Departure and Arrival

I live in the second largest city in Arizona. Direct flights are abundant—San Diego, Las Vegas, Chicago, Denver—but international options are quite limited. Dallas is my go-to for connections mainly because of familiarity after frequent travel for work over the last seven years. Compared to other hubs, the oval design and Skylink make it one of the most efficient. Unlike Atlanta, a gate change from terminal D to A poses far less risk of missing your flight.

When I booked this trip, it was almost second nature to fly from Tucson to Dallas, then on to Rome. Even the mighty Boeing Max 8 was no match for summer weather in east Texas, and the ten-hour flight was delayed by about an hour.

In those ten hours, I barely slept. Partly out of excitement, though I’ve never been able to sleep, much less well, on any flight no matter how long or how tired I might have been. A window seat is always preferred so I can observe the terrain and any landmarks from the somewhat rare bird’s-eye view granted to mere mortals.

A half hour before landing, I asked the couple seated next to me about their plans. They were taking a cruise from the ancient Roman port of Ostia to several coastal destinations on the mainland as well as Sicily and Sardinia. From my perch on our descent into Rome, I saw ships lined up – perhaps the very one they would be on in the next few hours.

As we pulled into the gate, the airport seemed rather small for a capital city of one of the greatest nations on earth. “Oh, how quaint,” I thought. My last name was called over the intercom. Despite the delayed departure, there was still a slight chance of making the connecting flight to Florence. This was my first introduction to Italian culture. It may not be a direct correlation but the French term “laissez-faire” comes to mind. There was no rush, no urgency. If in Dallas, forty-five minutes would have been plenty of time to surge through the concourse and board that flight as planned.

The gate agents were very kind, understanding, and willing to help but informed me there was no way I was going to make it. Another passenger whose name had been called over the intercom was going to Bari. It wasn’t his first rodeo and he seemed used to it. Hang loose—like island time when we vacation in Florida.

After what seemed like an eternity and much back and forth with supervisors, the agents were authorized to escort Bari guy and me onto the next leg of our journey. With fresh boarding passes in hand, they showed us the way towards customs and that was it. Buona fortuna, amici!

Up until that point, my passport had been woefully blank. As a person of Italian descent, I am proud to say the very first stamp was “Fiumicino,” at Leonardo da Vinci airport, on August 28th, 2024.

Proceeding on past customs, that “oh so quaint” arrival gate morphed into a sprawling, multi-level complex of shops, eateries, and lounges. A huge mall unfurled before me with all the quintessential Italian brands—Gucci, Fendi, Prada. I had quite a bit of time until the next flight so I decided to stop at one of the bars for a spritz.

It was real now. After many hours of repetitive Duolingo exercises and textbook study, it was time to parlare Italiano. “Vorrei un spritz, per favore,” I said to the waiter. “Di Aperol o Campari?” “Aperol, grazie.” I was on a roll! At the next juncture, and Italiano molto veloce, I resorted to English.

Marveling at the mere fact I was actually in Italy, after dreaming for years, I sank back into the chair feeling both exhilarated and exhausted. I felt so lucky to be here after saving and planning for so long. 

A young woman sitting at a table nearby seemed to be having a much different experience. She was upset, nothing was quite right, and impatiently waved the server over. She appeared to be anxious, asking him about the bill, perhaps as jet-lagged and sleep-deprived as I was. I remember feeling sorry for her. That no matter where she went or how beautiful the surroundings, I had the sense there would always be something to complain about.

After ordering a second spritz, in Inglese, I paid the check before meandering through the terminal to find my gate. Well, not so fast. It was going to be another hour until the flight information was even posted. Finding a large lounge area with other passengers awaiting similar fates, there was a multi-panel display showing the life and works of Giotto. Reading about one of, if not the artist to herald the age of Renaissance, I felt completely at home. What better way to welcome weary travelers than with splendid works of art by one of the masters.

Sitting for a while and deprived of rest, my head snapped sharply towards sleep. Once. Twice. And again. “DO NOT MISS THIS FLIGHT!!” I told myself and thought it best to walk around.

Finally, the departure gate was posted. After I made my way, there were further delays. Little did I know, “boarding” meant shuttling two hundred plus passengers by bus to an airplane sitting on the tarmac with old school airstairs rather than a jet bridge. Which also meant hauling one’s weary ass and luggage up those stairs. Fortunately, I packed light with only a backpack and carry-on for the three week stay. This isn’t a complaint. It’s like the dialogue in Pulp Fiction when John Travolta is telling Samuel Jackson about Amsterdam—”it’s the little differences.” Like mayo on fries, or beer in a real glass at the movies.

Descending through scattered showers made for a few bumps, but the flight from Rome to Florence was under an hour. Similar to connecting through Phoenix from Tucson, we were coming down almost as soon as we reached altitude. I took out my phone to record a couple short videos, hoping to capture a glimpse of the Duomo. I put the phone away, thinking to myself “no, I want to see it for the first time with my own eyes.” Whether due to the rain or it being the normal pattern flown, there it was! The magnificent cathedral at the heart of the city, capped by Brunelleschi’s brilliance, remains the largest masonry dome in the world.

Landing around seven, I was already late for the welcome dinner at PopArtment hosted by our tour director, Nadia. I had also missed the provided transportation. Exiting the plane and airport as quickly as possible, I asked the first taxi driver I saw, “È libero?” “Certamente.” After putting my bags in the trunk, we set off on what ended up being quite a ride.

Speaking in broken Italian and English, the driver and I made small talk. Almost delirious at this point, the scene passed in a blur as we made our way. It was about a fifteen minute drive and after a couple circles around the block avoiding one way streets, we arrived at the entrance. 

For no apparent reason other than arriving a few minutes late, the driver started beating his fist on the steering wheel, saying in Italian how stupid and sorry he was for messing up. I was a bit taken aback but also kind of proud of myself for being able to comprehend what he was saying. I attempted to reassure him, “nessun problema,” but it did seemingly little. In a jet-lagged haze, I grabbed my suitcase and almost forgot a tip. Glad to have prevented what I imagined would certainly lead to further self-flagellation, I gave him two euro. At first he refused, still distraught from this “unforgivable error,” then ceded after a few more insistently kind words.

A sliding glass door opened to the place I would call home for the next three weeks. After a brief check-in, I dropped my bags in the studio apartment which was more spacious and modern than I had envisioned. I was more than eager to meet the group and dared not sit down for fear of collapsing. I was also starving, which, in Italy, is a crime akin to murder.

By the time I made it to dinner, the group was still gathered, but clearly waning as we had all had long journeys from various parts of the US. A plate of antipasto, a bowl of delicious soup, and dessert were quickly offered and devoured heartily.

Everyone had already made their introductions but as a newcomer, they graciously recounted. On the passenger list sent along with the final itinerary, I knew one of the couples was from Oro Valley, the next town north of Tucson. All of us were excited to meet and I got a good vibe from everyone.

Not only did I feel a certain kinship with that couple, but in various ways over the course of the stay, I found something in common with every person on the tour. It doesn’t take long to find commonality and the more one travels with an open mind and open heart, it becomes easier to see how we’re all connected. To see the ways in which we help one another along life’s journey, no matter how rocky or tumultuous that road may be at times.

Returning to my room, I unpacked, showered, and at long last, allowed myself to collapse into a deep sleep.