At 6 a.m. Saturday I was up and ready to go despite the fact my alarm wouldn't go off until seven and my cab wouldn't come until eight. Oh well, I was ready for my final exciting adventure: the return flights. Florence to Paris went off without a hitch but before that first flight had even left I already had an email that the transatlantic flight was delayed. The layover in Paris stretched from two hours to five. All things considered, however, it was actually not bad at all. I got a free snack voucher from a desk attendant who told me "the French are just like the Italians, but not as happy," I started working on a photo album, and I made a new friend who offered me an orange from Morocco where she had been studying for three months. Eventually we all found ourselves in the boarding line ready for nine hours in the air and I found myself with a text from my mom saying I had missed my connecting flight to Chicago and there were no more until the next day. Upon arrival in Detroit, my mother's research was confirmed and despite my originally scheduled eta in Chicago of 8 pm, I found myself walking into my own hotel room—curtesy of the airline—at almost 11 pm with a ticket in hand for a 7:30 am flight. Knowing I would need to take the five am shuttle to the airport and that I had not slept on any of my flights, I took a quick shower and threw myself down for five precious hours of sleep. The next morning saw me boarding a plane right on time and happy to be heading home. A flight attendant moved to the front and a prepared myself for yet another flight safety orientation. Instead I was told we needed to deplane—there was no pilot and we were delayed two hours. Five minutes later I was waiting at the gate again, after pulling myself together, and the announcement came...the flight was cancelled. I got myself back in the gate line and waited to see what would be done. An emotion numbing amount of time later I had a flight to the other airport in Chicago, departing at noon. I resigned myself to a long wait, talked to my parents on the phone, texted the friends I had not seen in too long, ate a last airport meal, and was frankly unsurprised when my flight did not leave until two. Thirty-six hours after I left my apartment in Florence, seventeen weeks and two days after I had left Chicago, I finally found myself back and standing at the baggage claim. There is where my parents found me and I was wrapped in hugs and given a cupcake, water, and Advil. It was perfect, it was exactly what I needed, and if my luggage happened to go to the wrong airport and was not delivered until the next day, well, we'll call that a story for another time.
