The Final Goodbye

Well, it had to happen eventually. On Monday, May 14, I woke for my last morning in my little apartment in the heart of Florence, gazing one last time out my window over the red tile rooftops of the adjacent buildings.

I took one last shower in my tiny bathroom, complete with a skylight over which birds flew and chirped each day. I then got dressed and ready for the last time in this place that had been my home for over three months. I tried not to think about it too much.

And there's no better way to fight sadness at leaving a place than to have the most wonderful person take you to the airport--my driver and friend, Beppe. Giuseppe Mirossi, better known as Beppe, is the absolute best driver in all of Italy, perhaps in all the world! He took my parents, Pauline, and me on a wonderful tour through Chianti; and later he took Laurie, Brad, Janet, and me on an unforgettable wine tasting excursion. I knew there was no other way that I wanted to get to the airport on my last day than in Beppe's trusty van.

I had arranged for Beppe to pick me up around 7:30 that morning so that I could get to the airport on time. And he was there right on the dot! I had already carried one of my four suitcases down the four flights of stairs when he arrived, an act he promptly scolded me for. "Carolina, you should not carry your bags down these stairs. I will do it for you." He then followed me up the stairs, insisting that he would bring the rest down. Yes, I let him! And as he went up and down the stairs, I took one last walk through my apartment, my home, taking it all in for a final time.

And then I placed my keys on the entryway shelf, where they would be waiting for the next person lucky enough to inhabit this perfect apartment, and I closed my door for the last time. And 54 steps later, I was down to ground level, and I exited Via dei Magazzini 6 for good.

And there was poor Beppe, struggling to load my extremely heavy luggage into the back of his van!

The ride to Amerigo Vespucci, Aeroporto di Firenze was uneventful. Excitement had now taken over sadness as I realized that that very night I would be sleeping in my own bed, next to my husband whom I've missed so much. I couldn't wait! Beppe and I talked about Florence and San Francisco, a place he would love to visit one day. And before we knew it, we were pulling up out front of the airport.

Again, the gentleman that he is, Beppe insisted on not only unloading my luggage and placing it on a cart, but on walking inside the airport with me. He said, "Carolina, I will be coming with you, into the airport, not to San Francisco. After all, you are married, so what would be the point?" Once again, Beppe used his considerable charm to put a huge smile on my face!

Once we were inside, I insisted that I was okay and that he could leave me. (He had another party to pick up soon.) We said our goodbyes, but I know I'll see him again. He's my driver for life!

Now it was time to check in, which didn't go as smoothly as planned. There was some confusion about my ticket, and I was instructed to stand in another line, one that was excruciatingly slow. It didn't help that there was an American couple in front of me whose flight to New York City had been canceled. They had been rebooked on another flight but weren't happy with it, and they refused to leave the window until the representative had checked probably every flight out of Florence, through every connecting city imaginable. Finally it was my turn, and my problem, thankfully, was solved right away. As instructed, I returned to the first counter, bypassing the line. As I approached the original agent who had helped me, and who had told me that I didn't have to wait in line again, there was an uproar in the line behind me. A large older man, another American at that, began yelling and cursing at me about "cutting in line." I tried to explain that I had already waited in line and was simply doing as the agent instructed. He wasn't buying any of it, keeping up his constant, loud yelling, much to the embarrassment of his wife, who was standing meekly beside him.

The agent did nothing to assist me; instead, she just looked at me and rolled her eyes at the absurdity of it all. There's no wonder that the "Ugly American" image persists! Finally, I was all checked in, my luggage was rolling down the conveyor belt, and I could leave my new American "friend" behind. I did, though, happen to hear the conversation as he went to the counter. "I'm sorry, sir, but it's too early for you to check in for your flight. You'll have to come back later." Was this the truth, or a sweet revenge tactic on the part of the agent? Either way, I walked away thinking, "There really is poetic justice in this world."

About an hour later I boarded my flight to Frankfurt, where I would transfer to another flight that would take me nonstop to San Francisco. I had about a three-hour layover in Frankfurt, so I decided to have an early lunch there, one last German meal of bratwurst and sauerkraut. Marvelous, even in an airport. I then made my way toward my gate, which was located in another terminal. When I entered that terminal, I turned a corner and there I was at a bank of windows, each one manned by a very serious looking customs agent. This was completely unexpected. You see, I was a little bit worried about going through customs because I had overstayed my 90-day limit in a Schengen State by 16 days. And suddenly here I was. There was no turning back now!

I approached one of the windows, hoping for a kind agent, and handed him my passport. He flipped through it, he studied it carefully, and a frown came over his face. "Where are you coming from?" he asked. "Florence." "How long were you there?" "A little over three months," I replied honestly. "Yes, I see that." He studied my passport some more, reached for his stamp, and brought it down on my passport. Thank, God! "Okay," he said as he handed my passport back to me. I was through!

Ahead of me was a seemingly endless corridor leading down the the gate area for international flights. Because I hadn't left the airport, I was surprised to come to another security check. I place my carryon bag and purse on the conveyor belt to be x-rayed, and and walked through the x-ray contraption myself. Of course, it went off madly! I was instructed to walk back through. Again, bells and red lights flashing. I was then told to step over to a special area, where an agent ran a wand up and down my body. It began beeping when it reached my feet. Oh, no, they probably thought they had another shoe bomber on their hands! I was then told to remove my boots (my hot new white cowboy boots that I had bought in Florence!). I did so readily. The boots were wanded and came through clean, but not so for my feet. Again, the beeping began. The agent looked puzzled, and then suddenly it hit me! "Toe rings," I exclaimed. The agent still looked puzzled and said, "I don't understand." So I removed one of my socks, showing her three silver toe rings I wear. "Oh," and she started laughing. Now she passed me through.

But I wasn't through yet. You see, I had forgotten that I had purchased a bottle of iced tea in Florence, which I had put in my carryon bag. And while all of the foot business was going on, the agent x-raying my bag had found it. I told her that I had forgotten about it and to just throw it away. "No problem," she said. Finally, finally I made it through. Well, almost... I had to go through one more security check at the gate, where my boarding pass and passport and were again scrutinized. I'll have to say that I was actually quite impressed with the level of security in Germany, something that's greatly appreciate when you're about to board a cross-Atlantic flight.

I settled into a seat in the waiting area and decided to kill my remaining cell phone minutes as they would be no good in the States. I then read until my flight started boarding. The plane had a 2-5-2 configuration, and I was seated by the window next to a woman from India, with her two young daughters in the seats in front of us. They had already been flying for over ten hours and were exhausted but looking forward to their first trip to San Francisco. I played tour guide for a while, tellling them about must-see spots, and her daughters wrote poems and drew pictures for me. They were delightful!

At one point during the trip I looked out my window to see an amazing sight--snow-covered Greenland, an expanse of frozen white. Wow!

And, before I knew it, we were making our approach to SFO. I was ecstatic beyond description. I collected my luggage, made it through customs, and walked down the long hallway out to the area where I knew my husband would be waiting for me. I was home...