(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.
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