The flight out to San Diego was fantastic. Turns out that whole Business Class/First Class upgrade thing is, in fact, all it's cracked up to be. Especially compared to the hell of having to ride back in the cattle-car section on the way back. Because the trip back was awful. Oh, it was all well and good when we made it from San Diego to Atlanta half an hour early. But then we boarded the plane in Atlanta. And the geniuses who run Delta decided it would be a brilliant idea to hold the plane at the gate for an hour so that the people whose flights were all delayed on the eastern seaboard could make their connection to Rome. Which is a nice thought, in theory. Except that the real impact of that decision is to make the plane an hour late to get into Rome (actually, an hour and a half late, due to stronger-than-expected headwinds), and to cause everyone who has a connecting flight in Rome (most of the plane) to miss it. So I went on standby for the next flight to Naples. And didn't get on because the flight was full. And so I had to standby again. Have you ever tried being in the standby line with a bunch of angry Italians? (Well, "line" is a term I use sort of loosely; it's more like the standby "mob.") (And by "mob," I mean "large angry crowd," as opposed to the traditional context in which said term is frequently applied to a large group of Italians.) After 7 hours in the Rome airport (yes, I could have taken the train to Naples and been there faster, but I'm not about to spend more money because the airlines are stupid), I finally got a flight out, in the middle seat. Which, for a 45 minute flight, isn't so bad. Until you get there and they have lost your luggage. Realize, this is the third flight to Naples since my plane got in from Atlanta. Meaning they have had two previous opportunities to put my suitcase (just one, very ordinary suitcase) on a plane from Rome to Naples. Add in the flight that I actually made it on, and that makes three. Apparently I should have just waited around for the fourth flight that day from Rome to Naples. So 25 hours after my plane took off "this" morning from San Diego, I'm in the Naples airport wishing desperately for a scotch on the rocks. And realizing that I can't have one because my scotch is, in fact, in the very same luggage that Alitalia lost.

On the bright side, I made it home in one piece, and managed to relax by watching the third-best movie ever made. That's right: North Shore.