Day 1, Story 1: Ravenna to Florence

This is me, at the age of 12.

(by Carol)

I live in Ravenna–Ravenna, Ohio.  Here are a few pictures of some of the views from my home:

This is my front porch in Ravenna, Ohio.

This is my backyard, from which Daisy is looking to come inside.

This is Scott.

I live in my little home in Ravenna, Ohio—which I share with my husband, Scott, and Daisy the Dog—and I teach at Kent State University—Trumbull.  Last summer, I proposed to teach a course for the Kent State University Florence Summer Institute, an upper level English/Women’s Studies course called Adoption & Adaptation: Florence Feminism and English Literature and Film.  Actually, what happened was that I asked Scott, yelling to him from my little office in our house to him in his little office in our house (in Ravenna, Ohio) “Hey! Do you want me to propose to teach a course in Florence?” and he replied, “Oh yeah! Let’s do it!”  So I thought for a good while and came up with this special topics course idea, to be cross-listed as both a Department of English course and a Women’s Studies course (giving students a choice for how they wished to earn the credit: for an English major or for a Women’s Studies minor).  Scott is also a professor, but he teaches mathematics at The University of Akron, so he was going to come along to stay with me for part of the month-long adventure, during which time Daisy the dog would stay with my mother, at her house in Wisconsin.  That was the plan, if the course was approved, which (to my surprise) it was, and then (again, to my surprise) enough students registered for the course for it to not be cancelled.  However, the illusion of control was not to be.

First, Scott hurt his back (again) and there was absolutely, positively, no-fucking-way he was going to be able to sit on a plan for more than 20 minutes, much less for several hours.  This made me very sad.

However, second, my friend Pam was able to take his place (and his plane ticket).  This made me much happier.  Pam is retired from teaching at Siena College—located not in Siena, Italy, but in Loudonville, New York.  I’ve known Pam for a long time, but that’s another story.  The adventure, then, begins with meeting Pam at the Toronto, Canada airport.

The cheapest way to get from northeastern Ravenna, Ohio (USA) to Florence, Tuscany (Italy): book a flight from Toronto, Canada to Florence, Italy.  I got to Toronto with a shortish flight from Akron-Canton Airport to Toronto.  It wasn’t that short: I flew from Akron-Canton to Washington, D.C. and then caught another flight from Regan National to Toronto.

I should point out that I have mobility issues.  I use a walker.  It’s an awesome walker: big (6″) wheels in the back, with even bigger  (10″) wheels in the front.  It allows me to walk at a normal-to-fast pace, and I’ve even taken it on mostly level hiking trails.  However, there is no getting around the fact that I need a bit of help, at times, such as being permitted to board the plan with parents-with-children.  What I don’t need is what the stewardess gave me in flying from Washington, D.C. to Toronto: she stopped me from walking to my seat (having just checked-in my walker and holding onto the backs of seats to help me keep my balance) to carefully, slowly speak to me about the location of exits and so forth, as though my slow walking equaled slow thinking.  But she was very nice, otherwise, and clearly meant well, so I wasn’t too bothered by it.

After a bit of wandering about the Toronto airport, with my little computer bag and my overnight bag resting on the seat of my walker, and my giant suitcase wheeling beside my walker (awkward, but not impossible, to manage), I found Pam.  Her sisters drove her up from their home in Buffalo, New York.

We had a little meal and then it was time to board the plane to Brussels.  Again, assistance was very nice: the stewardess came to find both of us and allowed us to board first, much to the annoyance of some people who clearly felt like we were cheating, cutting in line.  However, going down the ramp to the plane, she tried to help me along by grabbing the front of the walker and pulling me faster than I could walk (trying to make me trot, I think).  “Don’t help me, please.  Let go.”  She complied immediately.  What was she thinking?  I don’t know.  After that, however, the rest of the flight—though long and exhausting (as it is for most anyone flying overseas) was relatively easy.  At Brussels, they made quite a fuss over us (Pam was using her cane), and zipped us off on a golf cart across the airport to catch the final plane, to Florence.

We left Canada at night (6:00pm) and arrived in Italy in the morning of the next day.  The sun was shining, and it was a bit warm and slightly sticky outside.  It was good to be out of a plane.  It was good to breathe fresh air.