The Road Home

I am writing this from home, several days after our fabulous trip to Tuscany. I should have written it Monday while the last two travel days were fresh on my mind, but I don’t actually remember Monday. Jet lag is a real thing. Tuesday was worse. I finally started making some sense yesterday. Today I thought I might finish out the record of our trip.

We were ready with our bags in the lobby at 10 am. Everyone’s bags were expanded to capacity. Judy had an extra she had purchased from a street vendor. Cindy was carrying shopping bags in hopes of finding a street vendor selling luggage at the train station. She did.

We learned that only the first people on the train had any hope of storing their luggage in the luggage area. Everyone else had to heave their bags above the seats into an open shelf. We were poised and ready when our train to Milan pulled in. The luggage area was already full. It took three of us to launch each bag up into the overhead. We did not pack light. I am stunned that nothing fell and no one was crushed.

We had booked an airport hotel to make our departure easier the next morning. I don’t think any of us realized how far out of the city the Milan airport really is. Cindy’s phone had died, so she and Dana raced to the Apple store while the rest of us took our luggage to the hotel. Italian cab drivers are not big fans of luggage. Beth and Sally grabbed one, but when the other cabbies saw how much luggage Judy and I had they flatly refused to take us. We finally looked pitiful enough that one relented. The airport is twenty-three miles from the train station. That does not count the side trip we almost made to the in-town location of our hotel. It was a perfectly nice airport hotel. It was not a luxury four-bedroom villa with a view. The four of us briefly considered not driving back into the city, but a glass of wine and a few salty snacks, and we were ready to start again.

By the time we got there, Cindy and Dana had eaten and we were starved. It was too late for lunch and the nicer restaurants don’t open until 7:30. We pounced on the first real option. It is the only time that the leisurely Italian service was almost a problem. Cindy and Dana joined us for wine at a much nicer restaurant. Cindy, Dana, and Sally decided to call it a night, so Judy, Beth, and I struck out for one last Milano adventure.

We were searching for a particular store, which we never did find, but, oh the stores we found! I finally bought the gift I wanted for Langley. Beth tried on fabulous shoes. But it was Judy, our pro, who came home with the snakeskin boots with geometrical red heels. The lovely people at that store gave us suggestions for dinner. We wandered down several of the prettiest, most elegant alleys I have ever seen before arriving at Bice.

We had no reservation and the card the store manager had given us had zero influence on the Maitre’ D. I believe it was Judy’s stylish coat and shopping bags that got us in. They said we could have dinner if we promised to be out by 9 pm. Since we’d had a long day and an even longer one the next day, we were happy to comply. The menu was completely in Italian. While none of us speak Italian, I can translate a menu well enough to find all my favorite things. The waiter was appalled that we were only ordering one course. When we explained that we were there on sufferance and that was all we had time for, he relented and became the most charming of servers. Dinner was excellent and perfect for our last night in Italy.

We arrived at the airport in plenty of time. We were told we had to check-in before we could go show our purchases to the Italian tax people. Unfortunately, when we checked-in, they took our bags. When we asked how to get to the tax place, the look on the girl’s face was grim. NOW she explained that we were supposed to have done that before checking our bags. She told us to go to the office inside security and maybe it would be ok.

I am not a shopper. I learned on this trip how much of an amateur I really am. I probably bought the least of the six of us. I don’t have buyers remorse. I have serious “did-not-buy” remorse. And yet, of the six of us, only my tax receipt was rejected. Yes. Guess who is getting a sizable bill from the Italian government in the next few weeks. The man actually said, “I feel sorry for you madam.” I did not believe him.

We made our way to the gate and were soon on our way to America. We arrived uneventfully at JFK, and then the fun began. We had less than an hour to change planes. That is not a big deal until you realize you have to go through customs, claim your bags, change terminals, recheck your bags, and go back through security. Once we had our bags we headed to the area to recheck only to find a large and somewhat confused crowd. Were we supposed to be in the Alitalia line or the Delta line? We had been on Alitalia, but would now be on Delta. Someone asked one of the helpers who looked at us in horror and said, “If you stay here you will never make your plane. Take your bags and run to the next terminal and check them there. Run. With your bags. To the next terminal which is outside and up a big hill. In the dark. Did you get that run part? We ran. Again I say, we did not pack light, especially coming home.

When we arrived, the lady there looked at our tickets and shared her colleague’s horror. She yelled, “just bring me your bags and run.” I don’t think she realized there were five of us. (Sally had flown on a different flight.) I despaired of ever seeing my checked bags again and ran.

We hit the security line and none of our TSA Prechecks worked because our tickets were Alitalia, not Delta. Someone, a Delta person or an Alitalia person, I am not sure who, told us to cut the line. So, we raced around perfectly nice people who were waiting patiently in line and cut in front of them with yelled apologies. Then we got to the actual screening and that is where the wheels really came off.

By now, we were in different lines. We had to take our shoes off and electronics out. The nice man in line behind me gave me his arm as I wrestled my shoes free and hauled my iPad out. I had checked all the liquids. Since we had cut line, we were trying to cram our bags onto an already full carousel. At JFK, you have to use bins, so we were then grabbing bins and frantically tossing everything into the bins. Finally, our bins went through, and Cindy’s was pulled. Beth and I thought we were through free and clear, so we headed for the gate. About thirty yards down the hall, I realized I didn’t have my purse. It was in Cindy’s bin that had been pulled. I told Beth to go on to the gate (basically, save yourself) and tell them that we were coming. I raced back to security, only could not find it. I finally stopped in the middle of the concourse and YELLED “where is security?” It was not my finest hour. One poor man took pity and pointed. I found Cindy still waiting for them to get to her bin, but my purse was safe with the TSA people.

Finally, Cindy, Dana, Judy, and I raced to our gate, which led outside to a shuttle bus waiting area. I thought we were spending the night at JFK. Amazingly, miraculously, we made our plane.

Our bags were the first to arrive in the baggage claim in Nashville. I am sure they were thrown on that Delta plane at the last possible second. We said our goodbyes and headed home. It seemed impossible to have started the day in Italy and now to be in the very familiar Nashville airport. It seemed even stranger to quit our new tribe of sisters and return to our own homes, or at least it did for me.

I loved the trip. I would love to spend a month in Florence and Tuscany. I loved the food. I think I could get the hang of (real, serious, professional ) shopping if I had just a little more time and tutelage. I am thankful for the whole experience. But, more than Italy, more than our villa, and the sights, and the history, and the beauty, I am thankful for my new friends. Who knows when I will go back to Florence, but I have three new friends I hope to see often and two I treasure even more. I know their stories. I care about their families. We have shared experiences that only we can laugh about. This was the trip of a lifetime, but they are the gift of a lifetime.