Amazingly enough I made it to Florence in one piece. After saying bye to my Mum in the Logan Airport International Terminal, which bye the way is wayyy nicer than any other part of Logan I've ever been in, I boarded my flight to Paris. Squished next to a German couple that did not speak any English I spent the next 6 hours trying to sleep, playing solitaire, and watching half of Invictus.
I arrived in Paris at 6:25 AM local time, and was off the plane by 6:40. I had 40 minutes to make my connecting flight, just enough time, right? So wrong. What started out as a fast walk turned into an all out sprint to my terminal, cutting 3/4 of the line for the passport check apologizing all the way. I desperately asked the security worker who stamped my passport where I could find the bus to take me to terminal 2G. She pointed vaguely and told me I'd find it, that it was clearly marked. Well it was maybe clearly marked if you spoke french but for a semi panicked american girl it was a bit of a struggle. I sprinted down the rest of the airport stopping once I reached the end to ask the "security", soldiers, that looked no older than 17, with machine guns!! (I was SO not in America anymore) what direction I should head to find my bus, I got slightly better directions from them, and took off again down the stairs to finally reach my bus outside.
I received a look from the bus driver that could only have meant 'Stupid American girl. Can't you read?' when I asked, in english, if this was the bus to take me to terminal 2G. I sheepishly took a seat glancing at my watch every two seconds for the remainder of the bus ride as if somehow magically there would be an inverse relationship between how long it would take to get there and the number of times I looked at my watch.
Finally arriving at 2G, I took a sigh of relief, I had 20 whole minutes before my plane left to get to my gate. That state of relief was short lived. Walking into the terminal I realized I would have to go through security yet AGAIN. Frantically trying to get the french equivalent of a TSA worker to let me move to the front of the line because my plane left in, now 15, minutes! I was unreassuringly told I had plenty of time. Phhh, sure. I didn't even bother to retie my shoes as I shoved my laptop back into my backpack and took off at a full RUN up the stairs and down the terminal to my gate, while Florence LAST CALL, flashed in red on the monitors. I heard the airline announce my name as I practically threw my boarding pass and passport at the Airline worker to scan my ticket. I jogged outside and hurried up the steps to the flight attended waiting for me. The door to the tiny jet was closed before I took my seat and we were off.
The flight to Florence was short, only an hour and 1/2 and I sat across from a VERY cute french man. He looked like a younger version of Usher with a european twist. 25 minutes into the flight a women who was sitting in the same row as him tried to wake him
so she could get by to use the lavatory, he woke with a start practically jumping out of his seat. I couldn't help but laugh, he laughed back and smiled at me and then asked me something in French. I shook my head not understanding anything he said. Realizing I did not speak French he asked if I spoke Italiano, and then Espanol. We were at a loss. Bummed my poor language skills hindered any chance of conversation with this Usher look alike I tuned out to Kid Cudi on my ipod and fell asleep for the rest of the flight.
Once landing in Florence I was psyched to see my suitcase did not get lost and had actually arrive with me!!! After telling "customs" that I came from the US and had nothing I wanted to declare I was sent on my way, they didn't even stamp my passport... I was greeted by Chiara our go to lady at the airport, was handed a folder with a map glued on the front of it, given money and put into a taxi and told I needed to be at our school by 9 tomorrow.
Coming really, REALLY, close to getting motion-sick in the back of the taxi, I was torn between trying to see what I could of the city and desperately trying not to vomit all over the back seat as the taxi driver literally swaerved in and out of traffic and through crowds of pedestrians. I quickly realized street lines were more of a suggestion in Italia than a rule. Arriving at my destination, Via De Neri numero sei, I struggled with the fact my host family's name was not listed on the call buttons. My taxi driver took pity on me and called my host families number that I had forlornly handed him. He then told me my host mother would be down in a minute and I was left waiting, on the sidewalk, with no cellphone and no idea where I was, in a country where I do not (yet) speak the language, sitting on my suitcase PRAYING someone would come and retrieve me.
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