Aren't We There Yet? - A Travel Log

Aren’t We There Yet? – A Travel Log

We can see quite a long way down the road from our home.  Let me qualify that some … not from home in Italy where concrete walls shelter a maze of ancient dwellings, but from our home in the States.  Out the front door to the end of the driveway, then on to the street, and the open road to anywhere in the world awaits.  So, it was on a Sunday in July that we bolted beyond the scenery of our front door to where else but Italy, this time for three months of whatever may happen.  Once again, the unfettered charm of something still undefined beckoned.  They say, “All Roads Lead to Rome” and they just may.  We’d give it another try, well beyond Rome, south to Calitri, beginning with the beckoning strada at our front door. 

There were five of us at this stage of the trip with two more planned to join us when we arrived in Naples.  Exactly how many phases there would be to our journey was only an educated guess at this point.  If all went well, we could anticipate four, with periods of waiting interspersed here and there.  All told, there would be enough to consume about 24 hours.  As a child, in the back seat of the Chevy four-door, I recall how road trips never seemed to end.  Sitting there on the interlaced threads of the plastic seat covers of the back seat, they seemed endless.  Only the fuzzy backs of the front seats, topped by my parent’s heads, were visible.  Absent the distraction of any hand-held electronics to occupy our time, dreams while asleep from the motion of the vehicle were our video games.  This trek eclipsed all that.  The grandchildren with us and adults alike would at least wonder, if not voice aloud that reprise expectant of some form of relief, “Aren’t we there yet?”  

As expected, the road petered-out about four hours later when we reached the bustling JFK Airport on Long Island.  Months earlier I’d jumped at a 30% discount offer from an Italian airline operating from JFK.  The savings would hopefully more than offset the cost of the one-way rental and it did.  In the meantime, ticket prices apparently dropped with Boston area carriers.  Truth be told, when you got right down to it, in addition to adding to the length of the trip, I could have saved the expense and the bother of driving all that way and flown from Boston for about the same price.  So much for the overthinking brought on by the chain of decisions called advanced planning.

From the four wheels of Phase I, we soon transitioned to the 10 wheels of Phase II as our Airbus 330 lifted off for an eight-hour flight to Milan.  To that point it had been a hurry-up and wait affair.  We’d set out early enough to insure we arrived with time to spare.  The downside being that if all went well, we’d arrive early at JFK.  Light Sunday traffic, great weather, and a reliable vehicle saw us get there without difficulty.  The hurry-up concluded, our waiting began as we lingered until the sign over what had once read Air France to Riyadh (just a little too far east for our liking) flipped to Air Italy. 

The direct JFK to Naples flight, on the once-upon-a-time Meridiana Air route we’d looked forward to for months, was now an indirect flight to Naples via Milan, on the newly christened Air Italy.  While much had changed, certainly the length of the trip, I was powerless to change a thing.  With king for a day empowerment, I’d certainly tell Mr. Aga Khan, who owns the airlines but doubtfully has never sat in economy for eight or so hours, how to improve boarding.  I still do not understand, but certainly appreciate, the confusion of boarding.  Instead of calling rows, let’s say in the normal manner, beginning at the back of the aircraft and working forward or how about by passengers sitting by windows followed next by those with center seats (a computer could certainly figure this out), theirs featured a free-for-all melee.  We’ve been to Italian wedding receptions like that, where as soon as the bride and groom are seated, the scuffle begins as the hoard of guests dash for the buffet appetizers en masse.  The idea of calling people to come forward by assigned table number was as foreign as we were.  Plain and simple, it is a survival of the fittest affair or at least the dominance of the hungriest with the sharpest elbows.  Frequent flyers can appreciate the similarity as you quickly find yourself in a queue somewhere along those 100 foot, nose-to-tail aisles, while 17G, 20A, 23B, ad infinitum, first search for their ticket stubs to confirm their seat assignments, then wait while earlier arrivals get up and move out into the aisle to allow them to enter, while others shuffle back into the aisle to unload every conceivable device they may need during the flight before jamming their carry-on into the overhead.  All the while they’d hold-up the uncoordinated line now easily extending through the shi-shi, prosecco sipping, first class glitterati, to the cockpit, and out the hatch.  Do I exaggerate or am I preaching to the choir here?

It all originates at check-in where you deposit your luggage and get your boarding pass.  For years orderliness was not part of this experience in Italy.  I’d say it was far more like the wedding appetizer buffet stampede I described.  At the airport, in a similar fashion, we’d be greeted by an inverted triangle of travelers.  Its long base ran along the counter while that poor last patron, tapering off the peak of the pile, stood farthest from the counter.  For those lost souls out there on the fringes in la-la land, there needed to be a modification to the beatitude “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth”.  Something along the lines, “for they shall get there someday”, would have been more appropriate.  Those days are gone, but it took years before the civilizing effect of the roped line was introduced. 

Like cruising, it used to be fun to fly.  We even got dressed-up as if we were going to church.  Not anymore.  At least not these days, where like that inverted triangle example, an inverse rule seems to apply, for as aircraft get larger, seats get narrower and more densely packed even for the ergonomically-correct, 32 inch waisted, five foot eight, 160 pound, stereotypical male passenger.  Like the movie Titanic, the reverse also applies as we found ourselves retracing the steps of an endless flow of ancestry, although in reverse, where instead we were headed for Italy, not America, yet with steerage accommodations in the form of “Economy” class still very much in vogue.

I did find that the much-maligned airline food had improved over Meridiana Air’s previous fare, although Maria Elena would counter here if she had access to these keys and point out I’d eat just about anything.  Much to the delight of the bovine population, chicken was still offered.  The other choice was ever inventive pasta in one of its many guises.  I chose the lasagna bolognaise which was just great, while my granddaughter, Gabriella, got to enjoy four dessert rejections including one from a neighboring passenger destined for Sicily over concern for her sugar count.  She also made a sign of the cross on take-off.  With God as our co-pilot and still more pilots up-front, I felt reassured we were in good hands.  Surprisingly, we were attended to by an all-male staff.  I hesitate to call them stewards, but why not, when for years we referred to their opposites as stewardesses.  How they broke into that female dominated profession, I’m not sure, though it must be a similar kinship I’m seeing nowadays with male cashiers in supermarkets.  

After dinner, we settled in for the long flight, almost eight hours we were informed, eventually into a rising sun.  I was seated across the aisle from my daughter and granddaughter while in front of me sat my other granddaughter and Maria Elena.  How I’d settled for that last-minute arrangement remains a mystery.  I think someone wanted to sit with Nana.  I hadn’t thought the consequences through when I’d agreed, for when the cabin lights dimmed, I had no one to lean into and fall asleep against.  Sitting on the aisle, there was only one way to go for I didn’t think the fidgety young woman beside me would appreciate me tilted her way to the accompaniment of an occasional cacophonous snore.  I have a problem sleeping while sitting upright.  I attribute it to years in the cockpit where falling asleep was for good reason, prohibited.  Putting my head down on my tray was also out of the question.  I must somehow get sideways, which is impossible in today’s seats no matter what the airline commercials feed us about the luxuries of flying.  Jennifer Aniston and that inflight shower she advertised on TV, along with a stand-up bar, were nowhere to be found.  In fact, amenities were rather limited.  With a compliment of 236 economy class seats, there were only four toilets available.  Four additional toilets were just beyond the curtain two rows in front of us, but unfortunately access to them was like crossing into the Korean Demilitarized Zone, also known as Business Class.  Luckily, we were not seated in the tail where the restrooms we had access to were located.  The aisles there were continually filled with what might be called anxious though straining flyers, who like Jack in the Boxes would pop-up whenever the seat belt light was extinguished and head back to join the rapidly growing queue.  I was thankful I was not seated back there for it would have been impossible to sleep in one of those aisle seats flanked by inconvenienced travelers whose discomfort grew by the moment. 

At some point, I must have fallen asleep for some of my hours aboard are unaccounted for, as if I’d been abducted by aliens (the UFO kind).  At intervals, I was jostled awake by some passing night aisle-walker when I’d list too far into the aisle or when my daughter would do the jostling herself from across the aisle after I’d discharged an especially vociferous snort.  After all, she had my reputation to uphold among all these strangers while I slept.  Conscious once again when the cabin lights came up, I was pleased to learn that there were just over two hours remaining before landing.  There are benefits from sitting up front.  One being that they haven’t run out of the wake-up breakfast omelets just yet.  When we actually did touch down, passengers applauded, while across the aisle, the lady from Sicily made a sign of the cross again.  For our part, we joined in the applause but any enthusiasm for having arrived in bella Italia was tempered by the realization that we could have been in Naples by then if the route structure hadn’t been changed.  Gathering our belongings from the overhead we quickly began to shuffle toward the exit, just another up-front seating perk that allows you to get off quicker and queue to the passport line before those hundreds of fellow passengers farther back.  It’s a perk, however, that can only be fully exploited by the business and first-class passengers, the very first off and already at passport control when we arrived.  

Milan Airport, properly referred to as Malpensa, is big and expansive.  We’d parked at the “B” side of town and had to make our way to the “A” side for our next flight.  This was deceptive.  Only a letter away, in reality an entire sprawling terminal separated us from our next flight.  Luckily, we had two hours between flights with no luggage involved, only customs to attend to since this was our first point of entry into the European Union (EU).  Thankfully, we‘d landed early and had that time-pad in our favor for our entire planeload of fellow passengers had to be seen by a rather bored immigration officer ensconced in a glass vault.  In addition to his normal duties of guarding the exit from Terminal B to anywhere else in the EU, he oversaw a red line on the floor that he’d shoo over-eager travelers back across whenever they’d stray too close to his realm, uninvited.  

The coveted stamp of approval eventually in hand, we next made our way to our departure terminal.  To do that, we had to navigate through corridors of consumerism.  With a captured crowd on hand, many with hours to kill and vacation Euros to mete out, airports have embraced the lucrative idea of a mini-mall on the way to the gates.  In some airports there is no way to proceed without zig-zagging through retail shops loaded with kiosks brandishing typical regional products in hope that you may have missed something earlier.  They serve their purpose, especially when we must endure a long wait.  It’s nice to be able to get up and browse the shops or enjoy some refreshments while waiting.  Who knows, you might even find something you like.  Myself, I’m usually a sucker for that last minute, duty-free, oversized bottle of Aperol at a considerable discount from Stateside prices.

Our flight to Naples boarded on time.  Another phase of our journey, thankfully a rather short one, was underway.  We were scattered in our seat assignments but after takeoff we were able to move closer together because the aircraft wasn’t full.  Our daughter was eager to meet her friend and her daughter who’d arrived in Naples ahead of us.  Following landing, we exited the aircraft to an awaiting bus that brought us to the terminal.  The Naples terminal has seen many improvements over the years.  For instance, nowadays when we exit the ramp shuttle into the terminal, we are greeted with an audio-visual welcome to Naples.  It highlights the many archeological wonders and sights of the area, from Pompeii to the Amalfitano peninsula, that make this part of Italy so unique.  Arriving at the baggage carousel, we found Leslie and Lily waiting for us.  Surprisingly they had remained in the baggage claim area since they’ed retrieved their luggage hours earlier.  Never having been to Europe before, they were hesitant to leave the baggage area for fear of what lay behind the swinging exit doors.  They also knew that eventually we would pass through this area and it would be a sure way to meet us.  They were right.  We were glad they’d made it on their own, and that neither group had had any problems.  Hugs and kisses duly administered, we waited for our luggage.

Arrival’s epicenter of activity, baggage claim, is another prayerful place where fervent entreaties are offered by petitioners even before the conveyer belt begins to move.  Prayers become more fervent with each cycle of the belt as it disappeared into the wall in hopes that a new load, bearing your suitcase, personally decorated to get your attention, would emerge.  I watched the lady from Sicily with interest.  She finished another supplication and low and behold, her appeal was answered, a miracle for certain, as her suitcases emerged through those mechanized portals of pure chance.  We hadn’t seen ours since JFK, one suitcase each.  I always check when the attendant slips the coded destination tag under the handle.  In New York it read MXP (Milan) followed by NAP, for Naples of course.  Much depends on these codes being correct.  That’s half the battle.  From then on, seeing your luggage again depends on a system of baggage scanners, enough time between flights to transfer bags, the absence of the occasional baggage handler slowdown or strike, your luggage being pulled for a contents inspection, finding its way aboard the correct trolley, and a heavy dose of baggage luck.  A second miracle occurred that night, only minutes after the first, when Maria Elena’s four-wheeled shell of a suitcase suddenly appeared, followed less than half a belt later by my duffle-bag, each embellished with a bright yellow cord as a personal compliment to the MXP/NAP codes.

One final phase remained, getting to Calitri from Naples.  Here we had options, though limited.  Hiring a Uber was not one of them.  There were none.  There was, however, a bus to the main train station in the bowels of Naples and from there another bus to Calitri, if a sufficient number of seats were available.  Our group, now grown to seven, would be asking a lot, especially when due to the hour, it would be the last bus available that day.  Could we take the chance?  To add to this stew, it had already been a long day of travel, actually more than a day.  Everyone was tired.  With many stops along the route, it would be hours before we’d arrive.  Then there would be a bag-drag from the bus stop through town to the Borgo where we lived … just a little much.   By this point only one option made sense.  Dropping the idea of this stew, we went for the filet mignon.  I’d arranged for a driver with a van to collect us and drive us to Calitri, non-stop.  With roller bags in tow we exited, single file, through the baggage claim swinging doors into a waiting crowd of anxious family members, resort services, and shuttle drivers, many brandishing signs.  Just beyond the barricade we met our driver, Salvatore, who with a broad sign inscribed with my name and an even broader smile, greeted us.  We had never met Salvatore.  Our ride had been arranged by Emma, our Calitri house manager.  Grateful for his presence, we followed Salvatore outside in single file, across the hectic street of arriving and departing travelers to his van.  Minutes later, we were on the A16 autostrada headed east, away from the coast and across the Apennine mountains deep into the valleys of Campania.  After that treat, Maria Elena now expects this kind of special handling on future arrivals.  As they say in that card game, “Go fish”!

We were delivered to the piazza by the Calitri town hall.  Not quite there yet, all that remained was one brief trek, the final phase, along cobbled streets to our door.  The clicking of our many suitcase wheels as we lurched along across the cobbles trumpeted our arrival.  There was no hiding it.  We were used to the drill, but not our guests.  I could only imagine their private thoughts reflected in their expressions and weary body language.  There was enquiry in their looks, I’d seen it before.  It was a mix of “when will this trip end” and “not another step”.  They were undoubtedly thoughts which when stripped of their crassest modifiers, absent a few dangling expletives, and distilled to its politest residue, there only remained “Aren’t We There Yet?”  Effectively we were.  The final impediments before the onset of traveler’s relief, were a few broad stone steps and a short passage through a

salmon colored tunnel to our door.  After the drive, our guests could appreciate Campania’s geography of stone, mountains, scattered hilltop villages, and broad vistas speaking to them across thousands of years.  They had an inkling by then that this wasn’t Kansas.  Instead, this was undiscovered southern Italy.  They’d made it.  For a few weeks, theirs would be a multisensory experience.  The wonderment of it truly incomparable - the very old alongside shiny new, faces with a thousand wrinkles, the communion of picturesque vineyards carpeting heaving hillsides, the aroma of grana padano stuffed zucchini blossoms, the recurring melody of “buona sera” and “buon giorno” from everyone you pass - enough to incubate a thousand memories.  Up those last steps and through the tunnel a different new awaited, new moments in time that have lasted forever.

 

From that Rogue Tourist

Paolo