It's the Journey, Stupid!

Well, I'm home. Sono tornata alla mia casa Italian. I've returned to my Italian house. It was quite a journey to get here. A car. A train. A train. A plane. A tram. A plane. A tram. A bus. and another bus. It seemed interminable and tiring, and, well, yes, even questionable. Usually I can sleep on a transatlantic flight. I just pop a sleep aid in the mouth (Note to censor: These are legal, over-the-counter wimpy knock-offs of their more potent prescription cousins). My husband takes enough of them every night to sedate and secretly invade Uzbekistan and they don't do a darn thing to him. I, on the other hand, pass one under my nose and immediately zonk out on the very ground on which I am standing and can be roused only if a nuclear warhead lands beside my right ear. But on this particular flight, I decided to ingest TWO pills to put me out extra fast because it was a short flight. The problem was my timing. I figured I could take the stuff and use the time it takes to work to go pee before I hit dreamland. But wait! The flight attendant is serving drinks! The nice Polish couple sitting on the aisleside of my window seat order. She: TWO cokes. He: A small bottle of wine. Now these guys are European. They don't gulp drinks like Americans do. They sip. They savor. They take their TIME. In the meantime, both my bladder and my lids are becoming quite heavy. But there is no way I can squeeze past the barrier of their non-upright tray tables. I wait. Finally, the woman finishes her second can of coke. And hands the "rubbish" (it's not "garbage" mind you, because we are on a British Airways flight.) to the flight attendant. I'm so close! But the man lingers over his wine. And lingers. And lingers. Right up until the onboard meal is served.
"Curried chicken or vegetarian pasta?" chirps the eerily cheerful attendant.
"LOO!" I want to scream (because, mind you, we are on a British Airways flight).
But I'm hungry. The two hard-boiled eggs I'd brought along and eaten at 4 PM to tide me over until we landed 9 hours later weren't cutting it. I wolf down the curried chicken.
The man and woman BOTH have wine. She: white. He: red. And after eating, since they are European, the order coffee. Two cups each. Consecutively. My chin is bobbing repeatedly towards my chest and I remain conscious only because it awakens me each time it smacks against my sternum and because of the excruciating pain in my bladder. But the Polish couple's tray tables are still down, allowing them to pick at their dessert (chocolate cheesecake. I had no room for it because my swelling bladder had reduced my stomach to the size of an olive pit.) Meantime, the "time to destination" clock on my seatback screen ticked down the minutes and hours until our landing: 5:28, 5:08, 4:50, 4:32. At 4:15 to go, the angel of an attendant removed all our trays and I fled beyond the aisle barriers to the restroom. At about 4:03 until arrival, I finally allowed my eyes to shut. Let the nukes begin! HAHA! But less than 3 hours later it wasn't the nukes that pulled me back to this world, it was the smell of coffee triggering minor tremors in my stomach. I was hungry again. I slipped of my eye mask and earplugs and accepted that there would be no bragging rights about my sleeping prowess generated by this flight.
Sleep deprivation is not my strong suite.
London's Heathrow airport is a vast shopping mall with occasional nods to the world of flying. [Sign: Be sure to allow enough time to board your flight. Travel time to Terminal C - 15 minutes by tram]. I may as well have been walking to Rome. The two bowling balls strapped to my body disguised as a laptop and messenger bag respectively slowed my movements to a crawl. I forgot that an escalator is a set of MOVING stairs and was nearly propelled face-first down them. I dropped a book I had bought at Philly International on the "off" chance I's have non-sleep time on the flight. By the time I realized it was gone, I had to back track through the security line and re-enter it. When I bent over to retrieve it, one of the aforementioned bowling balls whacked me in the nose. Red-nosed and bleary-eyed, I saw a security guy  eyeball me warily. I wanted to ask him to let me curl up in one of the trays. And I still had a plane, a tram, a bus, and a bus to go. Fortunately, sandwiched between brief required waking periods, there was some sleep on those modes of carriage. But by the time I arrived at my front door, lugging the bowling balls and a "rolling" (dragging!) duffle, I was paid a sharp visit by the Angel of Doubt. Is this trip REALLY necessary? Please just make it end!
I reached the house. It looked so ordinary. Nothing like the "piccolo miracolo, little miracle" it had felt like the last time I arrived. Wearily, I pulled out the house key, yanking my toothbrush and a half-eaten energy bar with it. They clattered to the cobblestone and I emitted an involuntary groan. At that, the shutters to the house above me flew open.
"Teresa! Cara! Ben tornata!" [Dear one! Happy homecoming - loosely translated], I heard my neighbor Manola shout. "Vuoi cenare alla casa mia stasera? [Want to eat dinner at my house tonight?].
"I'm too tired", I thought. "No way can I sit and comprehend and speak Italian tonight."
I opened my mouth to reply as I opened the door to the house. The smell of lemon oil greeted me. Giovanna had cleaned the house extra well for my arrival. The newly painted walls, freshened by my Brit friend Duncan's touch, glowed with the warmth of il sole italiano. The church bells softly pealed. A breeze nudged me further inside.
"Si, certo, Manola! Grazied. Arrivo subito!" ["Yes, of course, Manola! Thank you! I'll be right there!"]

                                           Me Among Sunflowers

I smiled for the first time in half a day. The journey was just beginning.