Found in the Airport

Dean Martin’s rendition of “Volare” played on a loop in my head as we flew through the air. This was my first overseas flight, and as fearless as I was every anxiety I had multiplied in my gut. The once spirited tune morphed into a robotic, out-of-tune, gnarled, snare. I blinked in and out of sleep as my dreams became the contents of the “Vocabularo” book that was my husband’s as a child. He’d told me that it wasn’t really necessary to speak Italian fluently. On his last visit to Sardinia he’d spoken mainly French and some English (both of which I could speak/understand passably). My sweet father-in-law Antonio had tried to teach me a bit of Italian, but I was far too distracted by all the pre-trip tasks. I couldn’t retain much of the language while keeping an amply supplied packing list in my mind. Oh my mind—like a sieve—straining pasta.

I squeezed my husband Mario’s hand as the tiny bit of turbulence tossed my troubled thoughts. What if my physical limitations spoil this trip? What if I get lost and can’t find English speaking help? What if I trip and fall into ancient Roman ruins and have to pull myself up by a rope? What if…? What if…?

I checked the time: both Italian and Kelowna, and both agreed we were running late for our next flight from Rome to Cagliari, which was only in forty minutes! Each second seemed to stretch like spaghetti. Finally, we made it to Rome with no time to spare. Antonio dashed off to get the luggage; Mario and I called after him, but he was consumed by the crowd. Without hesitation, Mario scrambled after. I knew I couldn’t keep pace with the entirety of my belongings on my back, so it wasn’t long until I’d lost sight of both of them, and all the passengers I’d shared my air-space with for ten hours. I was now alone.

Italian was being spoken around me, but quickly, much too quickly to comprehend. Like a quail (quaglia) darting across the road I fluttered my way to the nearest man in a security vest. I remembered the word for help (aiuto) and between this, my broken Italian, his broken English, and a combination of hand gestures, facial expressions, and onomatopoeias, I understood that I needed to take a shuttlebus to another gate to get on my flight. I couldn’t help but feel as though I should wait for Mario to come back and find me, but I was safe, I understood what I needed to do, and I refused to stand by as the world went on.

I poured my way down three large staircases, and then melded into the colourful crowd on a steep escalator. From there, I flowed across two moving sidewalks then up one elevator, down another and out to the shuttlebus stop. I took that bus across the city-sized airport to where Mario--my Mario---to be specific appeared. Antonio was still nowhere to be found; I expected he was chasing that ever-growing-mountain of baggage he’d brought for his six-month-long stay. I looked at the clock and the climactic rush in me slowed, for we had missed our flight.

Together Mario and I found Antonio, who was in line at the wrong baggage claim. All together now, us three wayward musketeers found the right one, and collected Antonio’s massif of baggage. Wearily, we went to buy tickets for the next flight. We had only a couple of hours to wait: Oh how I was grateful for these hours. As I rested, with both eyes wide-open, a greater understanding in me grew—You are only as lost as you let yourself be.