No Place Like Home

One of our final sunsets in Nafplio, Greece.

About six months ago, my life reached a crossroads.

My job, as I knew it, had taken a new direction – one that I simply could not take with it. Around the same time, my girlfriend, Fran, was going through almost the exact same thing with her job.

Life was changing, and much of it was out of our control.

Our careers and futures had become question marks. But instead of looking at the gravity of finding new jobs, which might require even more changes, Fran and I looked at each other and narrowed our situation down to one simple thing.

This was an unbelievable opportunity for us. So many things were out of our control, but that opportunity was very much in our hands. We had to make the most of it.

Two months later, we were boarding a flight for Peru. Then one to Ecuador. Then on to the Eastern U.S., Denmark, Estonia, Russia, Italy, Greece and others. There were 13 countries, 25 flights and an endless supply of memories and new friends.

It has been nothing shy of unbelievable.

But a trip like this cannot last forever.

As I sit at a sidewalk café in Nafplio, Greece, I am enjoying the slight sea breeze blowing through the maze of pedestrian streets, as the bright sun tries to fight its way through the awnings that provide shade.

I’m loving it, but I also know that at this time tomorrow, we will be on an airplane heading toward home.

That part, too, feels right.

When I was in school, I studied abroad for a summer in New Zealand and for a semester in Australia. At the end of both, those people who were staying longer asked me how I could possibly go so soon, and I wondered how they could stay longer.

My time at each of those places was wonderful, but I always knew the end dates, and I think my subconscious prepared me for exactly that length of time.

Because despite the wonderful new places I’ve visited and the amazing new people I’ve met, I have never lost sight of the fact that I live in an amazing place, full of some of the best people in the world.

I have no idea where our lives and careers are going to take us. But for now, I’m ready to come home.

Next stop: Denver.

From the London Underground

This blog has been quiet for a while now. Too quiet.

South America just inspired writing. In the past six weeks or so, we have road tripped to the Eastern U.S., gone on a cruise through the Baltics, and spent time in both Amsterdam and London.

All of that was perfectly lovely. But nothing strange really happened. And this blog lends itself to the abnormal.

I actually wrote a few blogs during that stretch, but none felt worthy of being published, and therefore I decided to kill them.

Things got more interesting when we left London on our way to Bologna, Italy.

It should have been an easy trip, really. There are direct flights from Heathrow to Bologna.

Of course, we chose a different route.

We left our friends’ flat (they were kind enough to let us stay with them in London) on Sunday morning. There was a train directly to King’s Cross, only three stops away, where we could switch from the Tube to the train system.

The Tube was waiting when we arrived, so we ran to jump on. It didn’t matter. We sat on an unmoving train for about 10 minutes before we left. At the next station, we did the same.

A stop shy of King’s Cross, we sat for 10 minutes before the conductor mumbled something into the PA system. It was completely incomprehensible. Finally, there was another announcement from someone who spoke clearly. The train was postponed indefinitely. We would have to change trains, go to another station, and switch trains again before finally getting to King’s Cross.

To be clear, switching trains on the London Tube system is not exactly simple. It involves exiting a train, running to a staircase, picking up our heavy bags, carrying them up, running more, picking up our bags again, carrying them downstairs, and running to a new platform. When the train arrived, we hoisted our bags on board and crammed into a train car that already held too many people. At new stations, repeat the process.

Three trains later, we arrived at King’s Cross, where we ran with our baggage hoping to make an early enough train. Throughout the station, there were delicious-looking pastries and plenty of coffee, just tempting us (especially me). We ran past, barely catching a good glimpse of what was just slightly out of reach.

Once we got to the train platform, we realized that the London train system card (the Oyster) worked for the train we were getting on, but not good as far as we were going, which was Luton Airport.

So I ran back upstairs, checked both of us out of the Oyster card and jumped in line for tickets. The line was not long, but the people just in front of me looked like they had never seen electronics prior to stepping up to the machine. They stared, then they stared more. I think they were hoping the ticket machine would correctly guess what they wanted and then pay itself. That didn’t happen.

Finally, I paid for two tickets and made it back to the platform just as the train was approaching.

We rode for about 40 minutes. The train system has made getting from London to Luton much easier than it was in the past. However, it’s still not a straight shot. The station is actually “Luton Airport Transfer,” where everyone one disembarks, picks up their suitcases, runs up a flight of stairs, crosses a bridge, goes down what seemed like 14 different escalators, and then jumps on an overstuffed bus that takes you 10 minutes to the airport.

Inside the airport, we waited in a long line for Easy Jet that more than rivaled most Southwest Airlines’ lines I have been in. After checking in, they sent us over to the customer relations desk. It seemed that we were among the few non-European Union members flying, so they had to double-check our passports.

At the desk, a man glanced quickly at our tickets and then our passports. He then scribbled something completely illegible on our tickets and sent us on our way. It seemed like the perfect way to ensure safety and compliance with visas.

Luton Airport is tiny and pretty strange, but it was also very easy. After security, there were machines where you could rate your experience using a variety of smiley and unsmiley faces. They were also at the airport restaurants. And the airport restrooms. Yes, I’m serious.

The flight to Pisa was simple. We chose it because it was quite a bit cheaper than flying directly to Bologna (when you’re unemployed, that is an especially important factor) and because we could rent a car there and return it to Rome nine days later.

FREE ADVISE THAT YOU DID NOT ASK FOR: If you ever find yourself flying within Europe, I highly recommend using small airports. Clearing customs at a place like London Heathrow, Paris or Frankfurt can be a nightmare. But clearing customs at London City or Pisa, if you have anything other than an EU passport, takes about 10 minutes.

We moved to the line for the rental car shuttle bus. It was almost endless. Fran looked at the sign, and mustering at least a little comprehension of Italian, she realized that the bus came once ever 15 minutes and that the rental car center was 400 meters away. Needless to say, we hoofed it.

The drive to Bologna took about two hours, maybe a little more because we stopped to see a certain leaning tower. Aside from congestion around Florence because of road construction, it wasn’t a bad drive.

However, after leaving at 8:15 a.m., we did not arrive at the flat we had arranged until 8:15 p.m. And it only took four trains, two buses, an airplane and around two miles of walking to do it.

There is no doubt that we earned the massive amounts of food that we were about to eat in Bologna.