honey moon >>> italy

Ahhh!!!, the romance of Italy. I couldn't imagine a more romantic place to honeymoon. We dreamt of backpacking through lush hillsides, quiet cafés and magical ruins. It was the trip of a lifetime. With one minor hitch.

My husband and I arrived in Milan two hours before our luggage arrived in Vienna. The sympathetic, ascot-wearing airline representative assured us our luggage would join us at our hotel in Cinque Terre. Won over by her sweetness and our desire to get moving, we headed for the train station. The luggage delay made us miss the bus, which made us miss our train. By the time we arrived in the first of the five towns of Cinque Terre, it was 8pm. Being the wild adventurers we were, we had not made reservations. It quickly became clear that while we would locate a room easily at 4pm, by 8pm everything was booked. Ahhh!!!, the charm of small towns.

Eventually we boarded a train to the third town in the Cinque Terre chain. There was a stairway that led 700+ steps up (I'm not exaggerating) into the town. My husband and I couldn't find the stairway in the dark, so we hoofed it up a winding road. After the most vertical hike of our lives, we arrived in the hilltop town of Cornigila. It was well past 11pm. The restaurants were closed, we had eaten only airplane fodder, and had not slept in 26 hours. We reached our room, ate Twix for dinner, and fell solidly asleep-the perfect first night for honeymooners.

We awoke to sunlight and a breeze blowing through the oversized windows, put our traveling clothes back on, and promised ourselves the biggest and most incredible lunch ever. The luggage could wait.

Refreshed by a bottle of wine and the house special, it was time to searching for a permanent room and our luggage. We traveled down the recently discovered stairway and took the train back to the first town.

We were on hour #38 in the same clothes, with no toiletries. It was Sunday and neither of the two storefronts in our sleepy little town were open to sell us things of minor importance like, say, toothbrushes. We asked a robust woman at a nearby hotel for a room. She stuck her head out the window and hollered to "Maria" about a block away, who stuck her head out her window and hollered for us to come up.

Then we resume talks with the airline. $15 in phone charges later, we were assured that the luggage was in the proper country and would be couriered to us. Time: 12pm. Expected time for reuniting with our luggage: 5pm.

We hike the trail that connects the five seaside towns. After the first hour, my pants have taken on a life of their own, clinging stiffly to my thighs in the summer heat. All I can say about my loving husband is that has seen better-smelling days. No one else notices our scent and/or disheveled appearance (no deodorant, no toothbrush, no makeup, no ironing, no razor, no shit!). But as our luggage will be with us in mere hours, we persevere.

Then it is 6pm and we've been waiting at the train station for the courier for 2 hours and there is no luggage. We call the airline and they say the luggage is still in Milan but, "You'll have it by 9 am." We eat dinner, drink heavily, shower, wash our undies in the sink, and brush our teeth with a washcloth. Luggage-less hour #51 comes and goes.

We are at the train station at 8am, sucking on espresso and waiting for our beloved luggage. Four double espressos per person later, I get on the phone with the airline. They promise the courier is on his way. I am high on caffeine. My undies are still drying on a windowsill in our room. My lack of hairbrush has gone from irritating to maddening. I am not pleasant to speak with. They call the courier to find out his ETA. They do not call me back as promised.

It is hour #62 and there is still no luggage. The espressos are wearing off. My husband calls back. They have no idea what he is talking about. We ask for the supervisor. She tells us the courier is expected around 6p.m.

P.M.?

We are at their mercy. We feel more likely to see Elvis than our luggage today. To this point our logic has been "Why travel to another town to buy necessities since we'll have our luggage soon?" Now the logic is "Let's take the train back to Milan and sit on the supervisor's lap until we see our luggage." My dreams of leather and lace post-nuptial evenings have been replaced with hand-washed Hanes draped over the windowsill. I have officially crossed over from caffeine bitch to bawling child.

My husband supplies the hugs and the requisite shirtsleeve for me to wipe my nose on. We wander about the town, nap and take in an incredible sunset. The instant the sun sizzles into the sea, we trek back up to our favorite phone. The locals certainly refer to us as "those crazy American phonophiles."

We hold our breath. According to the airline, the courier has already left our luggage in Cinque Terre. We don't care what the courier says; our luggage is not here! It is hour #71. My husband's misuse of the English language would horrify his mother. I take over the phone and get the supervisor's supervisor. I am sickeningly sweet. I shed dramatic tears. I recount everything, including the honeymoon Hanes-washing. I sound desperate. I am desperate.

The supervisor asks if there is a café within sight of the telephone and train station. There is. He strictly instructs us to sit at the cafe, order a good bottle of wine, enjoy dinner and have faith. I tell him we have been running on faith for 71 hours and have been told 5 times that our luggage was mere hours from our possession. He says, "Yes, but this time, I assure you, it is being handled."

How reassuring?

We take his advice and down a bottle of wine (each) over dinner. We talk about burning the clothes we are wearing in a ceremonial shedding of bad vibes. We lament the precious hours lost on the phone and waiting at the station. They clear our table. No sign of the luggage. We order cappuccino. Nothing. We pay. Nada. We get up and walk to the station. We smoke and wait.

Hour #74. We give up. And then, a short, stout, sweaty, hairy, prototypical lower Sagittarian male comes chugging around the cobblestone corner on foot. In his arms and on his back are the two most beautiful things we've seen since arriving in Italy… our packs.