A Less-Than-Optimal Way to Say Goodbye

I laid in bed for eight hours, nervously tossing around as my portable alarm clock ticked away. And then the dreaded time arrived. At the sound of my alarm, waking up felt different than ever before. Usually the horrible sound rouses me out of my unconscious state. This time, however, I didn't need to be roused. I was semi-conscious, and it seemed that adrenaline was rushing through my veins even as I slept.

Everything went according to plan as I quickly got dressed, made a weird breakfast with the remainder of our food, and said goodbye to our once homey apartment. Because I was the last to leave, there was no one to say goodbye to... As scheduled, I left my apartment 20 minutes before the metro opened for another busy day in Athens, Greece. The streets were dark and unlively as I attempted to prevent myself from being run over by my suitecases, which eagerly rolled downhill. You see, our apartment was located halfway up Mt. Lykavittos, a prominent hill in Athens. Five minutes later, I was at the Evangelismos metro station, with hundreds of stairs to decend before reaching the ticket counters. A little old lady offered to help, but I declined politely in Greek. The next few minutes are fuzzy in my memory, but somehow I brought two bags, which were each approaching 100 pounds, down four flights of stairs.

Once my bags and I were safely underground, I had ten minutes to blow before the airport metro came. The metro ride was wonderful. Apparently, hardly anyone is insane enough to ride the metro at five o'clock on a Sunday morning. So I reclined on a couple seats and watched as the rising sun illumined the bleak, mountainous terrain. Once in a while, a couple of confused white people - sometimes speaking English, sometimes not - boarded the metro. They were obviously tourists, but not me... I was a temporary resident of Athens, not a tourist.

The metro arrived at the airport two hours before my plane was schedule to board, and I patiently joined the long line for British Airways passengers. In front of me, a couple of the CYA students loaded their bags onto the scale and were rudely told to get rid of some weight. Those poor kids. We had no way of weighing our bags in our apartments...how were they to know that their bags were overweight?

Thanks to the slow-moving Greek airline employees, the wait was over an hour. I didn't mind it though... Nothing could take away the excitement of finally going home, or so it seemed. But as I plopped by enormous bags onto the scale, something horrible happened. My luggage was a total of forty pounds overweight! With an already full carry-on, I had no where to put this extra weight. But just like the students ahead of me, I was told to "get rid of someting." Now, my family has had overweight bags while traveling to Belize in the past, so I knew that my dad just paid an extra $100 for the extra weight and asked for a box, which he then scrupulously duct taped. Admittedly, it sucks to fork out this extra money, but my mind was set on going home. Nothing could crush my enthusiasm. After attempting to reason with this lady and refusing to throw anything away, she handed me a small woven nylon bag with a poor excuse for a zipper. When I opened the bag - which was one cubic foot in volume - the zipper broke off. No joke. Feeling as if someone had thrust a knife into my abdomen, I prayed that God work "all things out for the good of those who love him."

And He did. Brad, a fellow CYA student, saw me struggling and helped pack two of those little bags with the heaviest items from my suitecases. When I asked the airline employee for tape, I received a blank stare in return. Ahhhh! But duh, of course they had tape, so Brad and I used sticky yellow "caution heavy" tape to completely cover my weakling nylon bags. Thank you Brad!! I needed that psychological boost of compassion and camaraderie.

The next thirty minutes are a blur. I remember being shuffled off to another desk (about 200 feet away) to pay for the extra bag, leaving the airline employee to watch my luggage. I decided to use the last of my euros and informed him that I would pay in cash (big mistake). When I asked the price, he glanced down at the 140 euros that dangled from my hand and replied, "140 evros" (that's how Greeks say euros). Although I knew exactly what was happening, I didn't want to confront the man who held my ticket home. Instead, indignation boiled within me. The man took 15 minutes to make a phone call and then told me that I probably woudn't be able to get on my flight because it was overbooked (despite the fact that I had just paid for an extra piece of luggage). Flustered, I grabbed a handful of papers, tickets and passport and ran back to the ticketing counter. (I must have been quite a spectacle.)

Now the British Airways lady had really done it... "Your flight was overbooked, and you should have been here on time," she stated waveringly. No, no, no! I reconfirmed my flight the day before, and my seat was reserved...my seat number was in the computers, and I knew that this woman was lying through her teeth. I fought it and tried to reason with her, but to no avail. And then I broke down, sobbing like a baby. I just wanted to go home. I didn't have enough money to buy another plane ticket (which I would not be reimbursed for, according to my newly-acquired adversary). I couldn't take this. Alone in Greece, alone in that airport, alone in my hopelessness, I couldn't take it. Again, I prayed.

And again, God delivered me. That callous Greek woman showed mercy, handed me my passport and boarding pass, and allowed me to take one of the small nylon bags as an extra carry-on. "Your plane leaves in less than five minutes. You need to run." Ignoring the fact that she could've made that decision ten minutes ago instead of lying to me, I thanked her and dashed for security. No one was in line. My student visa was quickly stamped, I hustled to the plane, and was warmly welcomed aboard. Plopping myself, two carry-ons and my "personal item" (purse) onto my window seat, I accidentally flung my loose passport (still out from the visa-stamping station) under my seat. CRAP! As the stewardesses went over the usual rescue mask and emergency exit schpeal, I searched for my missing passport. Minutes later, a man two rows behind me found it under his seat. Phew.

My first flight was uneventful and even peaceful. The Alps were visible on that clear day, and once we disembarked the plane I met up with several other CYA students traveling home. The London Heathrow airport is a horrible maze, but we were enamored by English: we could understand what people were saying and read all the signs. For the first time in four months, I could speak the native language. :)

The long flight over the Atlantic was fine. Needless to say, it was good to be back in the United States! When I arrived at the Continental ticketing booth for my flight to Cleveland, a kind elderly man voluntarily wrapped those despicable nylon bags in travel-worthy sacks, and he even let me check my second carry-on for free. Americans are so much nicer!!

Upon my arrival at the Cleveland Hopkins Airport, my amazing parents greeted me. Their presence assuaged my feelings of unrest after that 36-hour traumatic journey. Unlike the rest of my study abroad experiences, I had never written about my trip home until today. So congratulations...you just experienced the unabridged version of (one of) Libby's traveling fiasco(s). The good, the bad, and the ugly...

~Libby

Song of the day: "How Great Is Our God" - Chris Tomlin