Getting to Sardinia

It’s four in the morning and I am sitting in the living area of the small, recently renovated house we’ve rented for a month in Tertenia, Sardinia. I am doing one of my favourite things: eating a big, beautifully sweet persimmon. I am also doing one of my least favourite things: coping with the aftermath of staying awake for 32 hours and jumping 9 time zones ahead. Even though I could barely keep my eyes open on the hour and a half drive from the Cagliari airport, I awoke at 2:30 am with the alertness of a dog who has just heard the jingle of his leash.

The trip seemed more arduous this time. Having recently moved to a small city in British Columbia, we now must first fly to Vancouver in order to leave the country. The flight from Vancouver to Frankfurt was delayed by two hours, coincidentally the same length as the window of time we had in Frankfurt to make it onto our next flight to Rome. The Lufthansa pilot must have poured on the jet fuel though, sometimes exceeding 1100 km/hr, and we arrived in time to have a slight chance to catch the Rome plane. “Eeef yoouu hurrry,” the gate agent told us slowly, in heavily accented English. So, after sitting on a cramped airline seat for 8 hours, we started running. I instantly regretted the 25+ lbs of electronics and other junk that I always feel compelled to throw into my carry-on backpack.

I often think that air travel is a rather undignified, de-humanizing experience, and when you are trying desperately to make a tight connection, airports start to feel like something between a maze and an obstacle course. Off we little mice ran, deep into the bowels of the terminal, dodging people trailing wheeled carry-on bags as they alternately rushed or weaved about aimlessly. Down stairs, up stairs, and right through the middle of a goddam Duty Free as there was no way around it and its discordant cloud of perfume. Miraculously, there was no line up at customs, but we were obliged to snake through 300 m of cordoned off switchbacks all the same. These airport queuing tactics always make me feel like I should start mooing and chewing placidly.

Sweaty and breathless, I presented myself to the young, attractive, perfectly groomed German customs agent. He seemed amused at my dishevelled state…there was a hint of a smirk on his otherwise official-looking expression. Of course, the tiny airport from which we started this journey had been unable to print off the boarding pass for the final leg to Cagliari, so he grilled me about that and then asked how long I would be staying.

“Three months!” I said brightly, then added, “Well…89 days. We don’t want to get into trouble!”

He smiled more openly, shook his head, and stamped my passport. Huzza! Ulysse was already through passport control and waiting for me. We took off running again.

Surprisingly, we made the flight to Rome, and weren’t even the last ones to board. One other man from the Vancouver flight slid in behind us, having made the same dash. Not surprisingly, our luggage was not quite so nimble. But that’s ok. Among the junk in my too-heavy carry-on is a toothbrush and a pair of underwear. What more does one really need?

Photo credit: diana_robinson on Visual hunt / CC BY-NC-ND