Thor, God of Thunder

I may have mentioned a time or two that it's been hellishly rainy here on the island in the Northumberland Strait for oh, say the last month.  Today's forecast is finally showing sun heading our way for the next few days, and thank heavens for that, because honestly, if I had to endure ONE MORE DAY in the rain, I was seriously considering buying a tanning bed for the basement, just to get some ultra-violet rays.

Last week the storms were at their worst, culminating on a immense thunder and lightening storm on Thursday afternoon.  It rained so hard in town that the one whom I adore got storm stayed at the hotel while the maintenance team sandbagged the exit to the underground garage where he was parked.  

Out here in country the storm was so violent that internet, satellite TV and electricity were all cut off for a while.  Which made enduring the meltdown all the more difficult with nothing to distract me.

The meltdown I refer to of course is none other than Snickers Cameron.  The boy is traumatized with the mere hint of a rumble of thunder.   And given that old Thor was having a hell of a party Thursday afternoon well, Snickers' meltdown was of god-like proportions.

I really feel bad for the dog.  He cannot rationalize that it's just a noise and that it isn't going to hurt him.  And as this 50-lb beast sat on my lap, quivering like a baby, whining and licking his chops incessantly, there was really nothing I could do to calm him down.  Not even bribing him with Snausages worked.

Eventually, the storm subsided, the power came back on and so did TV and internet.  Thank God, because what would I ever do without my connection to all things Michael Jackson?

Anyway, on Saturday we ventured downtown to see a movie (Sunshine Cleaning, very cute in a Little Miss Sunshine or Juno kind of way) and as we sat in the little art-house cinema, we heard it.  The rumblings of thunder.  Not just any thunder, mind you.  Thunder the likes of which Thursday's storm was considered miniscule by comparison.  There we were, in town, while the one who is a chicken was home to face the terror alone.

When I lived in Vancouver I volunteered every July for the Vancouver Fireworks Festival, which is an international competition held over the course of four nights from English Bay in Vancouver's West End, where I happened to live at the time.  As a volunteer I would leave early to get everything set up for the VIP dinners at the Boathouse and then I would come home very late, long after the last sparkler had flared out and all the revelers were making their way back to suburbia.  Fireworks make the same noise as thunder, don'tcha know.

One night I came home to my apartment to find that Snickers had been absolutely terrorized.  In his quest to escape the sound of incoming schrapnel that is a fireworks show in his mind, he tries to go to higher ground.  Given that we lived in an apartment, the only higher ground that existed was the top of my bed or the kitchen counters.  Which is exactly where he must have been climbing when he cleared the kitchen counter of its contents, scattering everything to the floor, including shattering a bottle of very expensive Balsamic Vinegar.  Realizing he was no safer there, he must have climbed down, carefully placing each foot in the vinegar and then tracking it through the entire apartment, up on every piece of furniture he could find desperately seeking comfort and escape.  

So, you could imagine what was running through my mind Saturday night as I sat in the movie theatre in downtown Charlottetown while he was here, alone except for the Gidge to suffer through a thunder storm on his own.  I racked my brain trying to think of what was on the kitchen counter and deciding that really, it didn't matter because there was nothing I could do at this point.  So I settled in to watch the movie.

When we got home he greeted us at the door in his usual manner, tail wagging and the slipper of the one whom I adore firmly tucked into his cheek.  We thought all was good.  He seemed no worse for wear and even ventured to wonder if the storm maybe didn't make its way out to the OBB.

Wrong.

Upon closer inspection we found the guest room bed which I had just made up the day before completely disheveled, blankets torn back, pillows tossed on the floor.  My office door was almost practically jammed shut with my chair rolled up against the doorknob as if to lock out the noise.  The wardrobe in my changing room had clothes thrown out of it, as though someone were rummaging for a pair of matching socks they just couldn't find.  The windowsill in our bedroom had big drops of saliva on the ledge, as did the mousepad of my laptop.  In fact, there were big gobby drops of saliva all over the house.  Seems he roamed from one room to the next desperately looking for escape, or something that had my scent on it for comfort.  Poor dog.

I mean, it had to be Snickers, right?  Either him or Frieda?  BOO!

When In Rome

Recently, I was writing an article about travel and more specifically, the fact that when it comes to travel karma, I’ve been blessed, or at the very least, very, very lucky.   I was waxing on and on about how despite having traveled the world over I have never had a missed connection, a lost piece of luggage or even a mechanical come between me and a good trip.

Funny the tricks that memory plays on your mind, because, there was that one time in Rome…

Now, this story doesn’t really fall under the category of missed connection or lost luggage, but it does most definitely fall under the category of being very lucky.

I had been on a Mediterranean cruise aboard a beautiful yacht, sailing from Monte Carlo to Rome.  At the  time I was living in Atlanta, and despite my opinion to the contrary, the company I worked for just couldn’t seem to live without me for the full 10 days that my itinerary called for.  Instead I was “allowed” to take this trip on the condition that after 6 days I would return to Atlanta.

So fine, yeah, I was indispensable. 

As arranged, I disembarked the ship 3 ports of call earlier than the itinerary called for.  This happened to be in Catania, on the island of Sicily and I’m here to tell you, disembarking the ship, I wasn’t sure I was going to make it as far as the airport, let alone back to Atlanta.  After submitting to a thorough screening, because who the hell gets of a luxury yacht in Sicily when the itinerary says it’s going on to Naples and then Rome?  Yes, that would be me and without a lick of Italian to aid me, I had to explain why to the customs officers who were rifling my luggage as though I was exporting vast quantities of illegal substances.  Which, just for the record, I WASN’T.

Eventually, limping through my Lonely Planet Italian, I was able to make myself understood and was allowed to taxi to the airport for my flight to Rome.  Nothing in Italy ever leaves on time and my flight was no exception.  We sat for what seemed like hours on the tarmac waiting for our turn to take off.  I don’t know what the delay was, but suffice it to say, when we eventually landed in Rome, my fellow travelers were more than ready to get off the plane and they didn’t care who the manhandled to get to the jet-way fastest.

I had only been to Rome once before and that had been on the connecting flight to Nice where we were embarking on our cruise.  I had an early morning flight to New York the next day and so had made plans to spend the night at the Sheraton Roma Hotel, which offered its guests a complimentary shuttle service from the airport.  On my previous visit to the Rome Airport I staked out the location of the shuttle and made mental note that when I came back to Rome I would get the hotel shuttle “here.”

The only problem with my little plan, however, was the fact that the airport has more than one terminal and although I was indeed at Rome's Fiumicino Airport, I had not arrived at the same terminal as I had previously.  Which of course meant that the shuttle that was supposed to be “here” was in fact “there” and I had no idea where “there” was.

Did I mention I had also exchanged every last one of my Lire with one of my fellow travelers before disembarking the yacht?  Did I mention this story takes place in the days before ATMs?  Hard to imagine, I know, but yes, long ago, in a land far away, in the middle of the night, I was stuck at an airport without any local currency and no way to make my way to my hotel for the night.

After wandering around the airport, hopelessly lost, a kind man who had been watching me meander aimlessly took pity on me and with a combination of Italian and English enquired if I perhaps needed some assistance, or at the very least, some directions?  Thank God, because despite the fact that I have an extensive vocabulary and a working tongue in my head, I did not have the confidence to walk up to a perfect stranger and ask for help.   Although, once approached by this handsome, older man who I’m sure only wanted to help out a young woman traveling by herself in the middle of the night, I found my tongue and was able to yes, ask for directions to the shuttle to the hotel.   He gladly offered directions and was even kind enough to escort me to the location where I could pick up the shuttle.  Which was in a dark parking lot, with no signage and only one dimly lit streetlight.

He bid me farewell, assuring me that the bus would be along shortly.  So there I stood.  Alone.  In the dark.  By myself.  Under a dimly lit streetlight.  With no one by my side.  Exhausted.  And more than just a little bit nervous.

I waited.  And waited.  And waited some more.  My watch told me I had been there for almost an hour and I was beginning to doubt that my kind stranger knew what the hell he was talking about, but then I remembered, “This is Italy.  Nothing is ever on time and what makes me think the shuttle bus that should be along shortly would be on time?”  Silly me.  So I continued to wait.

That’s when it happened.  Suddenly out of the pitch black came swirling blue lights and the unmistakable wail of police sirens.  Four Polizia cars careened out of the darkness to come to a full stop right at my feet.  An outfit of Army officers, armed with machine guns burst out of the cars and started screaming at me…but they were screaming in Italian and I had no idea what they were yelling.  I doubt it was “is this where the shuttle comes?”  It most definitely wasn’t “welcome to Roma”. 

No, it was more like “get the hell out of the way….NOW!”  Except, as I said, I didn’t know Italian and they didn’t stop long enough to think that perhaps I wasn’t from the neighborhood, so I stood there, my eyes locked on their machine guns.  Machine Guns!  I had never seen a shot gun, let alone a semi-automatic machine gun!  It wasn’t until one of them was pointed at my face that suddenly I understood perfectly clearly they wanted me to move out of the way.

I obliged.

As I stood shaking in my sandals, barely able to control my bladder I watched as another group of machine-gun toting officers hustled out of the airport, surrounding an older man whom they loaded into one of the Polizia cars and tore off into the night, sirens screaming, lights flashing.

And then?  Nothing.  You’ve never heard silence more deafening than after you’ve been on the business end of a machine gun, in the dark, in a foreign country where you don’t speak the language. 

I just stood there.  Stunned.  And then it came.  Like a knight in shining armour, except that it was a motorcoach in shining chrome…my shuttle bus had arrived…very lucky indeed.