That time we went to Italy

 The flight from Madrid to Bologna feels short. The Spanish countryside is a series of squares, verdant or the color of fool’s gold. In the distance, are mountains and as the plane begins to leave it behind, it’s hard not to think of the beauty we are leaving behind, the places we aren’t going and may never see again. I told somebody years later about the countryside around Madrid, and they confirmed that it was nothing special, just little plots of land outside a city, but of course they’d been there, which changes everything. The places we haven’t been always carry a mythic kind of romance to them, see: versions of heaven.

          I resist the temptation to spend the two hour flight hitting the button overhead to ask for blankets, a pillow, some coffee, and someone to hold my hand during take-off, and sift through the guide books we’ve purchased to make sense of the place we are going, as if referring to a map, or plotting out which cathedral to see will make it anymore my place. I am forever unmoored from anyplace I travel, and yet I see the appeal of maps, of plotting. I see the appeal of setting sail across the open sea in search of India, though before that, and I’ll admit this is strange to think of, someone had to sail out into the ocean not knowing if they’d find anything at all. Can you imagine setting sail with no destination?

          Of course I’m horrible with maps and planning. I don’t really understand them and have the sense of direction of a young Christopher Columbus. To India! I can’t fold them up after I’ve used them either. It’s always some kind of eighteen step process that leaves me baffled and the map in tatters. “Just fold it around the creases,” my partner says, ignoring the fact that the creases are all exactly the same and that the map is not designed to fold back up, no, that’s the trick of them, they’re designed to be open, revealing everything. Leaving a map open as opposed to putting back in its folded state is an act of freedom, or so I tell myself. “Here, you fold this damn thing.”

          When we land in Bologna all the flight attendants stand at the front of the plane to wish us well. I can’t tell if they mean it or not, but we’re both happy to get off the flight and stop feeling so bad about being so pale and unPenelope Cruz like. We were stopping in Bologna first to stay with my sister, who traveled to Italy to teach English and wound up marrying an Italian. I missed their wedding because I was in my first week of graduate school, and I thought it was important that I be there. Mind you, I got an MFA in creative writing. In retrospect, it is both a deep regret of not fulfilling a familial obligation, especially to a sister who I hold very dear to my heart, and I could have spent a few days in Italy drinking wine, which is pretty much like getting an MFA, but in a prettier place, and cheaper. But, as they say, hindsight is 20-70. Anyone who says that it’s 20-20 is kidding themselves. You can’t really believe we wouldn’t fu-k up those other decisions as well, do you?

In Bologna we head down to baggage claim and greeted by my sister and her Italian husband, Davide. He gives us both quick hug and hefts our largest piece of luggage on his back and scampers off to catch the bus. He has the energy of a young adult buck, and he almost starts skipping while we’re walking towards the stop. I have the energy level of a three toed sloth and can frequently be found either telling people that I’m tired or watching other people do things that make me tired. The pace that he’s set, even though he has the largest bag, is damn near untenable. But we’ve just met, so I hurry along dutifully pulling a bag out into the hot Italian streets.

          We’re taking a bus back to their place because that’s the sort of thing that you do in Italy, take public transit from the airport. I grew up in a small college town in Northern CA where public transit was pretty much for the alcoholics, and so I’m partially worried that my new brother-in-law might be an alcoholic and partially worried that everyone in Italy must be poor.

           The bus ride from the airport was packed. My partner and I sat in our seats with our backpacks still attached because lord knows those are an absolute terror to put on. I planned on wearing it for the entire two week vacation, including to dinners, but I was eventually talked into taking it off on the bus. We’d carefully measured out the weight of the backpack to make sure it was under fifty pounds to avoid extra airline fees. Of course, for the duration of this piece, I want you to know that when I say, we, I mean my partner. If traveling was left up to me I’d have showed up at the airport on the day of my flight with a small duffle bag and have tried to talk my way onto the plane since I would have forgotten that I needed a passport.