Ultimo Giorno (Last Day)
My alarm went off at 4 am, after four hours of sleep. It was time to start the journey home. I zipped my suitcase up and wheeled it down to the lobby.
Up until this point, all the taxi drivers we’d had were calm, older men. This driver was a 6’6” body builder with a shaved head and tattoos all over. He looked like the evil character in a super hero comic book.
There was confusion because although John walked me down, he wasn’t going with me to the airport. (He would leave later that afternoon to go to Germany for a few days, then onto France, then England.) The hotel desk clerk chased John outside, worried that we were skipping out without paying. The cab driver asked me in Italian at least three times, if it was just me. “Sí.”
I settled into the van. I was glad that I put my seatbelt on. He was hitting speeds up to 50 mph. All the traffic lights were blinking yellow on the main thoroughfares so he barreled on through, and I held on, scared that we’d get broadsided. I didn’t know how to tell him to slow down; we were early enough that there was no rush. It was definitely not a slow sentimental last ride through Milan.
At Linate airport, I wheeled my luggage around in search of Air France. The check-in counter was dark, closed. I was the first in line. I waited about five minutes, then noticed that there was a bustling snack bar open. May as well get something to eat, while I kept an eye on the check-in counter.
The man in front of me was ordering a cappuccino and pastry. He debated between a crema or cioccolato pastry. He settled on cioccolato. I copied his idea when it was my turn to order and got the same thing, but with tea. I paid and took my pastry over to the counter where you picked up drinks.
A gregarious barista in his 40s asked in Italian what I had ordered. I answered, “Tea.”
He acted flattered, pointed to himself, and asked, “Mi????” with a rascally twinkle in his eye.
I immediately realized my blunder. In Italian, “ti” means you. I could tell that he knew I got his little joke, so I played along, “Oh, sí! Ti!” I nodded, and pointed flirtatiously at him.
He laughed as he handed me my cup of tea. Lesson learned two days before: I stood at a high table to drink my tea and eat the chocolate pastry, while I watched the empty Air France counter.
When I was done, there still wasn’t anyone manning Air France, and nobody was waiting in line either. I went and asked a woman working at another airline about it. She told me to go to Air Italia. When I showed her Air France on my itinerary, she told me that Air Italia handles Air France’s first flight of the day. Then she directed me to Area 1.
In Area 1, I wheedled my way in front of a Japanese tour group to ask where I should go. Once I found the right counter, everything went smoothly, including getting through security. I bought a water bottle for the 12-hour odyssey to Seattle.
Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris was a whole different story. Getting through that airport is a grueling test to see how badly you want to fly. First of all, it’s huge so buses, trains, and moving sidewalks are involved. Second, they are don’t trust any other airport’s security, so you have to go through theirs even if you haven’t left the airport. Third, their security procedures are even more ridiculous than ours and slower too. You can’t put your passport away because you’ll have to show it three to five different times. And to top it off, if you plan on buying anything, it’s so expensive that you might need a second mortgage on your house.
I’ll admit that I have a chip on my shoulder about airport security, but it’s not paranoia if they really are after you. My purse has been searched at least 90% of the times I have flown. I should start wearing a t-shirt that says: My purse and carry-on have been rifled through in: Seattle, Denver, Los Angeles, Chicago, Atlanta, New York, New Orleans, and Paris, but not in Italy, and not in Beijing, a communist country. I’d have to leave space on the shirt to add more cities.
In Paris, on the way to Milan, John walked right through. I got a full body pat-down. After that, they took my purse, and pawed through it, dumping everything out. Two female guards kept asking me in weird (Haitian?) French, if I had a knife. I kept saying no. They made rude comments to each other about the contents of my purse thinking I didn’t know what they were saying. Then, in a seldom-used pocket, they found a 1” pocket knife that they were giving away at Cabela’s grand opening. Aha! It’s more like a nail file than a knife. There was an argument between them about what’s allowed. I kept telling them to just take it. They finally did.
So, I wondered what I would have to sacrifice to security this time. No matter how hard I try to avoid it, I always get the overly zealous security person. This time the woman was nearly hysterical telling everyone that they couldn’t have ANY electronics in their bags—no laptops, no cameras, no I-pods, no nothing!
I ransacked my purse. I took off my jacket. I wasn’t wearing the watch that set off the metal detector last time. She ordered me to take my shoes out of a bin and put them directly on the rollers going through the x-ray machine. I wasn’t allowed to carry my passport in my hand; it had to go in a bin.
She spotted the $8, sealed bottle of water that I’d bought in Milan and wryly told me that I could drink it right there, right then. I dumped it in the garbage. That was my offering to the security gods. I bet they take all those confiscated, sealed bottles and re-sell them.
The elderly man in front of me was frazzled after his itinerary got lost somewhere in the x-ray machine. My belongings made it through, minus one shoe. I gathered everything together, and held my one shoe up. They looked at me. I held the shoe up high, and said, “Une!”
The woman with the hand-held metal detector gave me a look that apologized for her obnoxious co-worker. Then she reached her arm over a plexi-glass screen and used the metal detector to fish for my missing shoe. I slipped my Cinderella shoe back on for the long walk to my gate. No glass carriage was available for me.
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| Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris, France. |
I did manage to buy some perfume for myself and the two Sarah’s at a store in the airport, but first I double-checked with the saleslady if there would be another security checkpoint where they’d take it from me. She assured me that I’d be able to keep it. At a newsstand, I bought another bottle of water, some Toblerone chocolate for the flight, and a bag of the best store-bought cookies I’ve ever eaten. If you ever see Bonne Mamon Sables tout chocolat, buy several bags. You’ll think, “Merci beaucoup!” to me with your first bite.
At the gate I discovered a bank of computers that I could rent time on. Our cell phones didn’t work in Europe, and I knew that John was worried about me flying solo. After several attempts to figure out how to get online, I was able to email my family that I’d made it to the Paris airport, through security, and was ready to board the plane. I clicked SEND as they called my section to board the plane.
The 10 hour flight home was pleasant. Johnny would pick me up from the airport. He and daughter Sarah would be especially happy to see me.
The first time the kids Skyped us in Milan, they told us that we had only been in the air for about an hour when Suzie, the dachshund we share with Johnny’s girlfriend Sarah K., jumped off the couch and hurt her right front leg. She’s so long and low to the ground, she couldn’t even limp. Johnny was taking her to the vet.
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| Suzy and her new pink cast. |
Before we left, I gave Johnny $100 cash for emergencies. (Pizza and beer are not emergencies.) I was only going to be gone for five days. What could happen?
Fortunately, Sarah K.’s mother had met Johnny at the vet to help with Suzy. She’d paid the vet bill and bought a play pen for Suzy to recuperate in since Suzy wasn’t allowed to jump up on furniture, climb stairs, or chase cats anymore. It is so sad because one of the things I love the most about Suzy is that even though she doesn’t have the graceful ballerina body of a leaper, she has the heart of a leaper and didn’t let that stop her. Now we’ll have to stop her for her own good.
Sarah K. was in Pullman, taking a summer course, so she was just as upset as we were about not being able to get to Suzy. Johnny and Sarah S. sent us (and Sarah K.) pictures of Suzy in her playpen with her purple cast.
When I got home, Suzy was better than I expected. Johnny and Sarah had taken good care of her. She did her happy dance for me even though it was a little thumpy with the cast. The kids were worn out from taking care of her. Suzy doesn’t understand why she has to stay in the play pen and is still full of energy, so she’d been crying and whining a lot. Johnny explained her medication schedule to me, and showed me how to cover her cast up with a baggy to keep it dry when we carry her out.
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| T-Bone and Suzy with her original purple cast. |
They also had to take care of Velvet our diabetic cat who is not doing well, Java our ditsy Manx cat, and T-bone, our steady older dog who’s very good about going with the flow.
As I was flying home, Sarah K. was driving toward our house to spend the weekend with Suzy. She got in few hours after me. We were both relieved to see Suzy and took over pet duty.
In the meantime, I’ve re-lived my Milan trip by writing this blog and looking at my pictures. Going to Italy had been on my wish list for decades. Before I left, when I told people I was going to Milan, they’d say that I should go to Florence, Venice, or Rome instead. I got the feeling that Milan was the Tacoma of Italy. The short time I spent there more than lived up to my hopes. But, I like Tacoma too. Neither Tacoma, nor Milan is a huge tourist destination. Neither one is pretentious. Each of them gets overlooked in the shadow of a showier, bigger city. Milan more than lived up to my hopes.
Suzy will get her cast off in four weeks. My memories of Milan will last a lifetime.
Arrivederci,
Laura
Laura Keolanui Stark is eating a gelato bar from Top Food. It’s good, but not quite the same. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.
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