Farewell, Finally

I guess it's about time to finish this once and for all. The start of a new semester is just a few weeks away, and I wonder whether I have been putting off this final entry because I don't want to admit that it is over or because it is so over I can't mentally take myself back. I knew this would happen, but I am still surprised by how much Parma and Europe have faded. It seems like a blip - a wonderful, amazing, life changing blip - in the EKG of my life. I still have dreams about being in Europe. Lost in Parma, trying to catch a train in Berlin. But, in my waking life, I am back, and life is back to normal.

To conclude my European loop I returned to Parma. British Airways strikers granted me the gift of a few additional days, and I made it a point to eat gelato at least once every single day. On my last day I couldn't resist and had a second right after my first, and discovered a new flavor I wished I had tried long before. I almost wanted to get a third to make up for it, but two would have to be enough. I went to Torino on my own, which was the last doable place on my to-visit list, and I simultaneously discovered the pleasures of traveling alone as well as a profound gratefulness for the company I had had during the preceding month. I spoke twice the entire day. I relished my final moments in Parma, retracing my steps and revisiting my favorite places, but also finally getting to all those places I had meant to see all along. Better late than not at all, right?

Now that I am home, my ears are thirsting for Italian, my mouth is salivating for its cuisine (one set of memories that refuse to fade), and my heart is pondering the next destination.

“The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.”
- St.  Augustine 

I think I can now say that I have turned enough pages to make several chapters, but much of this book remains to be read.

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.

On the way

1. I made it to Parma.
2. A transcription of what I wrote in my journal while on the train from Milan to Parma. It is a little unorganized, but it is stream of consciousness, so so it is. Additional commentary in parentheses.

I am torn between wanting to take a picture of everything and not wanting to take outmy camera and mark myself as a tourist. All of the self-satisfaction I felt for packing 'light' -- gone. Anything more than a purse feels like way too much when you are trekking through Heathrow and then later the Milanese train station (not to mention trying to lift it onto the overhead shelf on the train. Later, when my host mom and I were carrying my bag up and down stairs, she asked whether I had brought all of America.) I can't tell you how strange and exciting it is to hear no English. I heard so many languages while in security at Heathrow, and some I had notions about and some were inscrutable. I probably seemed like a total creeper trying to peer at the passports around me and figure out where people were from. Ghana, Finland, India, Russia, Switzerland... On my flight to London, I almost didn't want to talk. I wanted to be Italian already, and my American English seemed to pale in comparison to that of the British flight attendants.

No matter how big, how small, or how many duty free shopes there are, ultimately an airport is still an airport and they are kind of all the same, so reality didn't start to hit me until we disembarked. There was a giant Emporio Armani sign over one hangar...? I got my bags; I got my visa stamped, and then where was the bus to the train station? I was lucky to have met up with a fellow student who had actually read the 'before you go' booklet. With her awareness and my Italian we would be ok. Where were we supposed to find this bus? Everything becomes much more complicated when the reality of your life unfolding is flooding your brain. Taxi drivers kept approaching us, 'no, grazie.' As we wandered confusedly and coatless in the zero degree Celcius weather, several called out to us, 'you must be hot, because it's really cold!' My new friend, not knowing any Italian, was oblivious. Though I managed to successfully convrese with several people, and inquire as to the whereabouts of this train, they were not much help. One woman had no idea; a bus driver said it was 'back there.' Finally, I spoke Italian to a cabbie who spoke Portuguese and broken English and we figured things out.

A while later, on the bus, I was struck by how much Milan looked like so many places and yet obviously it was its own place. It reminded me of Guatemala, of Newark, and more logically of Rome. Of course, the sky is as gray as can be, and the plants and fields and bare trees on the side of the road are sugarcoated in frost. At the train station, it was time for food. After standing before a five-foot tall display of sandwiches and waiting to be attended to, I tried to order and was told I needed to pay first. I couldn't really figure out what anything was -- a variety of combinations of meat and cheese -- but I figured I couldn't go wrong since it was all Italian. I ordered the Panini Party, which I thought was one with meat and cheese and some kind of greenery. Instead, what I got was something that looked like a giant, flat chicken nugget between two pieces of bread. Apparently, it was cotoletta alla Milanese, a common regional food, which was in fact not chicken, but rather what seemed to me a really unfortunate attempt at a chicken fried steak sandwich. At least the bread was good ... here's hoping to a better next meal. As it is, it can only go up from here. I learned that being able to speak Italian and being able to function in Italy are two very different things, especially if you're too proud to admit that you have no idea what you are doing or what you are supposed to be doing. Now we're hustling through the countryside, which with its fields and tractors and powerlines could almost be Texas, except for the bone and ochre and sapote colored buildings with tile roofs and vines and graffiti, and the heavy gray fog that makes it feel like I'm still in the sky. It is weird to see graffiti on parts of what would otherwise seem to be an idyllic landscape. I imagine it is because it all borders the train tracks.



After about half an hour of people watching at the train station, I saw a man with science-class type goggles on his head. Being in Milan, I thought it was a fashion statement--until I realized he was on a work crew.