Planes, trains and automobiles.

28 hours after I stepped out of my home, I step aboard SS Juno, docked on the Italian coast, my new home for the next 15 months.
3/28---Orlando Airport: 3pm. The wonderful sun shiny day I left in Daytona has turned into a nightmare storm in Orlando. So intense that the gates are closed for over 1 hour. This backs up my flight so I will miss the connection in London which means I will miss my bus in Naples.

My last communication emailing from the airport with the Captain, he informs me that there is a 4pm train direct to Sibari, the sailboat’s marina town. I write back that if my luggage makes it, I will attempt to get to the train station and take that but with no phone and no internet connection, I‘ll have to wing it.

Since British Airway’s Union is striking, I’m lucky that it does not affect my flights. But due to weather, our flight left 2 hours and 15 minutes late only to be sky-tossed for 2 hours of bad turbulence. So bad that, at one point a stewardess screamed into the microphone “Keep buckled, it’s dangerous!”

Able to take a later flight out of London, I relax and enjoy Gatwick’s awesome modern airport and a cappuccino. The flight to Naples was then uneventful. Customs took all of 10 minutes in line and through the officials with barely a glance and a stamp to my passport.

Being forewarned by my Italian Villa owning friend Lorry, who gave me some Euro coins. I knew exactly what to do. My 2 bags of overweight luggage popped out on cue and with the Euro coin operated cart, I wheeled my luggage outside to catch a cab. Train-o. Station-o. I had somehow decided that if I added an “O” to the end of any word it was Italian. Somehow it worked and we sped off. Nestled next to the ancient Volcano Vesuvios that destroyed Pompeii in 79 AD, my first impression of Naples is that it needed a good pressure washing.

My train left at 4:58 not 4pm, giving me a lot more time to figure things out. But by this point one thing is clear: I should have learned some Italian.
5 hours by train, I sprain my wrist against the train wall when it takes a sudden turn and I reach out to brace myself. Arriving in Sibani with no official notice to my friends, my plan was to regroup at the station and try to find a taxi or pay phone. In retrospect, neither would have been available. Instead the first face I saw was Shirish, the captain.

“Buona Sera” (good evening) he shouted and tugged at my luggage.

“We were worried so I decided to just come out in case you did make the train!” Shirish said and then introduced me to the Taxi Driver Francesco.

I’m here, I’m in Italy.