"Who Does That?"

Not only did that August episode of HHI spotlight a really cool town that was a natural for someone with escapist desires like me, but during the episode it was revealed that Clare turned her home purchase into a B&B.  Thinking that I was very clever, I googled Clare Galloway and in an instant, I was connected with her Arthouse Guardia website.  I wasn't as clever as I thought, however, since I was about the 200th person to contact her, but I did manage to secure her B&B room for a two-week block in late December/early January.  I wouldn't be able to go to Ireland, but I was definitely not going to have to spend New Year's Eve on the left side of the Atlantic.

I told a friend what I had done and her response was the first indication that this could be a pretty unique experience.  She said: "So, let me get this straight - you watched a TV show, then contacted the person in that episode and now you're planning to fly halfway around the world and stay in her house?"  I replied: "Um, yeah, that's a fairly accurate summary."  With a look of bemused admiration, she blurted: "Who does that?"  "Well, apparently I do."  It never occurred to me that what I was doing was anything out of the ordinary - you know, everyone talks to people on the TV and goes to stay in their house, right?

Finally, departure day arrives.  The last week before my December 26th launch had been especially stressful, making sure everyone that needed a Santa got one and reading the copious number of postings that were now coming from my sister, brother, Step-Mom and Dad in Ireland.  I Just. Wanted. To. Go.  NOW!  After "Who Does That" dropped me at the George Herbert Walker Bush Number Forty-One International Intercontinental Airport (IAH), I started to feel the beginnings of a good, old-fashioned decompression.  My soul had started to dips it's toes into the nice, hot bath that this trip represented. Until Paris.

Another beautiful evening in Detroit.

The route was Houston-Detroit-Paris-Naples.  Extra points if you spot the one U.S. city you do NOT want to fly in or out of in December.  Yeah, my hometown, Detroit.  Leaving Houston was easy, but getting into DTW was a challenge, since they were still cleaning up from 6" of overnight snow.  And of course, what comes down with difficulty, goes back up with even more difficulty, so we were just about 90 minutes late leaving DTW for CDG.  No problem, since I had a reasonable almost-two hour layover in Paris and we were flying east, which meant a 150 mph tailwind, right?  Yeah, no.

I was actually looking forward to the DTW-CDG portion of the flight.  I had paid an unconscionable extra amount of money to get the first row in the cabin and after I brushed the snow off my seat and while we all waited for clearance to leave Detroit, I settled in to watch two the goings on amongst the stewardesses who were making a bit of a production out of the fact that two of their own would be making their final voyage.  There was the ceremonial presentation of the embroidered silk air sickness bag, pinning of a rather enormous rose, fashioned out of the finest 1-ply airplane bathroom tissue and of course, one bag of peanuts each.  That's one!  No more.  Not even for retirement. 

Except for the fact that I didn't sleep more than nine minutes on the trans-Atlantic flight, it was without any notable occurrences.  Even the old stewardesses took off their support hose, grabbed their afghan (which can also be used as a flotation device) and curled up with the Reader's Digest.

CDG Airport in Paris and the back of the Marquis De Air France.

I was nervous when we arrived at Charles Degaulle airport in Paris.  I knew time for my connecting flight to Naples would be tight and, of course, I had no earthly idea where to go when I bolted from the plane, but I was thrilled when I saw an Air France guy looking bored/almost annoyed holding a sign that said "Naples", presumably because he believed that Americans would walk right past him if the sign said "Napoli".  So, I was the first person in the "Naples, stand there" group and slowly our little band of Napoli-bound Detroiters grew to about ten.  When Bored Air France guy was satisfied that all of the Americans who were intelligent enough to figure out how to leave the plane had done so, he began to lead us through the airport.  And, when I say "lead", I mean he began walking as fast as an Olympic, um, really fast walking guy.  Keep in mind, that I am the guy that all my friends and family get mad at for "walking too fast", and yet I couldn't keep up.  I get why the 20-somethings in the group could keep up, but why, oh God why, were the old women keeping up better than me?  What kind of bizarre, alternate universe had I been transported to?  I wanted to hobble those smug old women as they power-walked further and further into the distance, knocking over orphans selling apples as they went.

Finally, the Marquis De Air France stopped at some sort of collection of glass-encased other bored French people.  He motioned to me to give my passport to one of his bored colleagues who looked at me, took a drink of wine, then stamped my passport with the traditional "go home" stamp.  Another short sprint and we finally arrived at the plane to Napoli.  I have a vague recollection of animal sacrifice and other general malaise on that flight, but, frankly, I was too traumatized to recall much of it.

Arriving in Napoli, my greatest challenge was in establishing contact with Clare, who had graciously offered to pick me up.  Numbers were exchanged, texts sent and that part of the plan was actually going well.  I texted "I'm here", she texted back "Trying to find parking", and I thought all was well.  OK, by now, you're waiting for it, aren't you?  Here you go:  Until it wasn't.

Some combination of Delta Airlines/Air France and/or Homeland Security acted alone or in concert to ensure that my suitcase would not arrive from the left side of the Atlantic to the right.  I, along with most of the other victims of the Marquis De Air France, now tried to communicate with a very nice Italian-speaking only lady the fact that all of our bags were missing.  When it was my turn, I started to make slogging progress.  She pointed to the form with the pictures of the different types of bags, I picked out mine and then somehow figured out that she wanted to know where I was staying in Italy.  I said "GUARDIA Sanframondi".  She looked puzzled.  I then showed her Clare's address on my iPhone and her eyes lit up: "Oh, GWADIA!"  And as if she had said the magic word, at that moment, inexplicably penetrating airport security, appeared Clare like a super-heroine, who blasted a few sentences off in brilliant Italian and we were done.  I sauntered through the door, met Clare and we stepped out into the midday Napolise sun.  Ahhhh, Italy!