The tasks at hand were in order to get me ‘plane ready‘ and to get me out of the house. I had cooking to do for Mark as the first priority of the day. Because he isn’t joining me on this trip I promised to have food for him for dinners while I’m gone. I made him a huge casserole of baked ziti. For those of you who think this is an awful lot of starches/pasta, never fear. Mark also eats a huge salad twice a day. He definitely gets his roughage. Nice trade-off though, isn’t it? I get the trip and he gets home cooking even when I’m not home.
Next up, a quick touch-up on the hair color, In the appropriate shades of reds that don’t exist in nature, so I might better blend in with the ladies of Italy. They seem to have three groups of hair color in stores and salons that I can tell: raven black, dirty blonde with chunky platinum streaks and wild plum/burgundy/reds. And then there are the remarkably few women who don’t color their hair at all and are varying shades of salt & pepper. I don’t color my hair just to go abroad - I’ve been doing it since I was 15.it’s the 85 year old ladies with bright plum hair teased into a four inch halo/helmet that scare me. I fit in with the punched up red/burgundy though. It’s my “fall/winter” color scheme. Hair done by 8am, casseroles just about to come out of the oven. I’m doing very well time wise.
I tried to paint my nails but couldn’t sit still long enough for it to dry completely. Oh well. Bring the bottle and fix it later. I still was not completely packed. I had all my things grouped up but not in the suitcase. It’s typical for me - I can pack the suitcase and have it ready for days, but in the clinch of the last hour before leaving I will reconsider everything three times and repack at least twice, change luggage completely, etc. I think about what I’m bringing too much, bring too much, then don’t ever take it out of the case when I get there. You’d think after all these trips I’d have it together - and I do - pretty much. I bring way less clothing changes than I used to. I have a washing machine at my disposal at the flat - I don’t need to bring three changes of clothes for each day. I’m hanging out with workaday people who wear uniforms at their job and are in the same thing day after day - they can handle seeing the same blouse at the beginning and the end of a trip. It‘s all the accoutrements that I get bogged down with - do I bring my kitchen knives or not? (Don‘t laugh, I cook a lot and the knives in rental places aren‘t going to be that great - otherwise people will bring them home with them, am I right?). Do I bring my immersion blender? I actually voted both those down - I can deal with the knife issues no matter what, and if there’s no blender this time out I can always buy one for 10Euro and leave it there. I tend to do that in places I know I will stay at again. Over the years I’ve bought casserole dishes and better knives from IKEA (not as good as my Wusthofs at home, but better) and boom boxes for radio/CD playing. The owners appreciate it when I leave them a note upon leaving telling them about the gifts for the house. Another reason why I get deep discounts on renting again, I am contributing to the betterment of the living experience.
Mark got up around 8:30 and we prepared ourselves for the one non-trip related task to be done. The story is way too long to get into, and it’s work-related so there’s no real pertinence here, other than I know I will end up having a conversation with my boss during vacation around this issue. In short - I took care of a payment a few weeks ago to a speaker because the Accounting department was taking MONTHS to issue a check. He spoke for us in June and I ended up paying out of my pocket (to be reimbursed later) in September. I sent a Bank check, but he never received the envelope. After hearing the man bellyache for quite a while now I opted to do this and just deal with it later. My mis-step was in sending the check “regular mail“ and not FedEx or in a manner where it would be signed for. The envelope is probably stuck to the inside of a mailbox in Boston. Anywhoodle - I got a panicky message from the boss yesterday that the gentleman STILL didn’t have the check. Happy fricking vacation! The task for this morning was to go to the bank and start the process for stopping payment on the bank check, signing affidavits, getting the statements notarized and getting monies reissued. Ugh! The good thing is that since Mark has been a customer for umpteen years we received excellent service, and after paying an extra $25 as insurance in case someone attempts to cash the check in the next 24 hours, they reissued the check. Hot damn! But it did take 2-½ hours to complete the deal. I left Mark the information and FedEx account number and after taking me to the airport he would finish the task of mailing that sucker out in a manner that is traceable. And here I was trying make it a short backstory. Sorry. I did call the boss’ voicemail at work and told her I got the message, I sent out another check by FedEx and we can deal with the details when I get back. I can check online from Europe to verify it was signed for and breathe sigh of relief. It won’t be my problem any longer once somebody in Boston signs for it. I’ve done my due diligence in this matter. Above and beyond.
We drove to MacArthur Bart and were met by a train full of mid-day drunks in partygear, going to the LOVE parade/festival in San Francisco. I haven’t been on a train that full since New Years Eve a decade ago. Lots of yelling, lot of glitter, lots of costumes, lots of “I’ve got all my rave toys around my waist and oh! that’s the tiniest Hello Kitty backpack I’ve ever seen! You‘re so awesome!” And it was PACKED. It was like the trains you see in India or NYC where people are pressed up against one another in full-on sardine mode. Except when everyone exited the train at the Civic Center station there were lots of cans and bottles left behind on the floor.
Arriving at SFO’s International terminal is a breeze on BART. I whipped out my cane to go with my cast-boot and pulled my luggage along. A dude in a cart drove up alongside and had me hop on and took me to the KLM/Northwest counter on the far end of the terminal. I got out, walked up to the Skyteam member / Business class counter and was issued my boarding pass lickety split. Nobody asked me the security questions about having control of my baggage - it’s been years since I wasn’t assaulted with those questions. Curious. Maybe it was because cart dude was waiting to take me up to Security check-thru? I don’t know. It was great because there were about 100 people already in line, but I don’t feel guilty. I would’ve been able to check in at that counter anyway - I’m a gold medallion traveler. Whoop whoop!
Cart-dude sped me over to Security and due to cast & cane I went to a separate line for the metal detectors and such. Reserved for the old and infirm - it said “medical” on the sign. I breezed through that too - skipping about 200 folks in line (ha ha!) But they did perform a rather thorough pat-down. She even swiped over my cast straps to put in a reader of some kind. Making sure I am not another shoe bomber… then cart-dude reappeared and drove me to my gate. Sweet! All in all, I was through with checking in and security and in a seat at the gate in under 15 minutes. Not bad at all. Gimpy-ness has its advantages. I hung out for a while, no sense in working the foot when I didn’t have to.
The KLM personnel working the boarding gate announced the flight and that they would start pre-boarding in 10 minutes. This is where I love to people-watch. You can spot the really type-A personalities as well as separate the Europeans from the Americans. It’s true! I’ve done scientific research (I.e. - been on a lot if international flights) and the Americans are better at chilling out until their rows or group is called. Not so for the Europeans. Pre-boarding is called and within seconds there at 70 people milling about in front of the counter with their passports and boarding cards in hand. Mind you, I said milling - these people cannot ever queue up in an actual line to save their lives. After the pool of milling-abouters comes the people who create some semblance of a line. Standing two and three abreast, the line goes back in between the two seating areas for about 30 yards, about 100 people. Are they all pre-boarding because they etiher have small children, are elderly or need extra time/help to get in their seat or have something gimpy like me? No, they are all perfectly healthy looking, they just can’t listen to directions in any of the three languages given. I see there are a large number of them with the same shoulder bag from a convention. It reads “International Continence Symposium” but the way the bag is sagging in on itself it reads “InContinence Symposium” which starts me into a fit of giggles. Imagine that conference…lots of breaks for the bathroom. Perhaps not, if they are all wearing Depends.
(Learn to line up, people. We're all going to eventually get on the plane...)
I got to pre-board with a couple with three kids under 5 in tow (oy, that’s gonna be a fun section to sit in - hope I’m not nearby) and an hour later we were off the ground. We left 15 minutes earlier than expected, and the flight ended up arriving in Amsterdam 45 minutes ahead of schedule. Whoo hoo. I was sleepy but didn’t sleep more than one hour at a time, even after a muscle relaxer, but I had a lot of little powernaps.
(I know I'm not William Shatner, but I expect to see Gremlins on the wing...)
I slowly made my way to the gate for the flight to Milan. It was two terminals away from the gate we arrived at. I watched the overhead tv screen with CNN World channel on it. Jon Stewart and the Daily Show broadcast on CNN around the world. Who knew? I hope the rest of world understands the tongue-in-cheek faux news angle. Especially since he was interviewing Rod Blagojevich.
The flight to Milan Malpensa is only 1 hour 20 minutes but I still managed to fall asleep briefly a few times. Our luggage took 40 minutes to get onto the carousel inside. That blew my chance of making my preferred train into Venice, but that’s okay. I had hoped to catch a train that got me there around 5:30. Looked like I would be very lucky if I caught the next one - and that would get me there at 7:15. Caught the bus into Milan’s train station, the Malpensa Shuttle> On weekdays this is an absolute crapshoot about the length of time it takes because traffic is awful. I had my fingers crossed for a Sunday afternoon. The shuttle didn’t have a single seat open on it. Good to see people are traveling, in any case. There was no traffic stoppage at all so we made it in 45 to the Stazione Centrale. I purchased my ticket from the machine and lugged my bag up the ramp with only 5 minutes to spare. Whew! I’d make it In at 7:15pm after all. I called the landlords, Maria end Leo to let them know I would be able to meet them at the flat at 7:45. Then a quick call to the Marsons to tell them I’d be at their place around 9 and I would be READY to eat. Marco wanted to meet me at the apartment and escort me over, but I told him that was impractical and to just meet me at the vaporetto stop near his house on Guidecca island.
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(Random hilltown somewhere in the Veneto region)
The train was uneventful, except that as it grew darker I could see a beautiful golden full moon on the rise. Two and a half hours later, as the train glided across the water between the mainland and the islands of Venice I could see it hanging over the city. It was a magical “welcome home” for me. La Serenissima, indeed.
(Where else but Italy can you find a married man pushing 60 wearing silver and golod lame sneakers?)
(I realize the picture is crappy, but you get the idea that the moon was bright in the evening sky. Moon over Murano.)
Maria and Leo were charming as ever and the apartment had not changed in arrangement whatsoever. I like this place because it has an oven. It is in Cannaregio on the northern part of the city by the Fondamenta Nouva This is wonderful working class area with families. The flat is next to a middle school and I will hear them coming to and from school. I’ll have to remember to keep the shutters in the bedroom closed - the last time I stayed here I forgot and when I walked out of the shower and was toweling off when I looked out to see kids playing ball in the courtyard. The curtains are gauzy and lacy so someone would have had access to an eyeful! They seemed very intent on their game so I don’t think they caught a glimpse. They certainly didn’t let on if they did, because how often do 12 years olds who just saw boobies not talk about it?
I quickly unpacked and freshened up, changed my clothes and headed back out. Called home and let Mark know I made it okay, and got down to the vaporetto in time to slip on board a Number 2, which took me around the northwestern part of the city and down the Giudecca canal. I arrived at the Redentore stop to find Marco leaning out of the bus shelter, smiling at me. He remarked on my fabulous walking cast and asked me if he needed to get a wheelbarrow because I must be exhausted. Honestly, if he had one with him, I would have probably taken him up on the offer.
Mamma gave me hugs, kisses, more hugs and we both ended up crying a little. Maybe it was from exhaustion on my end, but she takes on more and more of the amalgamation of my three grandmothers every time I see her. We had a wonderful dinner of lasagne, Bolognese style and roast chicken breasts and salad. We sat down to talk and I soon found that if I wasn’t doing the talking I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I told them I needed to go before I dropped right there on the rug, and after a quick conference Mamma insisted I needed to sleep at their place rather than trek back to the absolute opposite side of the city. It was not quite 11pm, but I had pretty much been awake for over 24 hours. I protested, but she held my purse in her hands and in Venetian dialect (I assume, because I didn’t completely understand it) told me I was staying. I guess when she‘s scolding she changes dialect so you know she means it. Marco just shrugged his shoulders, told me she would keep insisting and so I gave in to her. She turned down the bed in her room and I asked where she was sleeping. “Right next to you - there is room. Lorenzo and I slept here for 50 years together, you are okay.” Lorenzo is Marco’s father, who died two (or is it three?) years ago this Christmas. There last thing I remember before nodding off was to excuse myself in advance in case I snored. “Va bene, cara” she responded, “You are fine, darling.”
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