I thought I was done. Well, as done as someone like me can be when planning; I’m compulsive when it comes to organizing events. And to make matters worse, the planning is done to make it appear as if no planning went into the event.
This is Martha’s fault.
Okay, so I guess it’s my fault, too. It’s the result of my being able to see how things should be, and years and years of long and short range planning for a living.
Planning. Lots of it.
It’s why I’m so horrible at it when it comes to day to day things. You know, like cleaning, running errands, paying bills. I avoid those details like the plague. I procrastinate. I rebel. I rage. Then I do it. On. Time.
The histrionics are just for effect.
So doesn’t it seem a bit odd that for a few days now, I’ve had a sort of uncomfortable feeling in my abdomen. It’s somewhat like the feeling I get when I’m in line to ride a roller coaster. I know what those plunges, dips, and twists are like.
Scary.
I couldn’t figure it out. I even had a bit of reminescence about the MoH and I and how I felt when I met him — all sappy and gooey and madly in love. You know — sick to my stomach. Sounds romantic, doesn’t it? I was writing about the first time we’d had gelato on our honeymoon and how I can’t wait to taste the gelato in Italy. Although I’m a sucker for the MoH and can say I’m pretty sappy over us, I thankfully don’t have to endure that feeling in my stomach. Well, I didn’t think I did.
It wouldn’t go away.
And then it hit me. I hadn’t booked a room for our last night in Italy. The don’t worry about it, just get a room somewhere near the airport so you can wax over the vacation you’ve just enjoyed before you get on the 99 hour flight back to reality in Paradise. That room.
Oops.
You’d think this was no big deal. But no. I have to think about how to squeeze a few more unexpectedly wonderful moments into our vacation. I wallow in all things Google Maps, clicking on every single picture that has been posted by others just to get a sense of the place. I scan the reviews of each hotel, looking not for the 237 favorable comments, but the five that say things like:
The hotel is being very slowly renovated, probably on an inadequate budget, so, for instance, the hallway leading to our room had no ceiling and was a tangle of exposed electrical wires and pipes.
Okay, so this would be the reason I immediately looked at another hotel. The MoH said we’d be on an adventure, but this is more like a safari to me. Thanks for the review!
Or:
If this hotel is 10 minutes from the Airport (as advertised), I will eat my shoe. Seriously.
Dude. Have you ever heard of Google maps? And I’d recommend eating your hat. It would taste much better than your stinky shoe. Seriously.
And then:
We arrived at the Rome airport on a Sunday afternoon. We booked the hotel because they advertised a shuttle to and from the airport. When we called them, they informed us that their driver does not work on Sunday afternoons and it was up to us to find a way to get to the hotel…
Okay, so this would piss me off, too. Especially when you’ve just arrived, are bright-eyed and and have TOURIST plastered across your foreheads for all the world to see. But I have read extensively that on Sunday, this is more the norm than the rare occasion, so you’re supposed to expect it and go with the flow. Now, this is something I’m not always very good at, so I’ve been practicing. A lot. Quello e giusto. Sara fine. Tutto si distende. Respiri profondamente. Ahhhh….
And crabs like this:
Accommodations for heavy sleepers. The hotel is close to the airport, which is good AND bad. Good for the convenient location near the airport, bad because it is in the flight path of many planes. Thin walls inside the hotel don’t help. A free shuttle bus runs to/from the airport and hotel. Missed the shuttle to the hotel and had to take a 20 euro taxi ride…
Erm. The last time I checked, airports do have planes that take off and land. It works nicely. And if you’re not a punctual person, you deserve to pay for a taxi ride. Dude. You chose the hotel. Remember?
But sometimes, you have to read these less than stellar reviews carefully:
Swallowed hard as we pulled in to this property; never could figure out the neighborhood. Nevertheless, room was nice, quiet. (Overall, price pretty steep for location & quality…) Walking distance to marina or riverside dining choices, most of which offered local fish — a welcome change form the three weeks of Tuscan delights…
Yah, this is the part that I’m having to suck up, too. That it doesn’t always get to look like Gina Lolabrigida or Marcello Mastroianni are just around the corner near the Italian cypresses, lounging on the terazzo with a limoncello. Life sucks like that sometimes. But thanks, dude, for the positive spin on the local fish. I’ll look for that.
It pays to be a compulsively dreaming, obsessively constructive pessimistic planner like me. If anything can go wrong, it will, so I plan for how to avoid it. Or in this case, practice how to grin and bear it.
I found the hotel and we’re booked. Now, how to get there from the train.
Between the Trenitalia schedules and Google maps, I’ll figure it out.
At least my stomach doesn’t hurt any more.
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