That's it, I can't go. It's not meant to be. I really took that 45" rule to heart, and I searched high and low in most every discount store I could find to discover this magical, poorly fashioned magenta bag. And now it is dead and so are my hopes and dreams of meeting a pop star in Rome and becoming his partner's doppelgänger before performing at a national music awards ceremony (that makes sense to anyone who has seen the Lizzie McGuire movie.) So with no bag and no morale, I had no choice but to re-pack in a different, larger bag. Turns out all my stress over the bag size was wasted energy because I've now been informed that the worst that can happen is I have to pay an extra charge in Venice for a big bag. But hey, more clothes for me. I even considered bringing my dog and keeping it on the hush hush. Except I don't have a dog, so I don't know how that would have worked out.
Now, after recovering from the tragedies that befell my preparatory processes, here I am on a bus in Rome, trying to ignore the mysteries and beauties that surround me so that I can produce something that could potentially be worth reading some day (I have to write essays for this class and mine is due today at 5). I'm kicking myself for not doing it earlier. But if, like a good student, I had done it much earlier, then my brain would have been boringly rested. I wouldn't be in this zombified state of mind that gives me the ability to really illustrate what it's like to travel in a plane for 9 hours next to a very chatty 39-year-old balding construction worker who thinks he's still in his 20's. What you have before you is the product of a mind that has had only 6 hours of sleep in over 48 hours. Welcome to the world of a travel noob-- a noob so dumb that she didn't get enough sleep to function properly for her academic trip. I guess I just can't hang with the experts. If it weren't for my professors, I would probably have ended up in Kansas or some other horrid place. I couldn't even obtain my boarding pass without some sort of hiccup. And I wasn't even doing that on my own. I'm hopeless.
But to alleviate my travel inexperience, the aforementioned 39-year–old balding man on the flight gave me a pearl of wisdom from his self-proclaimed "years and years of travel adventures." He predicted that I'm going to get off the plane and I'm going to want to immediately dive in and experience everything, no matter how tired I am. He warned me to beware of this instinct because it is the sure fire way to become burnt out when week two comes around. He is dumb. There isn't a bone in my body that wants to do anything but inhale a pizza and pass out in my bed or on a chair, whichever comes first. If that means "diving in" to the Italian experience, then I must be confused.
What I'm really trying to say is that so far I have learned three things on this trip: if you stuff a 45" bag full with 46" worth of stuff, you cannot defy physics, and it will bust; investing in Benadryl or alcohol or some other sort of sleep aid will be worth it because no matter what you may hope for, airplane chairs simply aren't sufficient for sleep; and lastly, 39-year-old men who think they are still in college are not credible resources for much of anything.
Finally, I would like to announce that today I had my first truly Italian pizza. It was everything I ever hoped for, and now I can die a happy woman in the arms of the food that I love.
Also, I'm currently sitting next to three elderly British folk who are saying things like "quite lovely" and "rubbish" and "a cold drink would be brilliant right now" and "where is the Lou?" I'm so tempted to sit down with them and try on my most convincing accent and maybe even lead them into thinking I grew up only 40 miles away from their current residence. I don't think I could do it. I'm too lame. So that's all for today. I'm going to wonder around alone and see if I can get into some trouble.
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