Don't Cry For Me, Fiumicino

I am home. My luggage, however, is still in Rome. Why? Because my Eagle Creek rollaboard could not break down and cry hysterically until it was escorted onto the plane. The good folks at Northwest did it again, giving me exactly ONE HOUR to disembark from the (late, naturally) flight from Catania, clear immigration, and cross 2 terminals to get to my Detroit flight. Oh, and they close the door forty minutes before the plane departs. Madonn', as they say in Sicily.

This was the stressful end to a stressful week. There's a reason why travel writers and photographers are paid to frolic on yachts in the Mediterranean. It's work. We began by dealing with photographer Anna Clopet's lost luggage, which never arrived from Paris. Then there was the Polish prostitute, the dislocated shoulder, the contacts who had been given absolutely no idea of what we were trying to accomplish....


the nightly fireworks display on Stromboli

Still, the weather was perfect, the yacht luxurious, the islands spectacular, the boys cute. I'll write more about all that later. Now, I just need my bag.