Editor’s Note: Todd DeFeo is currently writing “Ten Days in Italy.” Below is Chapter One.
My eyes focused on the clock; I knew I was short on time. The Boeing 767 was still in the air, flying high somewhere over southern France.
At long last, Milan appeared on the video screen in the airplane’s cabin that displayed our plane’s location over Europe. Still, it seemed so far away. I glanced at the clock again. Only a minute had passed, yet it felt like an eternity.
The scene kept playing itself out over and over again. Somehow, in the back of my mind, I knew there would be enough time for me to catch my connection. But, I couldn’t convince myself of that. What if I was stuck in Milan? How bad would that even be?
After all, the fashion capital of the world wasn’t on my itinerary, so perhaps this would be a way to see the sights. But, then again, I had that connection to catch, and I had a friend waiting for me at the airport in Florence. I didn’t really know how to get in touch with him. But, I’m sure he would come looking for me if I didn’t show up.
Oh well, lost in Italy for 10 days. It’s not such a bad proposition.
I kept thinking about stepping off the plane, no way to get to Florence. I knew a couple of words in Italian. Though, I must admit, as rusty as my Spanish was, it’s a language in which I am much more proficient. Still, I could envision it: Here I am walking the streets of Milan, asking everyone I see, “Buongiorno, Come sta?”
Sure, I could ask everyone in Milan how they are doing, but I would have no way to understand how they actually were doing.
My eyes glanced at the clock again. Only three minutes had passed. THREE MINUTES! HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE? “I am NEVER going to catch my connection,” I kept thinking to myself.
There’s only an hour left until we’re supposed to land, and we’re still over France. Why do we have to be over France anyway? Hey, you there on the flight deck, isn’t there any other route to Italy? I mean, France? It doesn’t exactly top the list of countries I want to see. But, since I’m in the area, perhaps I could take a peek out the window and claim I saw the Eiffel Tower.
“Hmm, it’s a little too cloudy to claim that,” I thought. Oh well, if I never make it to France in my lifetime, at least I can say I flew over France.
Would I really want to admit that?
This whole predicament all started hours earlier in Atlanta when for some unintelligible reason my flight was delayed.[1] There was something about a mechanical problem with the aircraft; it didn’t sound like all that big of a deal. At the Atlanta airport, I approached the counter to ask what the deal was with this flight and hoping to persuade the crew that this bird was good to go. While I was there, I thought I could inform the ticket agent that I had a plane to catch on the other end because I knew that if the airline knew I had a connection, they could make a call or two and this “mechanical problem” could disappear.
Apparently, not so.
His response: “I can book you on an Air France flight that arrives in Florence at 3 p.m.” France, you say? No thanks. Besides I was just inquiring about when this plane might take off. Thanks for the detailed answer; I’m sure that wasn’t a thinly veiled attempt to shut me up and hope that I would go somewhere else.[2]
Back on the plane, ten minutes have now passed. That’s better than five, at least. Suddenly I can hear that characteristic change in the engine noise. “Is that the sound of an initial descent?” I wonder. “I believe it is.” The thought that I might be able to make that connection after all began to cross my mind. I was ancy, though. Why couldn’t this plane go any faster? No matter how much quicker I wanted things to go, it didn’t matter.
I again fixed my eyes on the in-cabin video screen, intently watching to see how much closer the airplane was to Milan’s Malpensa International Airport. I could almost hear the seconds ticking away, when suddenly we crossed the line into Italy. Time, it seemed, was speeding up, as I continually rocked back and forth in my seat. With each passing second, we were getting closer and closer to Milan. I was really starting to believe I might make my connection.
Seat belt fastened, tray table stowed and my seat in an upright position, the plane finally touched down. At long last, I was in Italy. Buongiorno Italia. At long last I’m in the right county…’s airspace. Things are really looking up now.[3]
The plane slowly taxied to the terminal and I was prepared to make a mad dash through the airport. I had no idea where I was going, not a clue what gate would be the one for my plane. For all I knew, I would have to run a mile and a half. It’s a good thing I was wearing my running shoes.
Now, the way I figured it, I still had one more obstacle to overcome: the 40 or so rows of people still in front of me. Let’s go people. Grab your 85 carry-ons and get moving. Isn’t there a limit to how many bags people can bring on the airplane? Why isn’t that being enforced?
After stepping off the plane, I began to sprint. I was running in every direction at once, frantically looking for one of those monitors that displays departure gates so I could find what direction I should be running. I finally found one, but I couldn’t figure out the order in which the flights were displayed. It seemed like every city, except for Florence was listed on the screen. My feet were still moving, but my body remained in front of the monitor, feverishly looking for my flight.
Somehow I found it and I began to run again. I had less than 15 minutes to make it to my gate and I still had to pass through customs.
There I was, running through the Milan airport, catching my first glimpses of Italy and thinking if I had just a few more minutes I might have bought one of those ties for sale at the airport boutique. You know, I really could use another pink tie. It was like the airport version of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride – all sorts of people and problems popping up out of nowhere. Admittedly, there is no prospect of a train running me over, which I tend to view as a positive.[4]
I finally reached the security checkpoint only to see a long line of travelers waiting for their bags to be screened. I frantically tried to explain my situation to the security guard, and through he seemed unimpressed with my plight, he did let me cut in line.
Compared to the rest of the morning, the security checkpoint was relatively mundane. I could have been anywhere in the world walking through a metal detector. The guards in Milan looked just as disinterested as they did in Atlanta. Interested or not, I grabbed my bags (I had two carry-on bags and none checked – that’s the way to travel internationally) and continued on with my journey.[5]
At long last, I could see my gate in sight; I knew I would be making it to Florence. Really, I never had any doubts. Hello, Alitalia agent, here’s my boarding pass they printed for me in Atlanta; let’s get this show on the road.
Wouldn’t you know it, I arrive just a few minutes before my plane was supposed to leave and it’s delayed. It seems like the typical airport story – you hurry up, thinking you’re about to be left behind only to find out no one with the airline is overly concerned about whether they keep to the schedule. But really, it was OK. My journey was just beginning. It was a Saturday morning in Milan, and I was headed to meet up with some dear friends, and things couldn’t be better.
On board my connecting flight, I could have been anywhere in the world, except for the fact the airline had some sort of a promotion where they were going to give away an Alpha Romeo. I haven’t been on too many flights to Columbus, Ohio, where such a sleek car was to be given away. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve ever been on a flight where you could win a car. Seems like a pretty good deal.
I wasn’t in Italy for a free car. I was meeting some college friends. We were all traveling to Florence to meet up with a fraternity brother who lived and worked in the city. We had a whole itinerary planned: Florence, Rome and Venice, among other destinations. In between, I was assured, there would be fine wine and food to complement the sights that would be unparalleled. I could hardly wait.
[1] Consider this fact: I was flying Delta Air Lines. Need I say more? [2] Yes, this is sarcasm. [3] Mostly because I am in fact Italy, but to a lesser degree because I am now out of French airspace. Au revoir. [4] Yes, this is a reference to the former attraction at the Walt Disney World Resort: Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. You see, Mr. Toad – Wait a minute. Is this a book about Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride or Italy? Oh. You wanted the treatise on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. Too bad, you’ll just have to keep reading about Italy. As if that’s really all that bad. [5] This was back in the days when you could carry your toothpaste on the plane with you.Copyright 2006 Todd DeFeo. Unauthorized reproduction is prohibited.
