Tag: travel

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Part of the Experience; Traveling with the Bickersons.

Posted on by Susannah Warner

“Give me ya confirmation number please,” the weary Delta employee with the crooked name tag reading “Yolanda,” said with a yawn. “Give me a break!” my husband quipped back. Yolanda’s eyes narrowed warily as she squinted at my phone until she looked up at the sound of him laughing. She laughed too. “Ms. Warner,” she said with a Georgia drawl, “I like ‘im, you should keep ‘im a’roun’! ” I laughed too as we got down to the serious business of figuring out how to get to Logan airport, even though all flights to and from were suspended due to a snowstorm.

We thought we had figured it out 5 hours ago back in Charleston, when the text cancelling our flight and rescheduling us for the next day had me on the phone, reluctantly agreeing to fly from Charleston to Atlanta, Atlanta to Richmond, Richmond to Boston, arriving some 14 hours after we’d started out, but at least on the same day. Hustling around the hotel room as soon as I’d hung up to quickly pack since our new flight was scheduled to leave in less than two hours, we checked out, google mapped our way to the car rental place, remembering to fill it up with gas first, took a shuttle to the airport and made it through security without incident. Well, not without having my bag searched as it almost always is, this time I think the culprit was my AirPods, which kept “showing something electronic, but I don’t know what it is, must be my imagination,” the bored agent shrugged, giving up after the third failed attempt. He gave me a once over, and apparently deciding I didn’t look like a criminal, waved me on.

Happily we flew to Atlanta, our carry-on bags having been checked for free as the flights were full, something that I did not like that my husband had agreed to at all, as I knew for a fact they would not be waiting for us in Boston.”You’re not the one who has to stuff them in the tiny overhead bin, then get them out again on three different planes today,” he huffed. Since he graciously did not add that the bags were overstuffed  because I always overpack and insist on bringing five pounds of beauty products, multiple shoes and clothes for every sort of weather event, I reluctantly agreed for the second time that day. “Well, at least let’s get our bag of medications out of them, just in case,” I said. Sighing, he proceeded to rifle through six days of dirty clothes, annoyance increasing with every second. “I thought you said you were putting them in your backpack,” he grumbled. “No! I told you that I couldn’t fit them in there and asked you to put them in your bag! Oh! Just forget it then, if it’s that much trouble!” Apparently finding it to be too much trouble, he closed the bags, and wheeled them away, which would be the last we saw of them for four days.

Quarrel temporarily forgotten, we complimented each other on our travel skills, and ability to roll with the punches, until we checked in at the kiosk at our first lay-over and learned that our flight from Richmond to Boston had now been cancelled as well. Knowing we’d have a much better chance of finding something out of Atlanta, the busiest airport in the world, instead of tiny Richmond, we sidled up to the nearest counter and met Yolanda.

Fresh from our vacation in Charleston, where manners include kindness and consideration of others, not just please and thank you, and still in an expansive vacation mode mood, and never ones to take our frustrations out on anyone but each other, we waited patiently while she tried to get us home… “I have a 2:30 direct to Boston…but it’s delayed until 8 pm. Oh wait, that’s full. I have a 6:30 pm to Boston…but it’s delayed until 1 am, tomorrow. But, you’d be confirmed on that flight,” our smiles faded as we looked at the time and realized that meant 15 more hours in this airport, a three-hour flight to Boston, a shuttle bus to pick up our car, and a four-hour drive home, meant we would be getting home about 24 hours later. Portland and Manchester had no available flights, so my husband suggested Hartford. There was a flight available. “No way! How would we get to Boston to get our car?!?” “A bus,” he nodded confidently to himself. “Yup, that’s what we’ll do. You need to trust me on this.” Well, I didn’t trust him on this, not one little bit. My life? Absolutely. Eventually getting home in one piece? Sure. Making us take the most frustrating and least convenient way to get there? Yup, I did trust that. Yolanda and I looked at each other, a bond of sisterhood and understanding flowed one to another other like a rainbow. We knew we were thinking the same thing. Sighing, I indicated that we would take the flight to Hartford. She continued to look at me, and the long meaningful stare was not lost on me, “okaayyy, Miss Susannah, but if this don’t work out goooddd… ” we smiled at each other, and with new tickets in our hands, my husband and I started to walk away when Yolanda called out…. “Kev-in! Kev-in! I like her, you need to keep her a’roun’!”

I’d love to report that we flew off to Hartford, caught a bus to Logan, a shuttle to our car at the hotel, and sang songs all the way home while recounting our adventures in Charleston, arriving on the same day we set out. Alas, as any traveler knows, especially ones who are fortunate enough to travel with a spouse, particularly one that you’ve known for decades, such is rarely the case. I’m afraid that despite our initial glee at having been bumped up to first class by the kind Miss Yolanda (those little water bottles just waiting for me! The little pillow! the blanket! maybe even a free glass of wine when we took off!), our smiles turned upside down, as the pilot announced that “we are experiencing a mechanical issue, I’m afraid all passengers will need to disembark the aircraft.”

With a vague sense of relief that the Hartford scheme was now foiled, and with newly found hope, I marched down the aisle and straight up to another ticket agent while all the other passengers were wearily grabbing their bags from the overheads. As I was in first class, I was the first one in line to present our compounding problem.”Well,”  he said smiling into the computer screen, “looks like I can get you on a 6:30 direct flight to Boston!” I was so relieved that we didn’t have to go to Hartford, I didn’t even think about the fact that Miss Yolanda had already told us that this flight was delayed until 1 am. Gratefully we took our new tickets, rushed down the hall, took two escalators down, hopped on a subway, and headed to the gate, arriving there 20 min before it was time to board. But too late, because by this time, the Bickersons had arrived and they were not going to leave until we pulled into our driveway (which ended up being at 3 am). I’m sorry to say that the Bickersons further stepped up their game upon discovering that our new flight would not be leaving for another 7 hours and would necessitate more subway rides and another long, silent, arms crossed walk to the now changed gate.

At some point during the long trek (according to my Fitbit, I walked six miles in that airport!), Mrs. Bickerson took it upon herself to ask another agent if she and sulky Mr. Bickerson could be placed on standby for the 2:30, now 8 pm direct flight to Boston, which, much to Mr. Bickerson’s annoyance, prompted a turnaround and another subway ride to the new gate. Approaching the desk of the fifth Delta employee of the day, I swapped my Mrs. Bickerson scowl for a Susie sunshine face and inquired politely if the odds were in our favor. With 48 others on standby, it appeared unlikely until a quick search of our names revealed that miraculously we were in “the top-tier.” “What does that mean?” I asked stunned. “Well, Ma’am, that means you’re third on the list.” Thanking him out loud, and Miss Yolanda in my head for getting us in the toptier by bumping us up to first class, I looked around at the 48 other tired/mad faces. A little boy crying beside me caught my attention, and I knew before I even heard her say it, that this frightened mother with two fretful little boys, was also hoping to be called. “It’s ok, it will be alright. We will be together, don’t worry, we will get seats together.” Always one to think of quotes from movies and books, I was unpleasantly reminded of Titanic, when the poor Irish mother tells her children that as soon as the first class passengers were safe, that they would be let go. “Well, this is a fine kettle of fish,” I thought. “We can’t steal their seats!” But, as I gazed sadly at her, Mr. Bickerson’s face came into focus, and I shamefully thought, “well, maybe we can.”

I should have known that God had other plans; plans that did not force me to confront my conflicting survival/beast mode vs. Christian /nurse battle raging inside of me. Thankfully six of us; weary mom, weepy little boys, surly Bickersons, and one sulky teenage girl managed to get seats. We were the only ones out of almost 50 others, and we felt like we’d won the lottery, a sentiment I actually exclaimed aloud until I was hushed by a still crotchety Mr. Bickerson. Several of the other stand-by passengers actually clapped when the moms name was called; although not one clapped for the Bickersons, least of all Mr. Bickerson. They didn’t clap for the teenager either, so that made me feel a little bit better. Exhausted, hungry and stressed, Mr. B was suffering from an intense craving for a cigarette, although he’d quit smoking five months ago. Hours earlier, Mr. B had actually succumbed to the call of nicotine and, having left Mrs. Bickerson at a TGIF with a mai tai in her hand, disappeared into the Atlanta terminal abyss, where he was not seen or heard from until an hour later, which is actually how long it took him to take four escalators, two shuttles and to go through security AGAIN. Apparently, his 10 minute fall from grace also involved a discussion partly in Spanish with a prisoner who had been released days earlier and assumed Mr. B was Puerto Rican (?!?). But I digress… Needless to say, Mr. B was met with a stone faced Mrs. B; mai tai long since consumed and its potential soothing effects turned inside out. Even the story of the spanish speaking jail-bird who was looking for his “lady” and a couple of bucks, did little to assuage her disappointment. Mr. B, having bought a pack of cigarettes for the first time since October, felt little joy at the site of the smoker’s roo, inside the terminal the B’s noticed on the way to one of their gates, in fact it seemed to make his agitation worse. And so it was with relief , when we finally boarded the plane headed North, that Mrs. B. sunk into a middle seat, Mr. Bickerson a row behind me.

The next seven hours did not improve the Bickersons mood much. Not after the 3.5 hour flight, not while discovering the bags were in Richmond, as were our medications; mine, for headaches, his for mood :/. No improvement while waiting for the shuttle to take us to the hotel in the freezing Boston weather, our blood having thinned by the short stay in the south. In fact, tensions reached the boiling over level, by the time the Bickersons had been dropped of at their vehicle by the russian speaking van driver, and found it covered in a foot of snow and ice, but curiously with the passenger’s side cleared off, and snowy footprints on the floor mat. Wasting no time to find out why this was so, Mrs. B started the car, while Mr.B, aggressively cleared the snow and chipped away at the ice, obscenities flying as wildly as the snow. A quiet and reflective ride home from Boston in the middle of the night, gave Mrs. B plenty of time to wonder if traveling was actually worth it; the cost, the bickering, the swearing, the crossed arms, the inconvience…As we neared our home, we tentatively started talking again. First, about practical matters… Would our son have shoveled the driveway (he did), then about the funny things (Puerto- Rican!), and we laughed. We remembered the laughter, the fun, the experiences, the people, the food, the sites, and we knew that we’d made more memories. Like a savings account, we’ve stored these things up in our minds and in our hearts, and even though the Bickersons make exorbitant withdrawals at times, the Warners know that they could never truly bankrupt them, they’re just part of the experience, and an experience is always worth having, even knowing that the Bickersons are coming too.

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Another Life

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Every time I travel with my husband, I end up creating a new life for us in my head. It doesn’t matter where we go; a quick getaway an hour from our home, or halfway across the globe, I always wonder what it would be like to live there. I don’t know if everyone does this, or if my imagination goes a little wild at times, but in the space of 5 minutes, I’ve created a whole new world in my head. It can be triggered by a charming piazza, a quaint library, a little hospital, or a homey restaurant that I can easily envision becoming “our place.” Anything that is familiar, but different; common-place, but new. This past weekend, on a spur of the moment road trip with my ever-ready travel buddy, I did it again.

It all started with a rainy day, a bustling bay on the banks of the St. Lawrence river, an enticing coffee shop with geraniums in a window box, and a few tables and chairs set cozily by a rain streaked picture window. My husband and I had just paid for our ferry tickets to see a castle on a heart-shaped island in the middle of the river. A tourist attraction, the story behind the castle is both romantic and tragic, and I was eager to see it for myself. It was raining hard when we left our motel, and I had given myself a mental pat on the back for remembering our rain coats. But now, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, and my husband had shucked his off, while we strolled through the town looking for a place to get coffee and maybe a pastry while we waited for the ferry.

We wandered in through the open door of a tourist shop that sold t-shirts, hats and souvenirs, because it had a sign out front offering us coffee and warm cinnamon buns. Finding an empty spot at the window, we plunked down to while away the minutes until it was time to depart. Chatting about how good the cinnamon bun was, while watching the passers-by, some with rain coats, but most without, we both turned our heads when a heavyset elderly man, wearing stained Dickies work pants, and a baseball hat that had seen better days, sat down beside us. He joked with the college-aged girls manning the counter; clearly he was a regular. “Hi there!” he wheezed heartily in our direction, “where are you folks from?” We told him we lived about 450 miles away, in Maine. “Maine, huh?” he said remembering, his milky blue eyes smiling, “The wife and I used to like to go up there in the fall, sometimes clear up the coast.” My husband continued chatting with him conversationally, while my mind started to wander.

“What if we lived here?” I thought. “What if we were regulars at this cute little shop too? What if we often saw Bud (no idea what his name was, but Bud seemed appropriate) and knew the names of the girls behind the counter. What if I worked at that adorable hospital, right on the banks of the river? It doesn’t look too big, maybe just slightly bigger than the hospital where I work. I bet I would like it there. I could take patients for walks on the path that leads right from the hospital door, and goes along the river. Tiny could work anywhere; he’d probably find a job in a day. We’d live right in town, and walk everywhere. We could eat at that dockside restaurant that we went to last night, every week. And that ice cream place! that could be a problem… but at least I’d be walking a lot. We would definitely want to get a boat. I wonder where the nearest grocery store is, and a church…”

Suddenly I was brought to my senses by “Bud” who nudged my arm and smiled in a crinkly, way, “So, you two are going to Boldt castle? That used to be helluva good place to party, got my name written on one of them walls before they started restoring it.” he said giving me a conspiratorial wink, making me like him right then and there.”Yeah,” I thought, I could get used to this place, we could make it a home.” I smiled at my husband who was finishing his coffee, while talking to Bud about the proportions and dimensions of a cargo ship we had seen last night, and what kind of cargo it carried; the kinds of things that men say to each other that make me think that they are adorable, but also boring, allowing my mind to continue to create my new microcosm.

“Bud’s probably actually a millionaire, one of those really frugal ones, who wears the same thing everyday and has money squirreled away all over his crumbling old mansion. I bet his real name is something like, Robert Edward Worthington III, (the ridiculousness of creating a fake name, off of an already made up name, lost on me at the time, so caught up in this reverie was I), he never had any children and is lonely since his wife died and he stopped caring about his appearance. Tiny could help him out as a caretaker and I bet he would eventually leave his inheritance to him….”

Before my mind could venture any further, my cellphone binged; a text from my daughter. She was sending me a picture of our granddaughter, and I instantly switched gears. Chloe! Emily! Isaac! I would never leave them, and start a new life so far away from my heart’s delights. I sent back a heart Emoji, as my husband stood to clear the table of our cups and plates, while telling Bud that it had been nice talking to him. I gathered my backpack, and put it on over my pink raincoat, while my husband threw his yellow one over his arm.  I looked over my shoulder and waved a goodbye to Bud, who was already turning his attention away from us, toward a young couple sitting at another table.

We walked out of the shop and into the warm soupy air, turning in the direction of the water, our shuttle boat having just docked. I was feeling a little guilty, like I’d betrayed them all for even thinking about a new life, when suddenly, Tiny leaned over and said, “I could get used to this place.” I smiled, experiencing one of those rare moments of clarity that a new experience can sometimes bring….”This is why we travel,” I thought, “to physically escape our daily routine while absorbing new ideas, new people and new thoughts, and to store all these things up inside our memory banks so that we can make a mental withdrawal anytime our emotional wallet is empty. No need to feel guilty…Traveling sparks my imagination because I feel alive when I travel, and when I come back, I’ve fallen in love all over again with the life I’ve already made…at home.”

 

“To travel is to live.”   ~Hans Christian Anderson

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Wanderlust and Wonderlust

Posted on by Susannah Warner

 

Webster’s dictionary defines wanderlust as a “strong longing for, or an impulse toward wandering” and wonder, as “a cause of astonishment or admiration.” In the case of travel, it seems these are very closely related. Why else would a rational person spend sometimes thousands of dollars, only to return home exhausted, constipated, sniffly, and possibly back, leg, and footsore, if not in search of wondrous things? Why indeed? I ask myself this question right before we leave for every vacation, as I’m frantically stuffing (my husband rolls his things, I stuff) my whole life into a 12 X 24″ canvas rectangle on wheels, or worse, a well-intentioned, but now ridiculously small backpack. “I guess I’d rather just stay home,” I always think to myself, or as I said to my mother the night before my husband and I departed for Europe, “I think I really just want to take a day trip to Greenville instead.” She laughed, but she knows exactly what I mean, because she has said something similar herself.

All those dreams of grandeur, so many months ago, when I perused the world, or the country on my laptop, searching for the perfect spot, dreaming of wandering, wondering and marveling at new sites, my equally amazed and jovial partner at my side, have suddenly evaporated into a mist of palpable folly, a reality smack in the face, as my husband and I quibble about who will be responsible for the liquids, who has to stuff my flatiron into their already bulging bag, and why do we have to take all of this damn candy? Sort of an emperor’s new clothes situation, where everyone says how wonderful it is,  and only the honesty of a child or a simpleton (née genius) will reveal the truth; that planning and execution are two very different things.

The joy of planning and the anxiety of packing aside, in this day of social media, there is at least the pleasure of plastering smiling selfies everywhere, Facebook proof that we are having  a wonderful time!!! My husband complains that we always look the same in every selfie, and that we could easily get away with using only one picture with multiple different backdrops. I can only attribute this statement to the undeniable fact that my face looks decent from only one angle, something my daughter calls “a snapchat face,” and the sad truth that my husband does not know how to fake a smile without looking like a psycho. Thus, we look the same in every shot as far as pose, but with a smorgasbord of emotion plastered on my husbands face, depending on what day of vacation we are on. His countenance runs the gamut from bemused and tolerant on day 1, to somber, midway through, to downright surly by the end. See what I mean?!?39F5BC0D-32CD-4FEF-B764-5D632CDF7BD7.pngMe? Every shot shows me with my head turned slightly to the side, a knowing half-smile, meant to portray confidence, yet fun! fun! fun! on my face. Don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy the trip itself, or else what is the point? But I, like many travelers before me, have reconciled the fact that there are, and will be multiple annoyances, including, but not limited to the traveling companion, along the way.

Maybe it’s the way my husband and I attack our vacation. First of all, our destinations thus far, have not been conducive to peace, harmony and rest. We tend to pick bustling cities (Rome! Florence! NYC! D.C.!) or amusement parks ( Six Flags! Disney! Bush Gardens!) where the goal is to see as many things as you can, and really get our money’s worth. We pounce on each trip as if we are contestants on the reality show, “The Amazing Race.” Striking forth purposefully, a trusty backpack on someones back, which is loaded with drinks, money and a selfie stick, we march forth. We cover at least 10 miles a day, often closer to 15, seeing the sites, taking photos as evidence, and then on to conquer the next wonder. So much time is spent on foot, that my only consideration when packing footwear is comfort, and my only consolation is the fact that I always lose weight while on vacation. We pride ourselves on never using public transportation even to the point that my husband and I recently bickered about taking Uber to the airport. It’s true, it was only 3 miles from our hotel, BUT, we had already walked 13 miles that day, AND there was the little matter of navigating the interstate, backpacks on our backs, looking like a couple of well groomed hobos. I won this round, Thank God!

I think we must like this, since we keep planning the same kind of get-away. Certainly anyone who suffers from, or who is the loved one of someone with ADHD, knows that this is necessary for the sanity of both people. No leisurely cruises or lying prostrate in the sand for us. The shore is not the friend of a person who must perpetually move, unless hang gliding, scuba diving or possibly deep-sea fishing is involved. Also, a vigorous march, enough to produce a sweat, and a horrible case of chaffing, in search of interesting items vomited from the ocean must be accomplished until the sunburned, cranky and sandy bottomed family returns home; the parents having vowed not to return next year.

I just realized that I must seem like a Negative Nelly, or a Debbie Downer (Suzie Sunset he just called me when I read this to him). I’m really not, I’m actually a rose-colored glasses kinda girl, an eternal optimist, a “Suzie sunrise.” So much so, that even on the way home, an overstuffed backpack at my feet (the very one that caused my bag to be emptied and searched because I forgot about a few items that were supposed to be declared) because he couldn’t stuff it into the overhead, a nicotine withdrawing husband at my side, and an 11pm flight, after we just hiked a half marathon, we started planning our next trip. No matter that we always lose at least half a day to a sullen silence while we are “enjoying ourselves” born from too many days together, or that we just spent a pile of money so that we could be excited to go home. No, there is something about traveling that although uncomfortable, stressful and intolerable at times, makes you want to do it all over again. There is a natural amnesia that I liken to childbirth. The planning is great, the execution can be brutal, but minutes after it is over, the bad stuff is history, and by the time you want another, you’ve forgotten most of it. It’s a travel bug, and we have it. We lust for new adventures and new places. It’s a wanderlust I guess, or maybe just a wonderlust. Either way, there will be more traveling in our future, if only to provide anecdotal fodder for my blog. Stay tuned.

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Last selfie he allowed for the rest of the trip

 

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Traveling; The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Traveling for pleasure is a strange thing, if you think about it. A lot of money, time and thought goes into planning and executing a trip. Approval must be granted for vacation time from work, airplane tickets, accommodations, mode of transportation must be considered, as well as practical home concerns; who will feed the cat and bring in the mail? Then, there is the travel companion, is this person a “good traveler?” Will this person enhance the experience and be a help, rather than a hinderance? After a whirlwind, fly by the seat of our pants trip to Italy, my husband and I, fondly (umm, maybe not! ) known to some as “the Bickersons,” can tell you, there is a good, a bad and an ugly to every family vacation.

The Good: First of all, Italy is awesome. In the U.S., history is old, but in Italy it is ancient. I’ve been to Washington D.C. and marveled at our progress as I strolled through the museums,  I’ve walked on the grounds of Monticello, and crossed the Delaware where Washington crossed. I live in a state that was established in 1820, and have discovered old foundations hidden in the woods of Maine, and have even dug glass bottles out of the ground, discarded by settlers 200 years ago. However, compared to statues, structures and roads thousands of years old, with cobblestone streets chariots bumped over, and marble steps, worn smooth and indented from the tread of millions of feet, U.S. history seems infantile. The experience cannot be duplicated anywhere, even at Epcot, whose “World Showcase” was the extent of my International experience, prior to traveling abroad (“Sad” my husband just scoffed, when I read what I had so far. He, having already traversed Europe, while stationed in Germany many years ago. However, as he was often under the influence of Oktoberfest, and the wonders of Amsterdam, I countered with my own “sad”).

More good? The food and the wine paired with the atmosphere and the company made mealtime an experience. Savored rather than wolfed, sipped rather than gulped, every part of a meal was meant to be enjoyed, and it was. Even the price was a nice surprise, every authentic Italian meal we ate, was less than what we have paid at Olive Garden. The service was excellent, as the host, a beacon of hospitality, waved us over, welcoming us to sit anywhere, “you like table outside, yes?” Then, with a flick of the wrist, an outdoor heater arrived to ward off the chill, while a man whose moustache was pointy and waxed, surely a character in a movie, took our drink orders and sent a young man over to help us order, as the best places we found, had menus written only in Italian. Laughing and gesturing, we made our requests known and sometimes ended up with a surprise, as when bruschetta (yum!) rather than bread arrived, and meatballs instead of a salad. Lingering is actually encouraged and one owner of an out-of -the-way, authentic treasure, with only four tables, covered with red gingham tablecloths and candles, actually exclaimed, after nearly an hour and a half,  “aww, you leave so soon?!?” The people were kind, and appreciated the smallest and even lamest attempt to speak their language. “Buongiorno, chiao, bagno? Grazie” all met with an indulgent smile. Thankfully, most spoke some English.

The Bad: Being sick while on vacation is never fun. Feeling dizzy and feverish is not only uncomfortable but apparently dangerous, as it led in part (the other part being a complete lack of grace and awareness) to my falling down some granite stairs at a palace, no less. Fortunately, I was not seriously hurt, just a bruised knee and rear-end, and I managed to walk a total of 13 miles that day, so it could have been bad, but maybe now, it’s just kind of funny.

Of course “The Bickerson’s ” had to make their appearance as they have on every vacation we’ve ever taken. The Bickerson’s are our alter egos. They like to show up whenever a fun time is expected and throw a bucket of annoyance, irritation, intolerance and aggravation on our heads. They take over for a while, and snippy comments, stalking off, and sulking ensues. The Bickerson’s always wear out their welcome very quickly though, and the Warner’s return before it goes from bad to…

The Ugly: Squashing into an airplane seat between a sleep and nicotine deprived, cranky faced husband and a plump, pinstripe shirt stranger, with no shoes on, who woke only to gulp copious amounts of fluids, then sleep, with his arm resting on mine and his pillow and blanket on my feet, is the ugly part of the trip. In addition, my leg room was commandeered by an oversize travel bag containing essentials such as receipts, train tickets, one half of a converter, binoculars and an empty Ibuprofen bottle. Never a good sitter, I am the person who jiggles their foot in work meetings, and who jumps up at any oppurtunity. Since sleeping beauty was in the aisle seat, both of these things were impossible. While I perched between these two, grimly counting the miles and the minutes,  I noticed that we were the only three who did not have an empty seat beside us, probably this happened when we were inexplicably bumped off the plane, and were thoughtfully put back on, in different seats, prompting an annoying and unnecessary “thank you” from me. Eight hours of hell later, we arrived in the U.S., still four hours from home to the news that our bags were in London, and are bus tickets were in the bags. All in all, just the usual travel annoyances; two flight cancellations, one very nearly missed connection, several swear words uttered in Heathrow no less, the land of manners, as well as three charges for one hotel room and the need to buy two more bus tickets, as ours were across the pond. The coup de grace, and my breaking point, came when trying to exit the bus station parking lot, we realized that it took every kind of credit card but ours, which made no sense as I had just used that same card to purchase our second set of bus tickets, three hours earlier. Marching into the dimmed and nearly closed bus station, I felt like the half crazed mother in Home Alone, who is desperate to get home, and does not even know what city she is in. I stalked up to the counter, as the attendant was putting on his coat, and informed him of our predicament. “Well, that’s alright, we take cash.” He said. I counted up my dollars, knowing full well that I would be three short. “I have five euros I can give you with it, but that’s it. Either you take it, or we are stuck here, which is it?” Twenty-two hours of travel had made me bold, and he knew I meant business. He took it, and off we went, realizing only after, that now we had no money for tolls. The irony of a vacation in Europe, ending in scrapping for change for tolls was not lost on us, and we laughed, after we found a dollar, of course.

The Best: I saved the best for last, which is visiting with family without the time constraints of work. Stay up until all hours (by all hours, I do mean midnight) drinking Sangria at possibly the only Mexican restaurant in Rome? Sure! Watch old movies after walking miles and miles while chatting and laughing and reminiscing? Absolutely! Wonder cobblestones streets with a dripping gelato in our hands? Yup. Admire the grit and antiquity of Rome, and the grace and beauty of Florence with some of our best friends, who also happen to be family? Yes, we did all that. More than that actually, we created memories that will last a lifetime. I’m so grateful for them, for my family and for the whole experience; the good, the bad and even the ugly. It is what life is made of.