There are good days and bad days, and this is one of them.
~ Lawrence Welk
I don’t even know where to begin this post. I guess I’ll start at the very beginning.
I left London, Ohio, on Tuesday morning at 5 am to catch a 7:30 flight from Columbus to JFK. Originally, I had booked a flight that left JFK at 5 or 6 pm connecting through Heathrow (in the other London) to Rome (FCO). I would have had an eight-hour layover in JFK followed by another eight-hour layover in London before touching down in Rome in the early evening. A few weeks ago, I decided to see if I could switch to a more direct flight without paying a fortune, and I lucked out. I was able to switch to a direct JFK-FCO flight, get into Rome at 9:15 am. It did cost a bit more, but the extra $80 was more than worth all of that time in airports. So, I booked it.
Restless Days & Restless Nights
Unfortunately, changing the flight extended my connection time at JFK, and I was there more than 10 hours before we started boarding. Luckily, I had lounge access, so at least I was semi-comfortable part of the day. In all honestly, though, when you are stuck in any strange place for hours on end, it can be exhausting because you can’t really relax. One of the guys in the lounge told me I was welcome to lie down on the booth. Right. In the first place, I’m a germaphobe. In the second, it’s just, ewwww.
At any rate, we finally boarded, and it took forever for takeoff because, well, we were leaving JFK. After the less-than-appetizing chicken dish they served for dinner, I started to fall asleep. That’s actually pretty good because I don’t usually sleep on planes. However, I’d been up since before 4 am, so I was ready.
I don’t know how long I was asleep when I heard an irritating woman screeching to the person across the aisle. It was just the one woman as I never heard the other person’s reply. This went on for a good 20-or-so minutes, and I couldn’t take it any longer. I looked at my watch, and it was around midnight (eastern time, anyway). Time to get passive-aggressive.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I said loudly. The cackling went on.
“Stop,” I implored. I guess I still wasn’t loud enough.
“SHUT UP. WE’RE TRYING TO SLEEP.” That, apparently, got through to her. I spent the rest of the flight tossing around, half-in and half-out of consciousness.
The Seats on the Bus…
The plane touched down in Rome at 9:15 am, and I was out and through passport control within 10 minutes. Friends of mine from Youngstown, Ohio, had landed about the same time, and once they got through passport control and baggage, we were able to connect. It was totally unplanned, and I was thrilled to see Scott, Michael, and Carol (and their friends whose names I forget because, you know, jetlag). (Just for reference: Scott was my liaison for the Ursuline trip last year, and Michael and I went to high school together.)
After a quick five-minute hug, they headed to catch their connecting flight to Palermo. I headed to the bus terminal because I was heading to Sulmona which is about 105 miles east of Rome. You can get there via train or bus. The bus doesn’t take as long and is a straight shot, so I decided, after talking with friends, to take the 11:30 bus.
The bus arrived around 11, and I got in line so I could buy my ticket from the driver. I had a problem with a bus a few years ago when I bought the ticket online, so I decided to just buy it then. It’s important to note that the website specifically says you can buy your ticket right there.
“Oh, signora,” the bus driver moaned. “Gobbledy gobbledy gobbledy.” I was pretty tired, and my brain was not in 100% Italian mode yet, so I just stood there confused. He repeated, and this time I understood that I had to wait until he checked in the already-ticketed passengers.
At 11:10 or so, he walked back over to me and gobbled something else at me. I asked him to repeat it more slowly as I was still trying to compute Italian.
“I cannot sell you the ticket until I make sure there is room,” he said. “The bus may be full.” That, I understood.
“The website said I can pay directly to you,” I moaned.
“Yes, usually,” he said, “but today I may have a full bus.” He walked away; I burst into tears; and a nice man got off the bus and walked over to me.
“Signora, don’t cry,” he said. “I can buy you a ticket for the bus if you can’t pay with card.” I explained the situation to him, and he headed over to the bus driver to try to figure this out. He got no further than I did and climbed back on the bus.
At 11:28, the bus driver approached me. “I’m still waiting for two people,” he said. “If they don’t show, you can get on the bus.” I just glared at him. “You know, you can take the next bus,” he added. That set me off.
“The next bus is in two hours,” I snapped. “I cannot wait two hours. I’ve already been up more than 24 hours. If I had know this two hours ago, I would have taken the &$%@&# train to Sulmona.”
He kept glancing down the walkway (probably praying that two people would walk up and save him from me), and finally at 11:30, he grabbed my luggage, threw it under the bus, and said, “Get on the bus.”
I tried to thank him. “GET ON THE BUS. GET ON THE BUS. GET ON THE BUS.”
I got on the bus. “Take a seat, signora. SIT DOWN.”
“I’m looking for one,” I hissed back as I tripped up the aisle. Much to my surprise (NOT), there were plenty of empty seats. My quick count was 12. TWELVE. EMPTY. SEATS. TWELVE.
I fell into a seat, sat back, and tried to stay cool in the less-than-cool air of that rolling metal box.
Honey, I’m Home…
My friends Melody and Angelo Federico were kind enough to pick me up at the underpass bus stop when we finally got to Pratola Peligna about two-and-a-half hours later. (Side note: Angelo is from my grandmother’s birthplace, and while they live in Canada, they also have a house near Pettorano.) Since they were bringing me to the BB, I had kept them apprised of the bus situation.
My blood pressure had gone down quickly once I was off of the bus, and I could almost laugh about it. “Well,” I said, “if nothing else, it makes a good story. Sometimes I wish, though, that I wouldn’t have so many stories to tell.”
Ang agreed and added, “But, you know what? Some good came out of it: You’re home.”
Indeed I am.
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