Jennifer and I are on time, even a little early. The whole group is there and ready to travel. I crash out on the train, as do a lot of the other girls. We played hard and worked hard during our time in Cádiz and the six-hour train ride is a good chance to catch up on some zzzzzs.
Isabel packed lunches for me and Jennifer and when I open mine I discover that she went out and bought cheddar cheese specially to make me a sandwich because I had mentioned to her that it was my favorite from home and almost impossible to find in Spain. I know I’m going to miss Isabel, and I make plans to write her and send her a thank you gift in the mail as soon as I can.
It’s a hard day of travel and I’m not sure I should say much more than that.
We get into Rome on time and as we land the plane breaks into loud applause and over the loud speaker comes this triumphant bugle call… completely bizarre.
There are no customs when you fly between certain countries in the European Union, but I can’t even remember going through customs when I flew from the U.S. to Florence about three years ago… We collect outside the airport to wait for the chartered bus that is supposed to take us to the Termini train station where our host-families will meet us. Giuseppe learns that the bus company was expecting us to take longer with customs and will be here shortly. We wait, and wait, and wait some more. No one complains, we’re happy to be together, to be in one place, to not have to hurry, to have a little bit of cool air, some snacks that somewhat resemble cheetos (which inspire Tony to break out a crass joke—not to be repeated here)… the conversation is jovial and spirits are high.
That is, until Isar discovers that her bag has been broken into and items are missing. She’s remarkably levelheaded about it and I have to give her a lot of respect for staying positive—I’d be totally upset.
After about three hours of waiting, the bus finally arrives. How long do non-existent customs in Italy usually take? I joke that Mussolini would not stand for such tardiness…
Jennifer and I are staying with Paola, an itty-bitty petite red-head in great purple high heels, and her daughter Alice (pronounced Ah-lee-chay) who is about eighteen. Alice speaks some English and is very sweet and friendly. We pile into their itty-bitty car and then into the itty-bitty elevator to ride up to the eighth and top floor of the apartment building. When we come into the apartment their dog, a skinny mutt just over a year old flips out barking at us. Jennifer and I stand with our arms linked in Alice’s, hoping that the dog is more afraid of us than we are of him… eventually he accepts us and goes off to find a toy. They have a spacious flat and I give Jennifer the bedroom and offer to crash on the pull-out bed in the living room.
We sit down to dinner, just me and Jennifer, since it’s so late. We each get half of a buffolo mozzarella and bread and some beans which I season with olive oil and salt. The cheese is fabulous and the beans are almost sweet. I’m quietly glad that the meal is light, I’m feeling overfed from Cádiz!
It’s time for bed and I’m asleep the minute I close my eyes!
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