Here’s another cartoon from my New Yorker tear-away calendar. It spoke to me.
One summer I went to Italy for eight weeks.
With my family.
As if that was not stressful enough, our luggage did not make it on to the connecting trans-Atlantic flight.
We waited over a week for clean clothes.
Pajamas. I do not even remember what was done in regard to sleeping attire.
My mother wouldn’t even let us buy razors for about 3 days. I still cannot talk about the deodorant and underwear situation.
It was summer.
My mother was apparently was under the impression that if she made us live as though on a desert island, our luggage would magically make it through Italian airport bureaucracy, customs and shipping company disorganization faster. Like penance or something.
My sister still hates Italy because of that trip.
Thanks to March 10, 2011 and The New Yorker, it has all come rushing back.
Feel free to share your worst travel stories. If only to convince my sister that it could have been worse.