Over the Rainbow and Beyond
It is now Monday morning, and I have been awake since 4:00 am writing these updates. Ideally I would have written at least one last night, but after arriving home I was so exhausted I was little good for anything save eating and falling asleep.
Now, however, is different. Now I can think, and if I can think, I can write.
Our flight from Pisa to Paris was early (one of the reasons we chose to spend the previous night in the former so we would not have to get up at three in the morning), but the airport is small and friendly; they do not ask you to take off your shoes at security. I asked the officer at the metal detector if I should. She shrugged and said with a heavy Italian accent, "No, try it first and then we'll see."
I didn't get so much as a peep out of the machine.
We didn't go through customs either; flying from one European Union country to another is about as difficult as passing to and from most states in the U.S., and significantly easier than entering California.
We were loaded onto a large bus which shuttled us across the tarmac to a tiny little Air France plane, where in true Italian fashion there was no organized line, yet we all got on the plane with minimal fuss and bother. On the wide open space of the airstrip a vibrant rainbow arced from one horizon to the other, and as we made takeoff it lifted with us, changing from an arch into a perfect multihued circle, keeping pace with the lean white wing of our plane.
If some events have silver linings, I guess you could say our trip had rainbow trim.
Our connection in France was a tight one: we landed at 9:10 and our trans-Atlantic flight took off at 10:40. Since we took Air France the whole way and thus did not have to re-check our bags this might seem like a reasonable amount of time, but considering it took us an hour and a half to navigate our way between flights on the way in I was a little concerned.
We should not have worried. The French have apparently become masters of herding confused Americans through their airport in the quickest way possible to getting them out of France and safely across an ocean. We were politely bustled a few miles up the airport and arrived at our terminal with just enough time to use the toilettes and spend our remaining euros on sandwiches.
Then I spent eleven hours of my life within a space of five square inches and tried not to think too hard about anything. Upon check in we'd been handed little blue forms to fill out for U.S. customs. I took care of mine before we lifted off. I watched Prince of Persia once, and Alice in Wonderland (Team Burton style) one and a half times, and the best thing I got out of them is that I now know where the "White Queen" meme originated. Thank you Anne Hathaway!
Then we landed. That, in retrospect, was depressing.
Flying in over the familiar sights of the San Francisco Bay Area I had been filled with a flush of warm feelings for my native country-not exactly of the U.S.A., but for this particular part of its geography, with the salt flats and the hills and the Stanford Linear Accelerator. It was, after all, where I had been born.
Then our nice French flight attendant came on over the speaker, politely reminding us of customs form we had to fill out, and of the various other forms non-residents had to complete, and reminding us to have our passports in hand when we exited the plane.
This in of itself was not unpleasant, but you have to look at it from the perspective of someone who has left her home country and flown half way around the world to receive nothing but welcomes and friendly (if tired) smiles from the immigration officers. Flying from France to Pisa was even more relaxed: there was an office to declare items you were bringing into the country… off to the side, in a little corner. They didn't even ask to see your passport.
So it was a bit of a turn to run into the tightest security coming back into my native country. It was, I have to say, a little off-putting.
I should say that it was not unpleasant. The officers were not rude. I was not searched. But I did have to show my passport before and after picking up my checked luggage, I had to answer questions about where I'd been, and what I did in the U.S. General questions, but still. It meant more lines, more standing, more waiting, more stress on an already stressed body.
And I am a native-born U.S. citizen. The poor international flight crews had to wait in their own line that moved even slower than all the rest, and the visitors had to jump through even more hoops.
It makes me wonder why we get any foreign tourists at all.
And it bothers me that it is the U.S.A. of all countries, which was built on the backs of foreign immigrants, that is so uptight. For a country that boasts of itself as being a great nation, forward-thinking, the fabled Land of Opportunity, we sure don't act like it.
I met two American gentlemen on the flight home; they had just come from inspecting France's high speed railways. "You know how some people say we are a third world country?" one asked me, shaking his head. "Now I think we're a fourth world country."
I think this is a bit of an overstatement, but I share the sentiment. There is a lot wrong with the U.S., and we're not going to get anywhere in fixing it if we continue to think we're perfect, thinking we're the best country on the face of the planet.
I read in a guide book that Italians have loyalty to family, food, faith, football teams and country-in that order. Thinking about myself, I certainly have more loyalty to my family than a do to my country. When I think about myself, I do not think of myself as American. America is too wide a word, even if you're using it in the improper sense of the United States of-. At most I think of myself as a Californian. But mostly I am me. I am creative. I work hard. I laugh. I make jokes. I am kind to animals.
And maybe I am American. But perhaps I could be Italian. Living there for a fortnight, it occurred to me that I could very well live there indefinitely. They have different customs, different habits, but we all work with the same world, the same natural laws and principles, and so it is not so difficult to adapt.
One evening, while Aunt and I were waiting for my front tire to be fixed, a young Lucchesi woman walked over, bicycle by her side, and waited for the mechanic. After some time we noticed the problem: her chain had come off the gears and had jammed. She didn't speak any English, and we only had a handful of Italian words between us, but after the international "may I help you?" hand motion, we managed to get her chain unjammed and back on the gears. Chains and gears and friction and grease work the same anywhere in the world. Gratitude is the same there as here. Happiness is unmistakable. We are not as different as we like to pretend.
Of course, this is Italy I am talking about, and Italy was strange in the fact that it was not so strange. As Aunt often observed; "that looks like something from one of your drawings!" Like coming home to a place I'd never been, or finding something from my imagination brought to life.
All in all it was an amazing experience. I think I would very much like to go back there, one day.
Yes, definitely will be back. One day.