Tuscany: 4-10 PDX

So I'm standing in line to check in at the airport, and they've got these new machines where you use your credit card or confirmation number to check your own bag, get your boarding pass, etc. Only I don't have either one. So I tell the line attendant that all I have is ID, and he calls out, loud enough for a few dozen people to hear it, "Hey Joan! This gentleman needs to be done by hand!" And I mean the whole concourse goes silent -- a silence into which I really, really wanted to say, "Do I get to choose who does me?" But alas, I was so shocked by the moment that all I could do was trade nervous smiles with Joan. The line attendant immediately went on break.

So we're off again, on another trip that I don't really feel ready for -- as usual. I always say I'm gonna master the language, read a dozen books on history and culture and food, make arrangements ahead of time, get all my work done so the last day or two is relaxing and easy -- and then I do what I did this time: save all my work until the last minute, stress out, lose sleep, isolate, fail to practice the language (in this case I even live with a native speaker) and then grab the guidebook on the way out the door so I can read it on the plane. I should just give up any idea that I'll ever do it differently.

This morning it reached a new, ridiculous high. I'm finished with my whole neurotic departure routine -- all the laundry, dust and vaccuum the room, put the bags next to the door in plenty of time to pace around, etc. -- and then Jean shows up to get me, and we play the little "So, do you have your tootbrush" game, and I tell her I've got my shoes, my computer, and my ID. I'm ready. And then I think about my ID, and I realize I am about to walk out the door, about to leave for Italy, and I DON'T HAVE MY PASSPORT. Tragedy narrowly averted. So I get it, make a joke with Jean that I need my mom to remind me of these things, then remember my mom reminding me this very morning to bring my sportcoat. At this point we're a block down the street, and I'm thankful nobody is watching.

So I think I have it all -- and I've got three stories to write before we fly Wednesday night, and I'll be working on the road, and my battery is running low here in the terminal, and I'm writing something that probably nobody, including me, will ever read. So everything is just exactly normal.