All packed and nowhere to go.

Hurricane Sandy, like the Icelandic Volcano several years before it, had rearranged my date of departure leaving me cooling my jets in California for another week.  You know how it is when you’re ready to go somewhere – a delay can be a huge letdown.  My friend calls it “premature elation”.  On the bright side, it was great to hang out with my Mom and Andrew a little bit longer, but after seven days on hold I decided to reroute my trip and fly to Frankfurt instead.

Am I becoming one of those people who always has a story?

On Tuesday I arrived in Frankfurt without incident, carrying everything I own crammed into two seventy-pound suitcases. I literally lumbered over to the DB Bahn desk for a train ticket to Italy. I explained to the young reservationist that I must be on the next train to Orvieto, Italy.  She said the train to Munich was leaving in exactly twelve minutes, so I slapped down my credit card and took off like a bat out of hell – I hopped onto the train with just minutes to spare!  I enjoyed the German countryside, but my train arrived in Munich late, so I had to make a run for it (with two heavy bags, “run” would be an overstatement).  The conductor announced they would be pulling away from the station in 30 seconds so I flung my bags onto the last carriage – I think I have a hernia now.  But really, the important thing is I was on my way to Orvieto at last!

I took a seat by the window and looked out at the passing cities of Nuremberg, Innsbruck, Trento…oh sh*t! I took the wrong train!  Apparently “Rovereto” is not the German word for “Orvieto”, but actually a town near Verona. Oh well, at least I was traveling in the right direction.

In Verona, my friendly Austrian conductor, Arnold, offered to let me tag along with the train employees to their hotel and even convinced the front desk to give me a good rate.  A pizza, a shower and a good night’s sleep was just what the doctor ordered.

In the morning I was on the train to Orvieto via Bologna.  I met a lovely veterinarian from Rome, Marco, who helped me get my bags (or as he referred to them, my armadi (wardrobes)) off of the train at Bologna Centrale and three hours later I arrived at my new home.  My friend heard my bags rolling down the marble stairs all the way from the station lobby.  She remarked how lucky I was to have avoided the excess baggage charges by the airline.  Yeah, I am lucky.

by Toni DeBella

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