When Was January 2nd?

Let's get to it. Here's what it took to get here:

I slept through the midwest, and I don’t regret it. I sat next to a red-headed navy boy that was headed for some big-game fishing in Jacksonville. We talked a lot about teaching younger brothers their place.

The sky leading into Atlanta was one of the most amazing cloudscapes in the history of Georgia. Clossal towers that looked like high-altitude snow-packed trees stretched on for miles in every direction. I was tired and it was a big deal to me.

A tiny bit of moisture on the runways was enough to get twenty plains backed up on the taxiway. A Seattle-worthy storm had just passed through the southeast and set us back a half hour. As we flew up and around it, everyone on the port bow was treated to a spectacular lightning show all across the horizon. It was footage of nature films - visible electric cracks along the ridges of the storm with bright flashes from deep inside, all coming in at two bursts per second. Anyone else who was tuned in to Delta Radio’s “DELecTronicA” had Air’s “Surfing on a Rocket” to complete the show. Awesome.

The seat next to me was empty, but in the aisle seat sat Khaki the Destroyer (so named for his clothing and hair being Khaki colored) - an old englishman who said little but managed not only to open (and fail to close) every overhead compartment for eight rows in both directions just before takeoff, but also rip his safety guide in half while simply trying to read it. He was kind enough to pass me a water and a tea later on, and also wave out the window once.

I woke up from nap two as we passed over Halifax. I never expected us to pass over Halifax. At least I got to wave goodbye to Canada.

Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit was delightful.

I woke up from nap three to look out the window past the ice-spiders to see Ireland. The light clusters were few and far between, yet Dublin sparkled enough to change my perception of Ireland’s ability/desire to sparkle.

The on-screen map of England was like looking at a map of Middle-Earth, only with Birmingham thrown in. I seem to remember a lot of black people being terribly upset there back in the 60's - a long way to travel to fight for American Civil Liberties. London was nothing more than a broad glowing patch on the white quilt.

As we crossed the channel, I made my first contact with Europeans. Rather, they made contact with us - four pilots, each one coming from a different direction on the compass, were descending on the city noir with long trails of either black or orange smoke, depending on how the sunrise hit them. I’m still not sure if it was a regal airshow or cocky pilots all vying for permission to land. We looped around once, delaying us further.

The runway they sent us to was practically in Nantes, and during the longest drive an airplane has ever taken I got some good glimpses of France: funny van-sedans, angled concordes, and dead grass were visible just off the wing, creeping out of the extremely dense fog.

Just about 20% of Charles De Galle is occupied by regular guys in plain clothes behind construction walls building new duty-free parfume shops. The other 80% of us missed our flights thanks to some unattended baggage that shut down most of 2D Hall. As we are being told about a suspicious piece of luggage, I saw a bright pink floral bag move on its own - either a miserable dog or a mysterious beast. Either way, I wanted to report it. Or open it.

A long wait in line at the Air France re-direct desk with Americans that make Americans look bad was exactly what I didn’t need. I tried to stay quiet and even fake a French accent, all to no avail. A gentleman from Dixie felt the need to share his views with me, leaning heavily on the phrase "bullshit, man."

The Florence airport was a silly place where as many as three incoming flights would all land at the same time and use the same baggage carusel. Every German, Frenchman, Italian, and American would stand on top of eachother (literally) to get right up against the conveyor belt, making the whole process impossible.

When the madness cleared, I was the only thing still in the room. I watched the empty belt scroll by for a while, delaying my walk to the lost baggage desk.

The woman with too much makeup told me that my bags were in Paris, but they had sent a note ahead. I was glad to know that they had taken the time to write me, despite being suitcases.. Air France would deliver the bags to Siena soon.

The customs process consisted of two doors: one green, one red. Red meant you were admitting to being up to something and had to go into an office with a man whose suit, mustache, eyes and hair were all grey. Green meant nobody gave you what-for, and you could stroll right into Italy. The green door even opened for you.

Four hundred taxis and one purple bus waited oustide the building about the size of a high-school math wing. I knew there was a bus that would take me to more buses, so I took a chance on the only option. I frantically scanned my phrasebook, mouthing some key words. All it took was a "prego" from the driver to freeze me up. I dove back into the book for help and protection, squeezing out a "duv'e . . ." before the man said with a smile "City Center. Four Euros, please." "Gratzie" I said. "You're welcome" he said.

At the adorable little bus terminal, my Italian got trounced again. "Prego" from the young ticket man led to a "un biglietto de Siena" from me. His expression changed to one much stranger as he switched over: "One for Siena. That'll be six fifty." I went down swinging with a "gratzie." "You're welcome" he replied.

The Florence I saw was dark but and landmark-less. I did manage to get a glimpse of a Ford dealership and a Blockbuster, which wasn't very cool.

The drive to Siena was took us across some barren nothingness (I hear that nothingness is gorgeous in the summer), save for extremely enticing clusters of glowing forest on hilltops. I sure hope I didn't dream them.

I woke up just in time for Siena. After a half-accidental walk around the soccer stadium, I headed in the opposite direction, amid streets that all look the same. Being male and a foreigner, asking for directions was mathematically impossible. And I found the Canon d'Oro anyway, thank you very much. It was a bright green sign at the end of a long stonte tunnel whose only light source was said sign. In the lobby, a gold cannon points at at you as you enter. The room is white with a high cieling and a shuttered window that looks out over the alley. The furnature is old school and I love it. Did I mention the heated towel rack? Heated towel rack.


(The tunnel up to Canon d'Oro)

Elapsed time since leaving my front door: 29 hours.