Traveling to Italy

I boarded the United plane in San Francisco at noon on Monday and touched down in Milan at 1 p.m. Tuesday, with a lay over in London on the way. The airplane travel was rather uneventful with the exception of the following: while I was in line to get my boarding pass in SF, a woman called me on my cell phone and I subletted my room to her (ahh, craigslist); once on the United jet, which was totally booked, I realized that my laptop was completely out of power, so I approached a passenger in the first class to ask to plug it in, which he would have been happy to do, but it turns out you need a power converter, which costs $100 and I of course did not have. However, the man sitting next to this generous man did have the plug. I asked if I could borrow it to charge the laptop, and even offered to pay him, describing my desperation to read articles and type, but he refused, saying he had paid good money for it and would not share it. He wore a Texas-sized cowboy hat and when he spoke he had this condescending tone. Most people in the first class, like usual, were men in suits. I tried to weed out what were my own stereotypes, of the rich and of men, but in the end I came to the conclusion that I didn’t like the way the men in the first class treated me. I get that in this capitalist world if you work hard you can (sometimes) make lots of money and afford to fly first class, but I don’t get why people in the first class are so reluctant to share with people in need. Whenever I have been gifted by the opportunity to sit in first class (free upgrades due to airline problems, etc.), I have smuggled goodies to friends and strangers in the coach stowage area and offered any services I could. There is something about the red carpet mentality, however minor in the grand scheme of things, which I absolutely abhor. Other things that happened in transit:

I ate a hummus sandwich at the London Heathrow airport that was made with all organic vegetables and I had a soy latte—where else would you find such food in an airport?!
I listened to earsful of new iPod music—from punk to manfolk to world beats.

When we touched down in Milan the ground was covered with a fine dust of snow and big fat flakes were zooming by over the airplane wings. In the blur of the landing and as I cleared my eyes of sleep and tried to focus, the flakes of snow looked like tiny white feathers streaming off the metallic white bird’s wings. Molting. Shedding old pasts and stepping into new skin.

In the airport customs is like a drive through—I hardly realize that I have entered into a new country—just a quick “ciao” from the border patrol. For a brief second my mind flashes to the scene at Ciudad Juarez last summer, and the strict and demeaning nature of the US Border Patrol. Nothing like that here. I meet Liz, the American activist who invited me to come on the tour. Liz has short dark hair that shows hints of being dyed red and a nose like mine and a peaceful presence that is full of determination. She lives in Washington state and is a great leader in the counter-recruitment movement. Liz and I walk over to where the rest of the women are sitting. I am the last to arrive (except for one woman’s bag, which has been lost in transit in Paris). The women from Russia, Chechnya, and Uzbekistan don’t speak English and so our conversation is slow.
I have a real café and we wait at the airport for what seems like hours and hours for the Canadian woman’s bag which never comes and in the end we leave for a five-hour drive to Udine, where we will speak at the university tomorrow. What strikes me first about the women I am traveling with is their diverse expressions and stories.