.
Traveling across 3 state lines, an ocean, multiple countries, and through two Italian regions, proved my preconceived notion, that International travel, especially on the eleventh day of September, is more frustrating then watching The Sox close a game in mid-September. It already looks like this year will be better than the last.
I was woken yesterday by my refreshingly naïve eleven year old cousin at 8 am.
“Shelly, it’s five of eight, I have to leave for the bus soon. I know you told me that you would walk me to the stop, but if you want to sleep, I -“
“I’m coming baby, let me just brush my teeth.”
Tori missed the bus by 45 seconds, while my Aunt Linda was still packing her lunch that would have to be dropped off later. I ended up dropping Tori at her generic elementary school in the middle of suburbia. We sang ‘Born to be Wild’ in it’s entirety on the way to 6th grade. I should have taken it as a sign when the blur of the big yellow school bus and flashing lights whizzed by us before we could open the front door, that this trip across the pond was going to fall dangerously on the line where easy intercepts really flippin’ difficult.
I suffered from a ridiculous case of anxiety all day. It was the type of anxiety that you want to curb with coffee and nicotine, but really should be treated with a balanced breakfast and counting backwards from ten. The only two times I remember the anxiety leaving me were before I even left the South Shore.
The first was playing one on one kickball with Jack on my Aunt’s perfectly manicured law, the only one on the block that manages to remain an envious shade of green while a water ban is in full effect. Jack, my four year old cousin does not fall for “The quiet game”, “The let’s see what’s on Nickelodeon game”, or even, “The I’ll give you some ice cream if you leave me alone for five minutes game”. Jack is way too smart for the latter of the three, he can now push a chair across the kitchen floor and open the freezer to get his own ice cream. Kick ball was nothing more than me kicking a 3-dollar rubber ball from Wal-Mart in the air and Jack trying to catch it. The game of kickball was mindless, and quite fun to watch Jack, the miniature man run around aimlessly with this eyes on the sky trying desperately to catch a blue rubber ball. I eventually convinced Jack to take the puppy for a walk. The new puppy, as you will have it, is actually not a puppy at all. Benny, even though he came from a puppy mill, is actually 3 years old and has the muscle strength of a veal chop. Therefore, ‘walking the dog’ is a loosely used term for, ‘ Let’s put Benny on a leash and have Jack follow in around in a 4 foot radius for ten minutes so the grown ups can actually get something done’. Benny gets walked about 25 times a day.
The second time the anxiety left me was actually during a conversation about going number 2. I’ve never been one for bathroom talk, menstrual talk, or sex talk, but for some reason, I felt it necessary to share my fear of having to poop in public places for the next three months. The conversation stopped almost immediately after a few jokes about Hershey, not the candy bar, and a few about Crop Dusting, and we were nowhere close to a corn field. The whole idea of having that conversation put me at ease and reassured the validity of on of my favorite pieces of literature as a child, “Everybody Poops”.
I was greeted at Logan with a cellular telephone call from Mum. My flight was delayed due to the weather at the JFK International Airport in New York City. The Delta customer service representative reassured Mum several times that I would absolutely make my connecting flight to Heathrow in time. The Delta customer service representative convinced me that there was no way that I will make my connecting flight, and should hop on the next Delta Express to LaGuardia and take a taxi to JFK. I said sure, as long as I make my connecting flight to London. Somewhere down the line, I ended up boarding my initial flight to JFK and my one and only suitcase was on it’s way to LaGuardia. Womp. Woomp. Wooomp.
I eventually arrived in Rome and a sparkle of hope that I would finally have my face in the Tuscan sun was fizzled the moment I realized my six hour lay over quickly became eight, as my 35 minute plane ride to Pisa was two hours delayed. I toyed with the idea of skipping the flight and taking a train straight to Florence, but thankfully remembered I had to argue with the women at the baggage claim at the Pisa airport. So, I decided instead to find a chair and sleep instead. Before naptime though, I needed one large bottle of water, and il panino formaggio. To be honest, that is one of the only phrases I know in Italian, a cheese sandwich. While in the Rome International Airport, I spoke entirely in the English accent I picked up on my layover in London. I did this for two reasons, to ease my frustration with not speaking Italian, and well, because it was terrifically fun to say words like ‘bloke’ and ‘fag’, and not have those two words enrage someone. I spoke in my new English accent until I found myself chime, “Hello Puppet”, to a small child. One look from the child’s mother and I realized it was better to sound like a dumb American than a pedophile from Chester.
Traveling across 3 state lines, an ocean, multiple countries, and through two Italian regions, proved my preconceived notion, that International travel, especially on the eleventh day of September, is more frustrating then watching The Sox close a game in mid-September. It already looks like this year will be better than the last.
// posted by .elle. @ 2:59 PM 
