Figured I'd satisfy the curiosity my ego assures me you all have about my current semester studying abroad in Florence. If you're not curious, perhaps you should see a movie, go out to dinner, or fall off a cliff.
Right then, Act I: The Journey.
A week ago today I got to JFK airport in NYC, which gave my parting views of America some wonderful sights and sounds (I think I'll miss you most of all, Tony's Cheap Bail Bond Service). Walked into the Lufthansa terminal with my family to check my bags and whatnot...At this point the casual reader might wonder why I'm taking the German airline to a decidedly un-Germanic location. Well dearest reader, taking the same airline as the country that I'm flying to would be simple, and make perfect sense, two things that every online airline ticket purchasing website has dedicated its entire existence against. Successfully checked my baggage, barring some extra fee that those stingy Krauts saw fit to drop on me. (To any reader of German heritage who is offended by my use of "Kraut", let me assure you I do indeed love your pickled cabbage)
Sitting in the terminal food court with my family, I think some of that famous American "Melting-Pot" imagery is messing with me; the terminal is German, the food courts are Asian (One's called "Wok and Roll", I simultaneously found that funny, and wanted to murder the person who thought of the stupidest pun in life) the music playing is some sort of faux-Marley reggae ("Almost as rasta as the origional!" No thank you Jamaicaman) and I'm surrounded by the voices of Swedes and Italians....
Spent some last few fun minutes with my family, my brother made every attempt to get in the proper quota of insults to last me the flight. Went to the bookstore to grab an issue of the DuPont Auto Registry, which is basically Craigslist for the uber-rich. I get one every time I'm at the airport, just so I can spend the flight looking at adds that say "1956 Roll-Royce Silver Phantom, Never been driven in bad weather, a complete steal at $200,000!! No tire-kickers or wishy-washes"....At least they can pay people to correct their typos before printing.
Anyways, I go ahead to the wonderfully cheerful government screening area to play a quick game of "Will I Get Groped By TSA Agent Today?" Bid my farewells to the family, then stood in line five feet away from them for 20 minutes. Since we already said goodbye, I just smiled politely and whistled impatiently.... Looking around the line, I realize I'm the one white boy in a sea of Bhutan(an?) families on their way home to Bhutan, a country which I'm pretty sure exists. It seems that these Bhutanians(?) sure do love having children, and then putting their children in large, overtly complicated strollers, two of which are conveniently located to the front and rear of this traveler. Looking over at my parents, I'm frantically making eye motions to try to alert them to the fact that the Bhutanese (I give up) mother behind me is quietly but determinedly trying to embed the stroller into my calves. I'm going to chalk it down to a common Bhutanic (F-you Bhutan) greeting. My mother of course remains oblivious to the silent torture of the lower six inches of her sons legs and waves cheerfully goodbye.
While all of this is going on the mother in front of me was clearly paid by some enemy of mine to take as long as physically possible to go through a goddamn bag check. She's trying to understand the very easy hand signals of the security folks motioning to put her bag in bin.(Going to start screaming) Meanwhile her kid is wandering around, crawling through the X-ray machine like this is some adorable family movie. I don't hate all kids, just the ones in my immediate area.
Made it to the gate in time, my head full of resolves never to go to Bhutan. Welcomed on board the flight, settled in. The guy next to me is reading a biography on Slash and a German toddler is deutsch-screaming behind me. Still, I'm on my way.
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