Tell Me Something Good: The Passage of Time by Marian Nance

Years ago, I took a trip to Kenya, Africa. At the time I lived in Vicenza, Italy with my daughter. Around 9:30 one March morning, I’m on the way to my overnight childcare giver. There are only two cars on this rural road of Bolzano Vicentino. The car in front of me pulls way to the left as if to turn left and I speed up to pass on the right. Surprise! The car turns right, right in front of me and we both hit the bakery, head on. Who uses signals in Italy? They’re just for show not safety. “I’m not going to make that flight from Venice to Rome.”

The baker takes my daughter, Leilani, and entertains her with bread. I make calls and the military police, childcare giver and tow truck arrive within the hour. We’re all on our way to post to file accident reports. “I’m not going to make that flight.” I also choose not to tell the authorities I’m in route to another country for fear they’ll order me to stay in Italy. “I’ll just say it’s my fault. Oh, it is my fault!”

It’s 1:00 pm and I just missed the train to Venice to get that connecting flight to Nairobi by way of Rome. Not a problem. I get the next train and find myself running through the Venice train station with luggage, to jump on a moving bus in route to Marco Polo Airport. Whew! I make it and I am going to make the 6:35 pm flight to Rome. I’m so relieved to know the flight to Nairobi is not until midnight. It’s now 4:20 pm at Marco Polo Airport. Ha! Two hours before departure time and the counter agent says “Senora, the Rome flight is cancelled.” “What! I confirmed the flight yesterday.” “Don’t worry, you’ll be first on standby for the next flight.” There is a boarding announcement and I stand in line. I am jostled by a bunch of rude, overstuffed executives for boarding rights, but I got on first. I wanted to turn and stick out my tongue as I left the boarding area, but I didn’t.

Leonardo da Vinci–Fiumicino Airport, Rome at last and I have no luggage. “Senora, go check in, get your pass, then return to claim your luggage.” It’s at least a half mile from the domestic to the international part of the airport. My tension is rising as the suave controller ask where’s my husband. “He’s in Vicenza,” I lied. “I don’t know where in Sam Hill he is and at this moment, I don’t care, don’t want to be questioned and I don’t want to flirt back.” Oh, there is my luggage and there’s the controller again. “No, I don’t want to talk to your friend on the telephone.”

I check in at Binario 56. Finally, I’m on board headed for Kenya. I close my eyes and when I open them, I’m in Nairobi, Kenya. The hassle was worth it. Someday I’ll tell the rest of the story to include raging flash floods, hand size moths that fly up from the earth, roaring lions outside my camp quarters, hippos at my door and Kilimanjaro.

“Travel. It leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller.” Ibn Batata.

Comments

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Marian, I could feel your stress of not making a flight and your desire to stick out your tongue at the suits.
I wonder if Ibn Batuta knew that travel would become so fast and still remain so stressful.

Posted by: Dee Dee | 02/20/2020 at 09:20 PM

Marian:
I found myself laughing throughout your story. It wasn't because I was laughing at your pain, it was because it's so relatable. I really enjoyed your post.

Posted by: Myranette Robinson | 02/24/2020 at 09:23 PM