Italy

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.

It was late in the evening as we walked across the River Arno. The sun was beginning to set, and the evening sky was filled with all sorts of colors — yellows and reds and everything in between.

I think it’s fair to judge the success of a trip by how sad you are to go home. I think this as I stand on a bus that will take me across the tarmac of Florence’s airport to the airplane that is waiting for me. And, I don’t want to go home, but go home I must.