We made it with an hour to spare. We wait at gate C7 for American Airlines flight 1316 from Dallas to Portland. The flight leaves at 8:55 Saturday morning. Pamela and I are on the flight.
We made it with an hour to spare.
Half asleep I think of Hurricane Florence and then Lake Garda in Northern Italy. I wished I was flying to Italy. Take the long transatlantic flight, land in Amsterdam, transfer to Milan, baggage is held up by a worker’s strike and one angry American tourist starts raising his voice at an Italian officer. They start a shoving match. All the passengers wait two hours for baggage. I drive with no GPS through the narrow city center and find my hotel with cool tile on the floor and frescos on the walls. In a few days I would take a train to Lake Garda and walk among the olive trees and Roman ruins, take a ferry across the lake and stand at the back of the boat. The water sprays out into the Italian blue. To my right on an orange chair is a woman singing to her daughter, but not in Italian. She sings soft and low in German.