Due to the events of the past couple days, I've determined Stage Zero to be a 100% necessary addition to the traditional Stages of Culture Shock.
My parents have done their fair share of international travel. My father immigrated from New Zealand and played on a sports team that traveled internationally, so you would think that perhaps I'd take his warnings seriously. "Be prepared for anything," he said. "Keep your cool when things go wrong," he said. "Be an hour early to everything," he said.
Well as a classic millennial under the false impression of invulnerability, I waved off his warnings and dove into the travel process without much thought or preparation. The following story explains why I felt the pressing need to expand the original 1-5 Stages of Culture Shock to 0-5, because "Freaking Out & Crying Publicly" undoubtedly has a place in the cycle.
It began with a simple drive from Eugene to PDX. That went well, besides the crushing heartache I felt when I said goodbye to my best friend (aka my mother). PDX to Chicago? No problem. The events to follow? Problem.
Next came a thirteen hour layover in the Chicago airport. In other words, thirteen episodes of Orange is the New Black. How did I get wifi? My father somehow got his hands on a United Club "one use" pass, so I got to go hang in the ritzy private rich people club. People were wearing tailored suits and I was in PJ's with a cheetah blanket and pink pillow, but I had free wifi.
At some point during this extensive layover, I started freaking out about my luggage. I just had this weird feeling something was wrong. I went to the club's front desk and chatted with my new friend Gail who looked it up and discovered that wow, my bag was checked only through Chicago. My luggage would've been trapped in the endless circle of hell that is United Airlines. Good ol' Gail fixed the problem, but suddenly I started to realize how precarious international travel can be.
Due to my newfound paranoia, I left the club two hours before my flight's departure so that there would be no room for error as I navigated the massive airport and exchanged my cash for euros.
Well. All that took about 30 minutes. Then my flight got delayed two more hours. So I had allll this time to spend in the gate. Somehow, by some godly power, I remembered the club's wifi password and managed to connect. Score. I proceeded to watch Orange is the New Black publicly, which I might add is an extreme gamble that I *do not recommend*. Trust me, you don't want to be the reason why some parents have to suddenly explain the "grown up activities" that their small children saw on your screen.
The ten hour flight wasn't bad, except I thought the dinner wasn't free so I didn't get it. That's when the starvation process began.
Fast forward to Rome. I have seven hours--yes SEVEN--to wait in the baggage claim until the next bus to Siena. Turns out the Rome baggage claim is just the worst. Nothing but these stiff metal chairs that resemble a tin garbage can lid. And I sat there. And sat. It was miserable. I hadn't eaten anything except some pretzels and a tootsie pop in two days. I hadn't slept in about 3 days.
I've never gotten to the point of exhaustion where my eyes couldn't see straight until that day. I just had to lay down. But the airport was sketch, and there was absolutely no place to lay down.
So naturally I went to the bathroom, got in a stall, laid my suitcase down, and curled up in a tiny ball on top of it. I slept there for an hour and a half, until a lady (presumably the cleaning lady because I had locked the door) walked in on me. I believe my reply was along the lines of, "sup." Yep, I slept inches away from an airport toilet in Rome.
As the final hour approached, I decided to head out to find my bus. Only problem was, I couldn't figure it out for the life of me. I asked about 20 different people, most of whom shooed me away vigorously. People pointed me in five different directions. I made frantic phone calls. I cried publicly. Someone told me the bus was gone. I cried some more. More calls, more panicking. Add in legitimate fear of being stuck on the streets of Rome all night.
Honestly it would take forever and a half to describe this next part so I'm going to keep it short. I was prepared to stay all night in the airport but I was told it closed at midnight. Taxis, a hotel room, and a new bus ticket would add up to a lot, and the Siena hotel I'd already paid for would go to waste. There was only one option--a $400 taxi ride from Rome to Siena. I took it. I didn't have enough euros, so I needed to use my debit card. The taxi driver (who wasn't wearing a uniform, didn't have a meter, and whose "taxi car" was an unmarked black Mercedes Benz--aka, an illegal taxi) didn't have a card reader, so we stopped at some random sketchy gas station to meet up with a "friend" who had a reader. Retrospectively, this wasn't a wise decision. But it happened. And I survived.
So is there a moral to this story? Yes. International travel is absurd. Things will go wrong. You'll freak out and cry publicly. But in the end, you're still a cool human doing cool things. So here is a photo of me napping in a smelly European bathroom stall.
Much love,
Kenzie
My parents have done their fair share of international travel. My father immigrated from New Zealand and played on a sports team that traveled internationally, so you would think that perhaps I'd take his warnings seriously. "Be prepared for anything," he said. "Keep your cool when things go wrong," he said. "Be an hour early to everything," he said.
Well as a classic millennial under the false impression of invulnerability, I waved off his warnings and dove into the travel process without much thought or preparation. The following story explains why I felt the pressing need to expand the original 1-5 Stages of Culture Shock to 0-5, because "Freaking Out & Crying Publicly" undoubtedly has a place in the cycle.
It began with a simple drive from Eugene to PDX. That went well, besides the crushing heartache I felt when I said goodbye to my best friend (aka my mother). PDX to Chicago? No problem. The events to follow? Problem.
Next came a thirteen hour layover in the Chicago airport. In other words, thirteen episodes of Orange is the New Black. How did I get wifi? My father somehow got his hands on a United Club "one use" pass, so I got to go hang in the ritzy private rich people club. People were wearing tailored suits and I was in PJ's with a cheetah blanket and pink pillow, but I had free wifi.
At some point during this extensive layover, I started freaking out about my luggage. I just had this weird feeling something was wrong. I went to the club's front desk and chatted with my new friend Gail who looked it up and discovered that wow, my bag was checked only through Chicago. My luggage would've been trapped in the endless circle of hell that is United Airlines. Good ol' Gail fixed the problem, but suddenly I started to realize how precarious international travel can be.
Due to my newfound paranoia, I left the club two hours before my flight's departure so that there would be no room for error as I navigated the massive airport and exchanged my cash for euros.
Well. All that took about 30 minutes. Then my flight got delayed two more hours. So I had allll this time to spend in the gate. Somehow, by some godly power, I remembered the club's wifi password and managed to connect. Score. I proceeded to watch Orange is the New Black publicly, which I might add is an extreme gamble that I *do not recommend*. Trust me, you don't want to be the reason why some parents have to suddenly explain the "grown up activities" that their small children saw on your screen.
The ten hour flight wasn't bad, except I thought the dinner wasn't free so I didn't get it. That's when the starvation process began.
Fast forward to Rome. I have seven hours--yes SEVEN--to wait in the baggage claim until the next bus to Siena. Turns out the Rome baggage claim is just the worst. Nothing but these stiff metal chairs that resemble a tin garbage can lid. And I sat there. And sat. It was miserable. I hadn't eaten anything except some pretzels and a tootsie pop in two days. I hadn't slept in about 3 days.
I've never gotten to the point of exhaustion where my eyes couldn't see straight until that day. I just had to lay down. But the airport was sketch, and there was absolutely no place to lay down.
So naturally I went to the bathroom, got in a stall, laid my suitcase down, and curled up in a tiny ball on top of it. I slept there for an hour and a half, until a lady (presumably the cleaning lady because I had locked the door) walked in on me. I believe my reply was along the lines of, "sup." Yep, I slept inches away from an airport toilet in Rome.
As the final hour approached, I decided to head out to find my bus. Only problem was, I couldn't figure it out for the life of me. I asked about 20 different people, most of whom shooed me away vigorously. People pointed me in five different directions. I made frantic phone calls. I cried publicly. Someone told me the bus was gone. I cried some more. More calls, more panicking. Add in legitimate fear of being stuck on the streets of Rome all night.
Honestly it would take forever and a half to describe this next part so I'm going to keep it short. I was prepared to stay all night in the airport but I was told it closed at midnight. Taxis, a hotel room, and a new bus ticket would add up to a lot, and the Siena hotel I'd already paid for would go to waste. There was only one option--a $400 taxi ride from Rome to Siena. I took it. I didn't have enough euros, so I needed to use my debit card. The taxi driver (who wasn't wearing a uniform, didn't have a meter, and whose "taxi car" was an unmarked black Mercedes Benz--aka, an illegal taxi) didn't have a card reader, so we stopped at some random sketchy gas station to meet up with a "friend" who had a reader. Retrospectively, this wasn't a wise decision. But it happened. And I survived.
So is there a moral to this story? Yes. International travel is absurd. Things will go wrong. You'll freak out and cry publicly. But in the end, you're still a cool human doing cool things. So here is a photo of me napping in a smelly European bathroom stall.
Much love,
Kenzie