Stories to tell

I am home. Over the next few weeks I will be filling in all the blanks, perhaps doing a bit of back and forth time travel, but getting to everything. For now, though, I will tell you about how I got home.

Ever since I booked my flights back in December, I was supposed to come back on May 31st. Leave in the morning, arrive in the afternoon, thanks to the seven hour time difference. Well, about a week ago I was tipped off and looked into my flight status. Lucky for me (and that is at once sarcastic and completely sincere), British Airways was having cabin strikes. My flight from London to Houston was canceled. I had to call and rebook, and the next available flight was on June 2nd. On the plus side, I would now be departing with Matt, but on the downside I would now be taking a total of three flights, and arriving around midnight. I had a sneaking suspicion about the outcome of these three flights, but I kept it to myself and took what I could get, which came with two extra days in Europe.

The story begins, kind of, on June 1st, though time gets tricky from here on out, because of time zone shifting. Anyway, the point is really that though I woke up around 11, I only got one hour of sleep before getting up at five the following morning to prepare for my departure. It was one of those trips where you take every mode of transportation (boat, bike, helicopter, and skateboard not included), meaning Cristina drove me to the train station at 530 so I could catch a 600am train to Milan. I arrived at the platform with my 22kg suitcase, a sight lighter than it was when I arrived (thanks, Brendan), and as I prepared to hoist it up onto the train, a man appeared and took it out of my hands. He said he had seen me arrive and seen the concern on my face about being able to lift my giant suitcase. My concerned face was actually because of Matt’s conspicuous absence, but I wasn’t about to complain. Matt did arrive, about two minutes before the train left, and from there we took a bus to the airport, where we unknowingly arrived altogether too early. We went to check our bags, only to find that the baggage counter wouldn't open until nine. We passed through security only to find that they wouldn't allow access to our gate area until an hour before our 1130 flight. Eventually, we got on, and I somehow managed to properly interrupt my dozing to see the Alps and the English Channel.

We had a layover in Heathrow, where they don't post or assign gates until an hour before your plane departs, so we sat, looked at pictures, and I admired the many beguiling pumps in one of the most epic shoe stores I have ever seen. Fortunately, our diverging flights left from nearby gates, so when the time came we were able to stay together. And then the time went. Our flights were delayed. But not by so much, and we said our farewells and see you soons and were on our way.

Now it was the long flight. Eight and a half hours later, which roughly translates into an interspersed 2.75 questionable movies later, I arrived in Chicago. It was around 6pm local time, aka 1am Parma time, meaning I was closing in on the 24-hours of transit mark. I passed through customs, and started working on processing the fact that English will henceforth be the predominant language. I noticed something funny. For better or for worse, I have always been an eavesdropper. While abroad, that meant that I always had to first identify the language being spoken, then listen. Now, here, I find myself doing the same thing, except that I try non-English first. That means that I try listening to English conversations with my Italian filter on. That means that I don't understand anything until after I switch to Spanish, maybe French, and finally get to English. That means I really don't understand much of anything. The man ahead of me in line only spoke Russian, and as the employees asked around about whether anyone spoke Russian and could translate, I thought to myself, 'next semester.' (I'm taking Russian next semester!)

I don't usually ask for help, and I rarely submit to asking directions, but that was the theme of this adventure. After re-checking my bag I was given directions to the terminal shuttle, which would take me from 5 to 3, except that the directions led me not towards the shuttle. I asked a security guard. Yeah, somehow going out the doors to the taxi pickup is not the same as taking the elevator up to the inter-terminal shuttle. But I made it. My flight to Houston was supposed to leave at 855, so I waited. And waited. 8pm = 22 hours and I was feeling it. I started nodding off. At 845 we hadn't started boarding yet, and no announcements had been made. The posted departure time had not been changed. Then it got pushed back fifteen minutes. Still no news. As the clock ticked down we were told that a plane was being sent from Indianapolis, and that it should arrive around 10. Why? Where was the plane we were supposed to have taken? What happened to it? No one knew. Then we were told it would arrive at 1030, meaning we would depart about a half-hour after that. Then it was pushed back another 20 minutes. This whole time, I had been debating asking someone for a cell phone so I could call home. Minor detail about being abroad for four and a half months: zero cell phone + zero cash for payphone = zero means of communication. I finally toughened up and asked the man next to me (who had been switching back and forth between a blackberry and a flip-phone all night) if I could borrow his phone. As I opened the flip-phone bestowed upon me, an announcement was made. 'Ladies and gentlemen, I regretfully inform you that the flight to Houston has been canceled. Please line up and we will rebook you.' Well, not much point in making that phone call now. At least not for a while.

I finally made it to the front of the line and I was tired and frustrated and not thinking straight. The woman told me my option, printed my ticket, and I hadn't agreed to anything yet. I asked if there was any way I could contact my family, and I received the supervisor's cell phone. What to do? I had been given an 1130am flight to Dallas, where I would have to take yet another flight to make it to Houston. At that point I couldn't even do the math for how high that would make my total hours of travel. I guess the supervisor was a multilingual eavesdropper as well, and after my phone call he spoke to me in Spanish, and offered me a 530am flight with a different airline. Ok. Better. Sucky, but better. But I had to wait until he finished helping someone else. Ok. Meanwhile, the person next to me was having some language troubles. It was that Russian man, and again, no one spoke Russian. But he spoke French. I told the woman I spoke some French; she gave me a cursory glance, and asked whether any of her coworkers spoke French. No one responded. She tried speaking loud English to the man. 'I don't understand,' he replied. Strangely assertive, I asked what the snafoo was, to see whether it was within the scope of my French. He wanted to call his son, and had given her a phone number, but with no area code. In what I admit was a terrible pidgin of French and Italian, I tried to explain to him that three numbers were missing, but while he understood what I was saying, didn't know what those numbers might be. Hmm. I suggested to the woman that they work their way through the three area codes. I wrote them down for her, and suddenly the man decisively proclaimed that it was 281. So, it turns out, it was not so much French that was necessary as a knowledge of Houston area codes, but I had enough of both and the man was grateful and he reached his son. Then it was my turn. I got the 530 flight. Now, I could pay to stay in a hotel and have to come back at three in the morning and go through security yet again, or I could sleep in the airport. Hmm. My decision-making skills had long since left me, but I opted to avoid more airport nonsense by spending more time in the airport. Time to find tomorrow morning’s gate.

Terminal 2, they said. I set out, and found myself behind a young airport employee pushing an elderly woman in her wheelchair, accompanied by her husband. I assumed that, given the emptiness of the airport, they were probably going the same place as me, and I followed. That could have been a bad idea, but thankfully it wasn’t – mostly. We got to Terminal 2 and realized that Continental was probably not there, despite our instructions. The boy pushing the wheelchair turned to ask me and I said yes, that was what I was looking for but no, I didn’t really know where it was. He asked around and we were redirected to Terminal 1. On our way there, we saw a sign that seemed to indicate that Continental was back the way we came, so we turned back. But it wasn’t. We turned back back to Terminal 1. There it was, at last. Having now seen all of O'Hare's terminals (it goes 1, 2, 3, 5), I hunkered down and tried to get some sleep amidst the sounds of the night crew’s vacuums and construction. Luckily, I was now well-past 24 hours and only supplied with about four hours of sleep, so neither noise nor discomfort could keep me from the shores of slumber. I woke every now and then, once to find the elderly man covering me up with one of his wife’s shawls. I tried to be appreciative, but in my semi-slumber I think at best I managed a sleepy smile. At 330 he woke me up, and then I was able to express my gratitude.

This third and final plane ride went off without a hitch, other than a 20-minute in-flight delay due to having to circumvent a nasty weather pattern. But, this story is not over yet. My suitcase stayed with American Airlines, my original intended carrier, and was supposed to come to Houston on their first available flight. So, once at the airport, I had to go to their office to make sure it would be mailed to me. After taking the unidirectional airport shuttle all the way around the airport just to get to the adjacent terminal, I found out that American Airlines would give my suitcase to Continental, who would then send it to me. So back to where I started. Continental and I worked it out, and the suitcase would be on its way.

So now, 36 hours after leaving Parma home, I am home home. I am getting used to the taste of real milk, which is at once familiar and yet strange. I am having to remember that toilets don’t flush via button on the top, anymore. I am readjusting to the idea of having a functional cell phone, with all the pros and cons that that entails. I am getting back into the nitty-gritty of Texas, with cheesy grits, local beer, Blue Bell ice cream, and Guatemalan home cooking. Houston gave me its humid hug the second I got off the airplane, and I smiled because there is nothing like it. Adelina is home, with pictures to share and stories to tell.