Toto, I have a Feeling We’re Not in Venice Anymore

It’s true what they say, you can’t go home again. What they don’t tell you is that it’s because there’s entirely too much red tape.

Our journey from Italy to Texas began entirely too early in the morning, waking up at 3 AM. That’s 0300. Honestly, I had forgotten that 3:00 had an AM version. So there we were, stumbling around with not nearly enough cappuccino in our systems, dragging our things to the front of the hotel to get on the bus. Nine checked suitcases, four carry-on suitcases, three cats, four people (and a partridge in a pear tree). The bus left at 4:00, and that’s where the smooth ride stopped. 

We arrived at the airport at 5:00, right on schedule, and stood in line about 15 minutes waiting to check in. So far, no problem. We were traveling with three cats, and planned to carry on two of them and have one of them stowed under the plane. SSG OPSEC had made many (MANY) phone calls to The Airline in the weeks prior to travel to make sure this would be ok. Everything is ready, they told us. We are good to go. Awesome.

But wait. This is Italy. And the Army. Therefore, it must be complicated. We get to the front of the line and learn that Scarpa, our Checked Luggage kitty, is not confirmed after all. Despite all the phone calls, all the emails, all the checks, she is not cleared to fly under the plane. Turns out The Airline changed the rules on pets five days ago and didn’t bother to tell anyone. The lady at the counter offers to call The Airline, but their desk doesn’t open until 7:00. Our flight leaves at 6:45. After a great deal of fussing and fuming we agree to put myself, Princess, all the checked luggage, and two cats on the first flight. SSG OPSEC and Little Man will follow with the third cat later. We barely make our flight.

First stop is Amsterdam, where we stand in line FOREVER to go through customs. This can’t be easy either. The man asks me, “How long have you been here?” Me: “In Amsterdam? About an hour and a half. In Europe? Nearly seven years.” Customs man:
“Do you have your residency document?” Me: “No, they took it away when we left. They wouldn’t let me keep it.” Customs man: “Oh really?” (He says this in a tone of voice that says “I completely do not believe you.”) Me: “Yes, they took it away when we left.” Finally, he is happy to see a copy of SSG OPSEC’s orders and the cats’ passports. Whew. However, we still have to get scanned. We take the cats out of their backpack carriers, tote them through the metal detector, then have to go back through the scanners ourselves, standing with feet apart and arms up while the walls of the scanning cylinder woosh around us. (I love air travel.)

Second stop, after a long but blessedly uneventful flight, is Minneapolis. We have to retrieve all nine checked bags and then check them again. Too bad there is no video of this, because we could have gotten a million hits on YouTube. Thankfully we were flying with a friend who helped us out. It would have been even funnier if it was just me and the princess. Then we go through immigration. Again. Customs man: “What is the value of things you purchased while in Italy?” Me: “We lived there for seven years. Half of everything I own was bought there.” Customs man: “Ok, well, is there anything in your baggage that was bought new, like a gift, and is unused?” Me: “Nope.” Customs man: “This says you were traveling with four people. Where is your husband?” Me: (giggling from not enough sleep or coffee) “Well, I don’t know exactly. See, wegottotheairportinVenice and they told us wehadtoomanycats and so theysplitusup and puthimonanotherflight but weleftfirst and Idon’tknowwhatflighthegoton; he could be anywhere.” Customs man has the decency to laugh, stamp my passport, and let the crazy Army wife into her home country.

After all this craziness, I am able to call The Airline to try to track down SSG OPSEC and Little Man. Me: “We got separated in Venice because wehadtoomanycats and I just want to know what flight he’s on and where he is.” Airline lady: “What is his confirmation number?” Me: “I have no idea. All I have is my boarding pass.” Airline lady: “The confirmation number should be on the boarding pass.” Me: “Um...all I see is our flight numbers, our seat numbers, and times. No confirmation numbers.” Airline lady: “Well, tell me the number of you first original flight.” I do this. She tells me that he is on a flight from Paris to Atlanta. I am very, very glad that they sent all the checked bags with me, and that the cat is a carry-on, because they always lose our luggage in Paris and there’s no telling where she would have turned up.

Finally, after about 20 hours of travel, four airports in three countries and two continents, Princess and I land in Austin. Huzzah! SSG OPSEC and Little Man arrive only 3 hours later. 

We have Chick Fil A for dinner. I am a happy camper. Bed, anyone?

Parting Words

To the American women in Vicenza, present and future (eh, the ones who lived here in the past can read it too if they want):

I am getting ready to leave this country after seven wonderful years. Like many of you, it‘s our first duty station. I was new to the Army, new to Europe, and we got pregnant right away. I was very lucky to have my mom come when my son was born, but she wasn’t with me in the room--she stayed at our house with our daughter. 

This can be a scary place. You have to learn two new languages: Italian and Army (which is more difficult because it’s all acronyms). Nothing makes sense. Everything takes FOREVER. And then your husband has to leave all the time. But I would like to offer you some words of encouragement.

Appreciate the beauty that is Italy. Venice, vineyards, mountains that you can see if you’re lucky enough to catch them on a good day, Venice, the beach, beautiful towns that make you rethink your definition of “old,” and, have I mentioned Venice? Travel as often as you can. I know it’s difficult, especially with kids. (Ditch the kids with friends if you can and go away with your husband for the weekend. I know. I’m a horrible mother. Hold the tomatoes.) I know it can be expensive. I know it can be scary at first. But YOU’RE IN ITALY!!! Get out and explore! 

Eat the food here. You think you know pizza, but what you have had before is only an imitation of the real thing that is pizza. And cheese? They make whole meals of just cheese. I have said many times that I’m afraid I’ll go to America and die from lack of cheese. Well, fromaggio. Eat lasagna bolognese in Bologna (because it’s funny). We discovered gnocchi here. It almost makes me want to learn to cook. (And I will probably never go to Olive Garden again. Ever.)

Remember: Italy is not like America. In any way, shape, form, or food. Forget the word “deadline.” It doesn’t translate. Or if it does, it sounds something like “red tape.” Nothing is simple in this country (well, I have found an easy way to get to Venice) and very little happens quickly (“easy way” to Venice involves a slow train). This can be a real headache. Or you can just get a Kindle/e-reader that you always have on you and prepare for the directors-cut extended version of the Army’s “hurry up and wait” scenario. Whatever needs to happen will happen. Allora. Domani. (Eventually.)

Has every day of these seven years been wonderful? Of course not. We live here, which means I have to do laundry and clean my house. Blech. My husband almost died five years ago. Those were not good days.  I have missed many events with my family back in Texas--weddings, births, even funerals. (I miss you so much, Mom, and I’m excited that we’re moving to the same continent as you!) There are places we didn’t get to travel, because even with seven years, you run out time. We face many restrictions here, with so few jobs, so few ways to make money even if you learn a great new skill like crochet or cake decorating. (You could look at your time here as an internship--think of all the people you will impress when you say you went to cake decorating school in Italy!)

Those annoying things (wait...the power’s out again...ok, it’s back on now) have not been, cannot be the focus of your stay. Find something you love about this country. (Can you guess mine? It’s Venice, in case you missed it. And cheese. And moscato. And gnocchi. And...) Make friends. Go to chapel--you will find a home there (many services on Sunday, Protestant Women of the Chapel on Tuesday, and MCCW for Catholic women on Thursday). Find a “favorite thing” that you love about Italy. People save their whole lives to come here for three weeks, and you have three whole years. Enjoy something! Love something! Go to Venice! 

I hope that the time you have left here, the weeks, months, years, are blessed and enjoyable. If you just got here, or if you’re not here yet, I hope I didn’t scare you. I will miss Italy every day for the rest of my life. I was talking to a friend recently and said “we don’t have that where I’m from;” the “where I’m from” was Italy. This has become my home. May you grow to love it as I have. May God bless you all.

Always,

Laura