Ah, Ciampino

So there are two airports in Italy, and I flew in and out at Ciampino, and it probably wouldn't have really made a difference because I would have flown with Ryanair no matter what, but ...

I now know that airport very well. I had a great weekend in Italy. My travel there was perfect, I explored part of Rome before I went to Viterbo to stay with Marshall, and then I went back to Rome two days later to see a bit more if it before flying out in the afternoon back to Stansted London.

Well, I got to the airport, two hours before my flight, with plenty of time to check in and get through security, and I looked at the screen that tells you where your flight checks in — and it was canceled. It said to go to the ticket counter.

So I found the line for the ticket counter, and I wanted to kill myself right then. There were two lines, massively long and there wasn't anybody helping anyone at either counter. I didn't have any other choice, so I got in line, busted out my headphones and popped a squat.

Three hours. I spent three hours waiting in that line. The Ryanair air traffic controllers were on strike, so four flights were canceled. There had to have been at least 500 people trying to reschedule.

I did really well in Rome, getting around, asking people questions in Italian and mostly understanding their responses. I used the metro, I used the buses, I ate a couple times, I got lost once or twice, and I was perfectly calm that entire time. But after about two hours waiting in line, I almost lost it. The husband of a Spanish couple that was standing in line a few people behind me starting yelling at the Italian guards, who of course started swarming him and therefore me as well. I don't know if everyone was speaking Italian or Spanish or just complete jibberish, but I couldn't understand any of it and I had no idea what was going on.

Then there was this group of Spanish teens in front of me who started drumming on their luggage and banging a Coke bottle on the ground in protest of the wait. We hadn't moved. It was all very intense and high energy. Everyone was frustrated and angry. Then some people got out of line behind me, so I was the only person between the Spanish couple and the kids.

I felt a tap on my shoulder, and the yelling guy's wife started talking to me. I said, "Non parlo Italiano," and "No hablo Espanol." Then the husband asked me, "Inglese."

"Si," I said.

The wife pointed to me and said, "Que."

I was confused, so I asked what they meant, what about the que.

She pointed to me and said, "You weren't here."

I almost screamed at her. I said as forcefully as I could without crying, "I've been here for two hours! I've been sitting and standing and laying down, but I've been in this line."

Then I turned around and put my hood up as the husband started to apologize. I could feel myself tearing up. I turned up my headphones and blinked and blinked and blinked. Crying was the absolute worst thing I could have done. It was a good thing I had another hour before I had to talk to someone about re-booking.

After 10 minutes, I was fine. And eventually, I made small talk with the couple. When they found out I wasn't trying to go to Madrid as well, they were a lot nicer. There weren't any more flights to there that day, so most likely they were going to have to go to Santiago.

They had a hard time understanding my accent. They didn't speak English very well either, but I think what they did know, they'd picked up from watching the BBC.

When I said I was American they said "Ah, Americano" with a look of understanding on their faces, finally.

The husband said, "It's very different." I assumed he meant my accent.

When I finally got to the front of the line, I made the 10 p.m. flight, the last one to the U.K. that day. The ticket lady told me I had the last seat, but I think they tell everyone that.

After that, I waited two hours until I could check in, two hours to get on the plane, and once I finally got to London, I waited two hours for a bus to Heathrow, then after that two hours for a bus to Swansea. It was 7:15 a.m. on Tuesday before I was on the final leg of my journey.

I missed two lectures, got to Swansea at 11:45, went straight to my noon lecture, my one o'clock lecture, and finally at 2:30 p.m. got a shower and some food. I didn't go to bed until 10 after I had one more class, unpacked and caught up with everyone about their weekend trips. I was up for 40 hours. I've got to learn how to sleep on the bus.

Despite all that, my four days in Italy made it all worth it. Completely. I even bought some Venetian shot glasses in Ciampino that I wouldn't have found otherwise.

I'll blog about the actual cool stuff later.