Planes and boats and trains. Well, no boats (yet). However, it was a pretty rigorous trip to get from Albany to Florence involving driving and being driven, planes (two), golf carts (two? three?), shuttle buses (two) taxis (three so far) and trains — two, which is a story in itself. Also hoofing it through vast airports and narrow streets with all our baggage — literal, not emotional.
Milo and his camel.
I drove from Albany, where I had just finished packing up 30 years of books and teaching paraphernalia (upon my retirement from Siena College), to Buffalo, where my sister Susan and her wife Kay live. They had offered to keep my spoiled chihuahua with them and their dog, Stella, while I’m gone. After some research into shuttle buses from Buffalo to Toronto, they figured out a way for them to drive me to Toronto. Susan was running a public event at her place of work, Niagara University’s Castellani Museum, so Kay and I showed up to participate at 10:00 am. It was a lecture on Emily Dickinson and a woman sculptor, part of a series on women in art, and it was good. After a quick picnic lunch (thanks for the sandwiches, Kay), we drove from Lewiston to Toronto, and they let me off at the main terminal.
After discovering that my phone battery was dead and that there were apparently no charging stations nearby, I headed towards the gate we were given, and immediately ran into Carol pushing her walker, laden with bags. I had brought my cane and can attest to how necessary some additional help — early boarding — can be! The Brussels Air people were helpful to a fault (see Carol’s blog), even expressing outrage when our seats to Brussels turned out to be in the very back row — row 46, to be precise. It was the usual cramped, hot, uncomfortable trek over the pond, but we were on our way.
Brussels airport: thank the goddess for those beeping carts and their drivers. That airport seems to be about 5 miles from end to end, and of course, we had to get from one end to another, then to a shuttle bus that took us far away to a field where the plane to Florence stood. Once in Florence, we snagged a taxi to the train station, intending to finish our trip in Pisa, where Carol had booked a hotel for us until the apartment where we will eventually be staying was ready. Alas, it was not to be . . .
The price you pay for our taking care of Milo is to write a great blog — and you are! Love being with you in this way. Milo has taken his place under the covers at the end of the bed (what?!!!! It’s hot!), evidence he is settling in just fine until Mama returns. We may have to buy some lemoncello for our ritual readings of floundering in Florence!
Why didn’t you bring Milo along? Dogs like Italy too.
Not to be?!?
How can you leave us hanging?