Welcome to Italy...

Now it's time for the revelation portion of our program. I am not a huge fan of Italians. Growing up in Toronto, I was surrounded by them: Kappa-wearing, barely there mustache-having, tight button down polyester shirt-wearing, men wearing headbands Ginos. This dislike is based mostly on the fact that, in soccer, Italians and the Portuguese are at war, sworn enemies even. AC Milan v. Porto. Roma v. Benfica, Totti v. Ronaldo. This dislike intensified in high school when this soccer rivalry translated into ribbing by Italians over the consistently poor showing of the Portuguese national team in soccer tournaments. It didn't help that the Italians in my school shamelessly embodied the above stereotype that it was embarrassing.

Ever since then, I've had an instant suspicion about Italians. Most of the time, it's unfounded. Indeed, one of my best friends is Italian and I like her. But yesterday, it was one step back for Italians.

Taking off from Toronto, I left out of the beautiful new Terminal 1 at Pearson. My flight was eight hours to Rome with an hour stopover to change planes before heading to Brussels where the nice woman in Toronto told me that my luggage would be waiting for me. Phew, as it would be hectic enough to switch planes at a foreign airport. Eight hours later, I arrived in Rome ten minutes late, hustled past security, breezed through immigration control and ran to the terminal ten minutes early to find that the plane had already left, could I go back to Gate 2B and wait? Great. Strike one for Italians.

Not having slept for ant of the eight hour plane ride, I wasn't in the greatest of moods. It was 2 in the morning my time and 9am Rome time and they offered me the next flight to Brussels at 3pm. I waited at the Alitalia booking desk for 40 minutes, watching as the tellers were yelled at by irate and sleep deprived travellers. Strike 2.

This patience paid off as they offered me the 10:20 plane to Brussels via Brussels Airlines (which 40 minutes ago had been completely booked). At 9:50 we speed walked to the counter and she left me with Brussels Airlines, with the words, "What is your baggage code?" I don't have a code, I said, "the woman said my bags would be in Brussels." They looked at each other, unsure. "OK," they said , "that's fine." Well, it wasn't. I arrived in Brussels two hours later to find my luggage was missing. I was shuffled from counter to counter like an orphan, looking for a home. When the man finally told me that my luggage was lost, and I'd have to fill out a lost form, I started to cry. Strike 3 and you're out. My baggage was probably still in Rome, and I'd have to wait at least 24 hours for it. Apparently, this is par for the course in Italy. Rome losses everything. I wish I'd known that. I'd have never trusted those Italian foxes.

Sad, exhausted and in pain (my Converse shoes were new and breaking me in), I trudged to the taxi stand and missed the glory that is Brussels. I ran on automatic the rest of the day (info session with the rest of the Tour, beautiful walk to the city square and Tour dinner were all a blur) resigned to the fact that I would be wearing jeans when everyone would be wearing beautiful suits. After showering and washing away the gunk and horribleness, my phone rang and the suitcases had arrived!!! Then all was right with the world.

Except, for you Italy. Three strikes and you're out.