Chapter 2
I never understood before today the people who clap when their plane touches the ground.
I get it now.
They are applauding themselves for surviving.
The scheduled ten-hour flight had morphed into almost fifteen after we spent four and a half hours on the tarmac in Atlanta due to mechanical issues.
The pilot announced the delay was due to one of the bathroom door latches being broken, which elicited a ripple of groans.
But that was nothing compared to what followed.
After three hours of sitting, the plane banded together and passed a petition around for signatures, saying we would all rather use the bathroom with the door open, flashing one another, than sit on this unmoving plane for even one more minute.
It didn’t work. We were instead treated to a snarky flight attendant reading out a number of FAA regulations over the loudspeaker before very unnecessarily tearing our petition straight down the middle for dramatic effect.
We waited another hour and a half before it was fixed.
I may have bedsores from sitting in that tiny seat for an eternity, but at least I now have 318 new Instagram followers—including Sailor Foster.
I even spoke to her for an entire eight seconds in business class before I was sternly told to return to where I belonged: way in the back, next to the bathroom, and directly behind the unmasked seatmate who appeared to have contracted tuberculosis shortly before they boarded.
With all that unplanned downtime, we blitzed through the entirety of our downloaded streaming content and drained our cell batteries, mostly thanks to the seat-back monitors being broken.
And to make things even worse, the outlets in the partitions didn’t work either, so I had to stop Anya’s playlist right in the middle of the crescendo of Nelly Furtado’s “I’m Like a Bird.
” First-world problems. By the time we land in Italy at twelve p.m. instead of seven a.m. the next day, we are irritable, hangry, and tired.
A truly lethal combination. Especially given all three of our phones are now teetering in that dangerous, living-life-on-the-edge range of 1–3 percent charge.
But we are here! Time to get drenched in sun and plied with overflowing bowls of pasta tossed with blistered tomatoes.
Morale is already improving despite the stifling hot and slow-moving customs line.
We finally make our way to the baggage claim, immersed as we are in a soundtrack of vibrant Italian and surrounded by display cases overflowing with cannoli sprinkled with mini chocolate chips.
I attempt to translate Italian while reading the instructions for how to connect to the Naples airport Wi-Fi.
Distracted, I almost collide with a large, bulky police officer carrying a machine gun.
“Um. What was that?” I ask.
“We aren’t in Kansas anymore, Sora,” Anya jokes.
“Clearly. I was so not prepared.” I sneak another look before successfully connecting to Wi-Fi and quickly whipping out my adapter and plugging my cell phone into the first outlet I find. I wait a few seconds for any messages Wes may have sent to come in, but the only ones are from my parents.
We miss you already, Sora Joon! The text comes paired with a photo of our German shepherd, Reza, wearing a pair of new sunglasses I must have left behind.
I message them back to let them know we got in safe and that I love them. Then I text Wes. We are here! What are you guys up to?
Wes is visiting the Amalfi Coast with his fraternity brothers, a fact of which Anya and Mari are blissfully unaware (1) because I haven’t told them, (2) because they’ve blocked him on all socials and haven’t seen all his shirtless posts, and (3) because if I sneak off to see him at night after hanging with Anya and Mari all day, it’s no harm, no foul and an only somewhat convenient perk of this vacation that I may have not-so-subconsciously orchestrated.
His iMessage bubbles pop up and then disappear.
I disconnect from Wi-Fi and then reconnect, but still no response.
Anya’s bags and mine come out after a few minutes, but we wait at the carousel for Marisol’s for almost a half hour, watching bag after bag get pulled from the belt until only one lone, lumpy suitcase remains, circling. It was time to admit reality.
“My bag is lost?” Mari’s eyes are teary. “Everything I need is in there.”
I’m about to comfort Mari, to tell her that we will find a solution, when Wes texts me back: Glad you made it!
Figuring it out—will let you know in an hour.
But in an hour we’ll be on the train to Sorrento, without Wi-Fi.
And my parents, who so kindly pay my phone bill, would swiftly not be paying my phone bill any longer if I turn on roaming and rack up astronomical international charges. I need to buy a SIM card, and fast.
“Google says you need to file a missing bag claim with the airline.” Anya scrolls through her phone, then gets up. “Here, I’ll help you.”
“While you guys do that, I need to grab a SIM,” I say.
“What? Why?” Anya pivots and shoots me daggers. “Can’t you use Wi-Fi?”
“Sure, now, but we won’t have it lots of the time.”
“So? What’s the big deal?” Anya prods.
“You know how my parents are! Regularly checking in was a condition of coming on this trip.” My mouth starts to get dry. She’s onto me. I’ve always been a shit liar.
“We’re going to miss the train, Sora. We’ve already paid for the tickets, and we still have to take the Alibus shuttle to the station.
All the trains for the rest of the day are sold out.
I do not want that money to go to waste.
And I really don’t want to have to take the bus to Sorrento.
” Anya, almost six feet tall and a notorious motion sickness sufferer, towers over me as she pleads her case.
“We won’t. I’m going to be quick—once we are in Sorrento there won’t be any convenience stores like this. I’ll be gone less than five minutes. I promise!”
“Okay. Five minutes,” Anya concedes.
I run off before she can detain me, leaving my big suitcase sitting next to Anya’s.
I sprint to the first shop I can find and rifle manically through the electronics section.
Everything is picked over—a side effect of peak season.
I find the hanger where my compatible SIM card should be stocked but it’s empty—sold out.
The salesclerk notices me searching and points down the corridor to another shop.
“Grazie!” I shout, taking off again.
I check the time—two minutes have passed.
We should still be okay. I blow into the second shop and am pleased to find the electronics section has a much bigger inventory.
Everything is misplaced and strewn about randomly, however, and I am forced to sift through every item.
By the time I find the SIM card I’m looking for, there are five people in line ahead of me.
Shit, shit, shit. We will really be cutting it close.
It’s 1:10 p.m. and I start to get a sick, churning feeling in my stomach as I inch closer to the register.
I pick a spare shirt off the table for Mari in case she hasn’t yet found her suitcase.
A moment later, I grab three cannoli from the cooler as well, because sugar always softens bad news.
Finally, I reach the register and throw the items on the counter along with a stack of euros before leaving in a mad dash to get back to my friends, not even bothering to grab my change.
Running as fast as I can, I dodge strollers and swerve to avoid wayward tourists.
I glimpse my reflection in a mirrored elevator door—oof.
It’s not pretty. I look like a madman, my dark, curly hair wild.
Anya and Mari are standing by the exit when I return, poised to sprint out of the starting blocks.
“I made it!” I wheeze as we speedwalk to the waiting shuttle. “Any luck, Mari?”
“No, but they said they’ll deliver it to our hotel as soon as it arrives,” Mari says as we board. “It’s okay.” She shrugs, always able to see the glass half full. “It will show up. Could be a lot worse.”
Anya glances at her wristwatch as the doors slide shut, settling back into her seat. She exhales dramatically. “Everything is okay. I think we’ll make the train.” Her face relaxes as the shuttle lurches forward on the short ride to the train station.
“Told you I would be fast!” I grin proudly, hugging my backpack to my lap, still panting from my sprint. All is going to plan—I have my SIM card, and we are still on schedule.
This is our first official glimpse of our surroundings, and we press our foreheads to the glass, eager to drink it all in.
Through the windows, Naples reveals herself, as colorful as she is chaotic; this is a city not merely jam-packed with people, but with life.
Loved ones embrace outside the Arrivals terminal with bouquets of flowers, laughing, crying, every emotion in between.
The airport is flooded with tiny cars honking as they try to inch their way through gridlock.
Arms flail out of windows as drivers yell at their neighbors, blaming each other for the congestion.
I can only assume the loud Italian we’re hearing are cuss words, and the especially bad ones at that.
It’s entertaining until our bus screeches to a halt. Our previously pleasant-seeming, egg-shaped driver stomps out toward the car that cut him off from merging, flings open the offender’s door, and pulls him from his seat.
“Oh my God.” Mari clasps a hand to her mouth as our driver grips the other man by the collar.
“What are they saying?” A deep crease appears on Anya’s forehead.
“I can’t tell.” But every minute the driver spends outside is a minute closer to missing our train.
Mari gnaws on her inner cheek, her tell anytime she is worried and stressed.
Finally, another woman on the shuttle loses all patience, stands up, and bounds down the stairs. She starts swinging her purse and yelling at our driver in Italian until he relents, sheepishly finding his way back to his post.
The remainder of our ride is thankfully uneventful, but by the time we get dropped off, it is 1:50 p.m. Making the train will be tight, but we’re still hopeful.
We soon realize, however, that we hadn’t accounted for time needed to navigate a new train station in a language none of us understood.
We stare up, overwhelmed, at the large list of city names on the departures screen.
Every five seconds the letters flutter and rotate, replacing the posted destination cities.
We try to make sense of where we need to go as hurried travelers swarm around us.
“I think we have to go that way?” Mari points to the left just as Anya points to the right.
“Should we ask someone?” I suggest.
Anya leads the way toward the information desk.
After a short exchange with a cheerful Italian woman with a scarf tied around her neck, we finally figure out where we need to go.
We take off, swerving around every obstacle as we frantically attempt to make our train, until the three of us are standing on a desolate platform with no train in sight.
Anya pulls her shirtsleeve back, looking at her watch. “It left three minutes ago,” she says all deflated, dropping her bag to the ground and slumping down against the wall until she’s seated.
Nausea sets in. “I’m really sorry.” I sit next to Anya and link my arm inside hers, trying to get her to soften.
“I really mean it. I’m so sorry if I caused any of the delay.
Does this make up for it?” I hold up a bag with the three slightly crunched cannoli and the shirt I bought for Mari that says YOU CANNOLI LIVE ONCE.
Anya avoids eye contact. “It’s not your fault.”
“Thanks, Sora,” Mari says, taking the shirt and a cannolo.
But Anya doesn’t crack a smile, or reach for a cannolo, and I know a part of her blames me for missing the train. I feel horrible. I wish I could explain how urgently I needed the SIM card and why. But Wes’s name would turn this crisis from a four into a ten.
“I promise to make it up to you guys. I swear.” I swallow. “Bus tickets are on me.”