Yes. We leave tomorrow. No, I have written absolutely NOTHING on this blog in the past few months. Do you have any idea how much time it takes to field a dozen phone calls from your mother every two days? I mean, really. So this is how it is -- I'm not taking your stinking guilt trip with me.
Primarily because I don't have room in my luggage.
We're packed. I have a shiny new and completely unnecessary international drivers permit that my mother insisted on taking up space in my passport wallet. In less than ten minutes, I magically turned three thousand dollars into a thousand less in euros on Friday. I have two new credit cards -- one that allows me to check baggage for free on Delta, and the other, a stylish Chase Sapphire card that doesn't charge foreign transaction fees.
That's right. I'm cheating on Citibank. We had a fight and I was feeling unappreciated, so I'm running around town with my sleek new Sapphire Card. It's very sexy, but I digress... Citibank and I had a fight about extra charges on my card after I bought the opera tickets to La Scala. What the F is a foreign transaction fee? Basically, it's the credit card company's way of saying, "Welcome to your vacation. Although we realize you probably didn't enjoy the screwing you got in changing your dollars to euros, we thought we might try screwing you again. This time, for no reason other than our own stinking greed." So, thank you Citibank -- but despite my having been a really good customer for a really long time, your stupid card will be staying at home. Ta da... rant finished. Thank you very much.
Mom is in the air somewhere between Sarasota and Atlanta. She arrives at 11-ish tonight. I think she's a bit panicked that our itineraries are not linked and we have thus been assigned separate seats on the flight from Boston to Rome. Despite my phone calls to the airlines, and both their and my reassurance that it would all work out okay -- she's unconvinced. She told me to tell them she is a convalescent and needs my care.
Well, at least she's finally admitting to it.
In less than 24 hours, we'll be airborne... with no chance of escape. Ryan, are you praying yet?