When you operate your own business and you are your sole employee, leaving the office for a few days is always a bit of a challenge. But when you're leaving the country for a couple of weeks, it's a downright struggle. Progress on client projects has to continue despite travel for work or pleasure. So, you work your tail off for weeks, trying to put all of the proverbial balls into your clients' courts to buy you a few day's worth of "free" time. And every aspect of your travel arrangements is dampened by "The Work Factor."
Since the Running Man (RM) had graciously volunteered to make my lodging arrangements in Europe, I passed off The Work Factor responsibilities to him. I needed daily access to free, high-speed Internet from my own laptop computer which, of course, would require the appropriate adapter so my power cord could plug into the circuitry of whatever country I would be in at the time. To simplify my life, RM suggested that I lodge in a single location during the vast majority of my stay. Of course, that decision also undoubtedly simplified his life since he would need to find only one lodging establishment that would offer that lifeline to my sole means of support.
Working so many hours before my trip didn't allow me to do what I really wanted to spend my time doing -- packing and re-packing, researching places to visit and finding more properties to see while I was there. My excitement about taking my first trans-Atlantic trip didn't help my focus on work, either. I also had to make arrangements for someone to keep an eye on my empty house and not only feed my two outdoor dogs and six farm cats but to take the time to pet them as well. After all, that's what they are accustomed to. Then, of course, there was making sure bills that would come due during my absence were already paid or that I had the necessary information with me to pay them online from Europe, trying to figure out how much money I should take and could afford to take, calling credit card companies and the bank so I could use my debit and credit cards. Well, you get the idea. I had a lot on my mind.
I faced a three-hour drive to the airport in Kansas City the night before I was scheduled to depart. Fortunately, my baby brother and his wife live less than 10 minutes from KCI so they generously put me up for the night and, after a relatively sleepless night, tossing and turning and fearing that I would oversleep, they let me leave my car in their driveway and dropped me off at the terminal well ahead of schedule. By the time I actually sat down on the plane for the first leg of my journey, I was exhausted. I was glad, though, because I assumed I'd be able to get some sleep on the 9-1/2-hour flight from Newark to Rome which I would surely need when I arrived in Europe. I didn't want to get there and have to spend days getting over jet lag. I worried about jet lag a lot because it usually takes me a week to adjust to the mere one-hour switch back and forth between Daylight Savings Time. Sad, I know.
Once I settled into my seat on the plane that would wing me to Italy, I finally had the time and luxury to think about what I was doing. I was so excited about going to Europe -- finally traveling somewhere to see the world. Then, without warning, I experienced what I suppose might be a common and quite natural moment of panic as I thought to myself, "What in the hell are you doing? You're going to countries where you can't speak the language, all by yourself, to look at houses! Oh, well, no, you aren't going to be all by yourself, you're going to be relying upon a man you hardly know! Are you crazy?"
Deep breath. Sip of incredibly pedestrian chardonnay. Calm.
"You know him well enough. One of your best friends has traveled with him more than once. He's a tour guide. He can speak seven languages. And you don't have to buy a house; you can just look."
Another deep breath. Another sip of wine. Calm again. Try to get some sleep.
Much to my chagrin, I barely slept during the flight. It's obvious why, on these long flights, people buck up for first-class seats, and it's not about the food and free drinks. As the sun started coming through the plane windows after the long night, I washed my face with the warm, damp towel the flight attendant handed me with her tongs, ate my breakfast and enjoyed my adventure. When the plane landed, without incident and on time, I got off and tried to follow the people I had ascertained, during my shrewd observations on the flight, were far more seasoned travelers than I. I followed them through a security checkpoint then down to the baggage area where my luggage seemed to take forever to come around the belt. I started to nervously check my watch. My arrangements had left me less than two hours between the flight in Rome and the connecting flight to Trieste. When I finally saw my huge, overweight bag (yes, I had paid an extra $50 for the privilege), I grabbed it, tossed my carry-on on top and walked as quickly as I could to customs. The line was longer than one to the only women's bathroom at a KISS concert. And no one except me -- certainly not the customs agents -- was in a hurry. Finally through customs I ran toward my gate which was, naturally, at the other end of the airport.
My step-lively pace suddenly ground to an abrupt halt. "What's this?" I might have actually uttered that aloud. It was another long line, snaking around stanchions and rope. Passport control. While I was fuming, four, very tall German guys in their 20s butted into line in front of me and 100 other people, rudely pushing and speaking loudly. If I spoke German, I'm confident I would have said something. I certainly wouldn't say anything in English, immediately marking myself as an American and having the people of all those European countries standing in line around me thinking I was bossy. So, instead, I stood in line quietly, sweating and praying that I wouldn't miss the connecting flight. My cell phone didn't work in Europe. If I missed the flight, I would have no way to let RM know what had happened.
After what seemed to be an eternity, I finally reached the passport control booth where the agent asked me, slowly of course, what my business was in Italy and how long I was going to stay and where I would go while I was here. Then, he looked at my photo. He looked at me. He looked back at my photo. He rifled through the pages of my near-virgin passport, finally raising an arm, stamp in hand, hovering over an empty page. Yet another look at me then POW! The inked stamp made contact. I didn't even have time to savor the moment. I had 14 minutes to get to the other end of a large unfamiliar airport and to my gate. I started to run.
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