A Broken Plan Made New

Sometimes, the best plans are those that receive an unforeseen twist of fate, a tweak from poor timing, or just flat out go wrong. Miss Morningstar, my high school art teacher, always smiled even when I glazed my pitiful clay pot the complete wrong color. She would habitually reassured me there are no mistakes in the world of art, just divergent means to craft something new, perhaps something a meticulous, chained mind would never explore. Four years removed from those drawing lessons and still her proverb rings in my head, moreover it unexpectedly crops up in diverse episodes of life, persistently lending itself to my experiences, with the most recent being a day trip gone askew, not wrong, just askew.

9:52 Friday morning, the pizzeria woman and her pizzeria husband hand us our slices of pizza while simultaneously making Italian small talk. Returning friendly chatter between bites, I was actually quite taken back. My two roommates Jack and James were I think as surprised as I was. We had often frequented this exact pizzeria and the owners were never so friendly. In my head I briefly hypothesized how it could be so, concluding they must simply must be morning people and we had always caught them in the afternoon, past their peak cordial hours. 9:56 pushed us out the door as we smiled our “grazies” and “ciaos” through pizza sauce smeared lips. My mind quickly switched to the task at hand which was to accomplish our predetermined plan of meeting our friend Tami at the bus stop by 10:00. Yet, at the time it seemed to me and I think also to everyone else an arbitrary moment, because none of us for sure knew when the bus left. What I did know for certain was we were bound for the Mediterranean coastal town of Tarquinia, also the pizza in my mouth tasted really good. Together these two things are by nature not meant to be rushed so naturally we sauntered the through the Viterben streets.

10:05 and Tami comes into view at the bus stop, she was smiling but not because she was happy. Tami just always smiles. In fact she continued her courageous smile even as she told us that the bus bound for Tarquinia had left at 10:00 sharp. Ouch, it stung and the pizza taste turned bitter in my mouth. The situation grew sour and the irony even thicker as she explained, still smiling, that the next bus was not for two hours. Momentarily, I cursed our carelessness and that stupid, delicious pizza. It was a brief moment though because I think then that Tami’s perpetual smile reminded me of my high school art teacher smiling and telling me there are no mistakes just divergent means of creating something new. It was my turn to smile and I did as I walked over to the map of the local area and began crafting something new. My finger moved East from Viterbo to Tarquinia. Along the way was the small town of Tuscania, the schedule said the bus for Tuscania departed at 10:30, something beautiful was forming. We would go to Tuscania, because there really is no going wrong when it comes to exploring random Italian countryside villages, and then perhaps we could catch a bus from their to the coast. Fifty minutes later, the bus was pulling away, leaving us standing beside the medieval walls of Tuscania.

The next couple of hours slid past unnoticed. Tuscania enchanted us and I think all her visitors with quant colorful houses, rolling hills, and impressive cathrials. We filled her streets we listless chatter and goofy photo shoots. Before long we had happily seen all that we desired and my thoughts again turned to Tarquinia. 1:30 it was still early and we all decided to give the coastal trek another try. Not knowing when a bus would come or even if it would come, we placidly waited at the bus stop. Jack and I had our head phones in, Tami was sketching, James was… well I don’t really know what he was doing, but I think we were all content in our circumstances.

“Tarquinia” flashed in button light bulbs above the bus windshield as it pulled up to the stop. Excitement burst inside of me, but I immediately doused it with a hefty serving of salt so as to not set myself up for what could easily be a let down. My Italian was shaky as I asked the driver if he was indeed bound for Tarquinia. Wouldn’t you know he responded in the affirmative. I smiled and thanked him before waving the others onto our ticket to the sea. It was not the route I had in mind when the morning started, but we were going to the coast after all.

(To be continued...)

The Sky’s Falling, I’m Not Surprised. (part 5)

It has been a fun tale but this is the conclusion and it made the whole trip worth it for sure.


From that point on, absolutely everything fell perfectly into place. The bus dropped us off literally across the street from the ski resorts and the mountains themselves. The lift tickets and rentals were cheaper than we had expected and the weather conditions were ideal. Crystal blue skies washed in sunshine and 45 degrees. And the snowboarding… wow. As long as I live I do not think I will ever experience a better mountain. It was the most fun I have had in a very long time. The final chapter of my story will be spent attempting to translate exactly how I felt on these mountains and then I will lay this tale to rest. Memories should never be exhausted; they can lose their charm. It is well.

The snowboard dangled casually at my foot and my legs swayed listlessly to and fro as the ski lift swiftly carried our merry band over trees and brush, past drifts and slopes. Mitten clad hands lay carelessly in my lap and my covered head jostled faintly for the lack of taut neck muscles. The sky shone a crystal blue and my eyes, through the orange tint of my goggles, marveled within its purity. Our conversation glided back and forth like languid moonlight tides. My senses were elevated and I thought I experienced epiphany, revelation. In that moment the world became simple and I had everything all figured out. It all boiled down to a snowboard and a chill slope. That’s all I needed in life. Happiness leapt in my soul at ever drift cut. Joy welled up and burst forth in giddy laughter as my board skimmed the weightless, porcelain powder. Yes, life was about being young and my mind bathed in the invigorating simplicity. Until that is, the lift delivered me to the summit. Then I was provided an unhindered view of the Italian Alps. At that moment my careless demeanor felt like sacrilege and my listless laughter like ignorant irreverence. I felt mind and body fold, overwhelmed by what spread before me. Breathtaking majestic mountains whose very site silenced my flippant mouth and tamed my juvenile soul tumble across the panorama. Their serrated stone peaks split the same crystal blue sky as regal as kings; frosted pine forests spread like robes at their feet. All around me the picture was the same. Minutes passed and I only stood there lost in awe. Finally made aware of how small I was and that life was not so simple. I could not even begin to comprehend the scene before me, how then could I make sense of the universe? This beauty was beyond me such that I could not hope to understand. It was good not to understand and I prayed in that moment that I never would. This brilliant splendor became my portion for the day. Not the snowboarding. An odyssey was required to finally reach this pinnacle, but I promise it is one I would happily make one hundred times over.

The Sky’s Falling, I’m Not Surprised. (part 4)

(Feb. 14 is the start to this tale)

We made that corner stop at the top of the street in the middle of downtown Torino our home for over three hours. If the occasional bus did happen to roll along it was never destined for Candiolo. We were told time and time again that the next bus would be for Candiolo. It never was and the bus trip actually never happened. It was now almost 11:00 pm and we had had enough. Maddie hailed the next available taxi and we piled in. We had assumed that a taxi would be to expensive, that is why we had not taken action sooner. However, at this point I think we would have paid anything. The alternative was sleeping on the streets. Out of town indeed, our taxi carried us past the cities limits, down winding country roads whose only population was fields and abandoned factories. Approximately twenty minutes had elapsed when my eyes beheld a site I genuinely had not believed they ever would: a blaring neon sign for the Hotel Del Parco. The taxi man asked for thirty Euro which was actually not that bad especially split four ways and then dropped us off. We had finally made it. There were no Nigerian prostitutes in site.

The inside of the hotel was actually very clean and welcoming. There was a quant bar and restaurant staffed by the nicest of people. I think it was a family run establishment. However, this was the extent of my observations because once we received our rooms keys and I found my bed, there was nothing else my body would stand for other than a good nights sleep.

My spirits were high as I awoke early the next morning. I had a clean shower, a very delicious complementary breakfast, and the horrors of the day before seemed like nothing more than a distant memory. The receptionist told us that we could actually catch a bus right outside the hotel that would carry us the two hour trek into the mountains to Sestriere, which happens to be the site of the 2006 winter Olympics as well as some of the most renowned skiing destinations in the world. I was beside myself. Nothing could go wrong and our plan looked like a cinch. Our merry band skipped out to the stop and waited there for our 7:45 am bus to paradise. The conversation was giddy as we discussed how epic the rest of the day was to be. The anticipation and optimism continued to build right up until 7:50 when a bus bound for the stop right before Sestriere come barreling down the rode. Yet, it never stopped. Actually, my mind likes to tell me the driver accelerated past our stop. I don’t know why. Every soul in our merry band was crushed. There were no other buses scheduled to come until very late in the morning and by that time it would be too late. We were stranded in the middle of nowhere; starring off into the distant mountains with no means to get there. I think our moral plummeted to an all-trip low at that point and if you remember the events of the day before, that is saying something. I dragged my dejected body back into the hotel and pulled my head of my chest just long enough to ask the receptionist if there was any chance there was another bus coming. She said she did not know but she could try and check. I had zero hope but mumbled a thank you non-the less. A few clicks on the keyboard and a couple minutes later she triumphantly announced that she believed there would be another bus at 8:15. As much as I wanted to I could not allow myself to believe her so I just courteously smiled and thanked her as I shuffled back to the bus stop. The dejected band took the news with a grain of salt and the consensuses was to wait till 8:15 not because we actually thought a bus would come, but because we had nothing better to do than kick stones around the parking lot.

I was silently planning a way to get home that day and end the misery once and for all when out of nowhere a large blue bus sporting a sign reading ‘Sestriere’ came chugging down the street. It was 8:15 on the button. I was astounded and for half a second could muster neither motion nor sound from my body. Then I victoriously shook off the chains of despair and jumped around waving my arms like the freed prisoner that I was. The others acted in a similar fashion such that this time our flagging would not be ignored. Simultaneously, the doors swung open and the tires stopped moving. Still a bit dazed, I asked the bus driver if he was indeed bound for the ski slopes of Sestriere. You know what he said? He said he yes and we better get on because he had a schedule to keep. I leapt for joy, at least my inner self did. I was vindicated. We victoriously claimed our seats as if we were conquering heroes taking our thrones. In all my days to come, I don’t think I will ever see a merrier band of vagabonds.

The Sky’s Falling, I’m Not Surprised. (part 3)

This is the third chapter in our ridiculous story.

The flight was actually largely uneventful and I even slept most of the time. I had an incomplete idea of how we were to get to where we wanted to go. We were flying into Milan airport and then we were going to take the supposedly one hour train ride to Torino. That is really as far as I had been able to plan it out. The flight only lasted an hour so our spirits were high as we exited the plan and entered the airport. Naturally, I assumed this was THE Milan airport, however, my suspicions were raised when I kept on seeing Bergamo on all of the signs. I had to be sure so we found an information desk. I asked the women if this was in fact Milan. Our course, she answered NO. We were in Bergamo which is about and fifty minutes from Milan. So defeated and yet not surprised. Of course Ryan Air would land us in the furthest most airport still legally allowed to be called Milan. We purchased bus tickets which would deliver us to the famous Milano Centrale train station where we could hop a train to Torino. If that sounds far away from our final destination it was. More than you can know.

From the window of the double-decker bus which speedily carried us along the Italian super highway, I noticed that northern Italy was much different than were I lived. The hills and fields of Viterbo were replaced with sprawling factors and snow capped peaks. Smog hung thick over the entirety of the region. Vagabonds and slums were prevalent. If this was Milan I was not impressed. We finally arrived at the train station and it actually lived up to its reputation. The structure was enormous and very ornately decorated. I am sure at any other point in time I would have been far more appreciative of the spectacle; however, I was tired, hungry, and frustrated. I cared only about delivering our little band safely to our hotel in Torino. We bought our tickets and waited about forty-five minutes for our train to arrive. Once were on the train we were made aware that the duration was in fact two hours instead of the one hour we were lead to believe. Time was compounding on itself. I felt like I was in a time warp stupor. Little did I know the truly mind-boggling was still yet to come.

The train was slow and made frequent stops. Darkness had descended and promised to make our already obscure path even harder. I did not know where the hotel was located nor by what means of transportation we could reach it. We had hurriedly scribbled down the contact info that morning so I figured I would just call for directions. How naïve I still was. Nothing on this trip could be so simple. The Torino train station was right in the middle of the city so I figured we must be centrally located to our hotel. Once there I tried to call the number on our scrap piece of paper. No dice. I tried every way possible and was only met with an Italian operator likely informing me that I was to dumb to know how to use a telephone. I was really stumped this time. It was past 7:00 pm all the information booths were closed by this point. With nowhere else to turn we made for the closet familiar face we knew: the Best Western Hotel across the street.

I felt foolish and more than a little touristy, but my options were extremely limited and the people behind the counter seemed to have kind faces, so I crept over and sheepishly lifted the tattered piece of paper into the women’s view. At first she just looked confused as if the scratches were from another planet. Ellie’s handwriting is pretty bad, so I deciphered the message to which she said, “Candiolo? Why would you ever want to stay there? That is very far outside the city.” I crumbled head, over hands onto the counter and wept. Ok not really but I felt destroyed inside. All I wanted was for our little band to reach our Torino hotel safe and sound. That did not appear to be happening anytime soon. The woman pulled her colleague over and explained our situation to him. He spoke extremely good English, definitely a relief. Mr. Nice English speaking hotel man plainly stated that the sole purpose anyone frequented this town, Candiolo, was for its renowned prostitution ring. Nigerian prostitutes to be specific. Yes, he was serious and I was laughing, hysterically. It was one of those chuckles that is somewhere between laughing and crying as if the emotion can’t make up its mind so your body just gives up whatever comes first. Thankfully, it was just a few giggles and genuine ones at that. I was ready to pull my hair out. The nice man said he would find a valid number for us and get us directions to the hotel. Of course I was thinking should we really go to this hooker hotel in the middle of nowhere? But we had already made the reservation and they had our credit card number. We would be charged either way so I determined this last leg of our journey was a necessary one. The hotel man explained that a bus would stop at the top of the street and could take us very close to our hotel. He clarified how we were to go about purchasing the needed tickets and then all we had to do was wait. Oh, wait we did.

The Sky’s Falling, I’m Not Surprised. (cont'd)

(The following is the second episode of a story I am gradually telling. Feb. 14th is the first installment.)

At this point we had no more than ten minutes to catch out train, this was no time for fashion or pretense. We slung our bags over our shoulders and began sprinting across town. My thoughts began pillow fighting in my head, going back and forth, trading blows to the tune of, “are you really running across town right now to catch a train that you probably can’t make which leads to a plane for which you have no ticket?’ Then optimism would slug back with, ‘Run faster! The train you will catch will carry you to the mountains you love. It’s worth it.” Is it me or is optimism the underdog more often than not? The pillow fight went on pause just then because Maddie had stopped running. She placed hands to knees and began heaving heavy labored breaths through wheezing lungs. I had forgot she had Bronchitis. I didn’t know how to help so I grabbed her bag and encouraged steps even if they were walking. What a trooper. She ripped a deep pull off of her inhaler and took off again, uphill. There we were three ridiculous Americans loud, rushed, and clearly out of shape. I hate reinforcing stereotypes. Finally, the station pulled into view and low and behold the train was still there, for the moment. I have run up to departing trains before. It is quite demoralizing to say the least. This was the home stretch so we gave it all we had. Our other travel mate welcomed us aboard and handed us our tickets. We had made it.

The two hour train ride was refreshingly uneventful, however I knew as soon as we got off the rat race would begin anew. We had just under and hour a half to the get to the airport with only vague second hand directions guiding us. With no time to lose we ran to the Rome metro B line buried beneath the city. It carried us to the central hub known as Termini. There we switched to the A line and rode it fourteen stops to the end of the line. I was sweating bullets the entire time. I was thinking the metro could not go fast enough and there was no way we were making our flight. Finally, the line ended and the doors slid opened releasing four frantic Americans. We scampered out of the station and hailed the first taxi we saw. I said, “Vai a Ciampiono, velocemente?!” He nodded and before you could say smelly cab driver we were speeding, weaving, and winding through chaotic Roman traffic. All the while we just kept on repeating to each other what kind of a miracle it would be if we actually caught this flight. After what felt like hours of roasting on a timed turkey spit, we paid the drive is due, fourteen Euro, and bolted for the airport entrance. We had half an hour till the flight left.

Blaine had the good eye and quickly identified the Ryan Air ticket counter. I still had no idea what we were doing there without tickets. I had remembered reading somewhere that if you failed to print off the boarding pass than the airport could do it… for a fee. Our approach was met with languid grins from the staff persons. I hurriedly explained that three fours of us did not have boarding passes and asked if it would be to much trouble for them to print them off. The man calmly said it would not be any inconvenience to him. Relief swept my mind and I thanked the kind gentlemen. To soon, unfortunately, that was not all he had to say… He went on to clarify that the inconvenience would be all mine and I would be charged an automatic printing fee. 48.00 Euros or roughly $70.00. I was appalled. Yet, what choice did I have? We were directed to another ticket booth where we could offer our blood sacrifice. I remember really wanting to hurt someone at this point, but I refrained and rallied my emotions for the task before me. I shook off what looked to be a drug deal going on behind the counter and after paying received only a receipt for a ticket and not the ticket itself. Of course. I was then directed back to the Ryan Air counter where they finally gave us our boarding passes. Although that was one huge hurdle cleared I knew we were not out of the woods yet. The security line was wrapped through the terminal like a menacing Amazon python. We had one shot to actually make the gate on time; we rushed around the line to the very front where we tossed any semblance of pride along with our fate at the feet of a hapless security guard. We showed her our tickets and how our plane left in twenty minutes. The flocks of Italians behind her were non-to pleased as she reluctantly let us through to the front. A small victory, but hugely important. Once through the metal detectors we did not even stop to put our shoes back on. So with bags slung on shoulders, jackets half on, and shoes in hand we sprinted to the big board were we identified our flight at gate 13. Upon arrival at unlucky number 13 hour hearts were finally crushed and our spirits crumbled. Not a soul was present, not even a stewardess at the counter. This could not be right! We had ten minutes left! I lunged for the nearest staff person and blurted out my desperate inquiry. Had the 1:30 flight to Milan in fact already departed! The dude simply shrugged his shoulders, thought for a second, and then pointed across the terminal saying, “No, your flight leaves out of gate 22 and it’s late.” The joy that overcame my body at that point was so powerful I almost broke into song and dance. But I didn’t and instead we all breathed a collective sigh of relief as we filled into the back of the line. We had made it. At least this far.

The Sky’s Falling, I’m Not Surprised.

Ok, so I am going to do something new over the next few days. I know it has been quite some time since I have posted anything, that is because I have been working on a really long piece describing my surprise filled trip to Torino a couple of weeks ago. In fact its so long I am going to post it in installments over the next few days. So the idea is today I will begin the story and continue telling it over the next few days so stay posted!!!


Everyone has witnessed those poor souls wildly sprinting through the airport. We all understand they are desperately try to catch a flight and secretly we are glad we are not in their shoes (or lack there of, as you will soon learn).One might indulge in a muffled chuckled at the spectacle. It’s sick but you know its true. I know have. However, after this past weekend I am quite certain I can never allow myself the enjoyment of such cheap entertainment again. Empathy does not have a sense of humor and my heart goes out to those sprinting souls because I was one of them for a day and it was enough to make me want to irrationally grab the nearest Italian bureaucrat by the collar and scream some hysterical stream of profanities into his face. Something to the tune of, “Don’t you see that there could not possibly be a less efficient way to do what your whole country is doing and the criminal truth is you have been doing it for a thousands years.” I digress. Allow me to retrace my sprinting steps to the start.

Ryan Air offers European travelers incredible deals on cheap flights within the continent. Their secret to such discounted prices is they quietly attach small clauses to the ticket contracts, which place the bulk of the work, basically everything aside form actually flying the plane on the customer. One such catch is the traveler is required to print of his or boarding pass no less than four hours before their scheduled flight. Admittently, this is by no means an outlandish request and even appears pedestrian in nature to the most casual of readers. However, if one lives in a foreign country and has less than limited access to a printer and his flight leaves the next morning, it may actually prove to by quite the prickly thorn. I dearly wish this was not a biography but the truth is in my case it was a great big stake through my heart.

I awoke Friday morning with a jump in my step and a song on my lips. I had two hours to catch a train to Rome and then a flight north to go snowboarding for the weekend in the infamous Italian Alps. I was ecstatic because not only is snowboarding one of my favorites activities, but I was going with three of my friends and we had booked a nice cheap hotel in Torino. It was the infallible weekend. Oh, not so fast buster. One major obstacle was keeping us from jumping directly on the morning train. As previously mentioned, I had to print out my boarding pass for the flight. Two of my other friends had to also. It is worth noting that we do not possess printers here and if we want to print something off we have to go to an Italian Internet point in the city. The only such internet point I was aware of opened at 9:00 am, so I had the two other girls, Maddie and Ellie, meet me outside ten minutes before open. I should also mention that Italians are never on time and that includes business hours. This morning I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that they would not actually going open at 9:00 and we would be hung out to dry. Sadly, my gut was right. 8:50 quickly turned into 9:25 with neither sight nor sound of the shopkeeper. My nerves were beginning to fray and our journey yet to even begin. Time pressed down on us with the foreboding knowledge that our train left at 9:50 and our flight departed from Rome at 1:30. Desperate people make irrational decisions and so I bailed on the Internet point, if they didn’t want our business it was their loss, or so I told myself. Evidently not all nonsense is folly especially when fortune stretches out a helping hand as it did to us, revealing a formerly unnoticed hole-in-the-wall printer-fax point right down the street. I howled aloud for I saw our fortune taking a turn for the better. (I must have been blind or just painfully naive.) We pilled through the door and with broken Italian asked the only women present if we could print something off of the Internet. She said we could be we had to wait till she finished working on some brochures. Meanwhile, the clock spun past 9:30. This has more significance than just the fact that we had twenty minutes to catch our train, which was on the other side of the city. I will expound shortly. Eventually, Ellie got on the computer and printed off her boarding pass without a issue. By this time you may be tuning into the stories reacquiring theme and you should ask yourself was there a catch? Of course there was. The website would only print off our return passes. Frustrated, we could not understand why. Then the tragic realization dawned upon us. As previously mentioned, Ryan Air requires its clueless passengers to print off their boarding passes four hours before their flight. No less. It was 9:35 and the flight was at 1:30. I will spare you any patronization; the math is not difficult. I was livid, but had no time to fret so we paid the indifferent Italian women and bolted out the door, pass-less.