Paris to Rome

We took the train to the airport, and even managed to alight on the correct one. There was a nun on our flight, so I figured we'd be OK, even though we had a rough take-off, flight over the Alps, and landing. Alitalia = not recommended.

Of course, we were some of the first passengers to arrive at the gate, being terminally early. The nun approached us, and asked "Roma?" We nodded, she asked where we were from, and if we spoke anything other than English. I responded that I parle un petit peu le francais, and she proceeded to tell me a rather lengthy story. In French. I believe her grandmother (or Mother Superior) went to the US at some point, but I could be totally off. We just smiled and nodded. It was then that I realized I was reading Catch-22 in front of a nun. Do I need to go to confessional?

You know the luggage saga that required that we spend our first evening shopping. It was terrible!!! We were lucky that Jeff had to buy clothes in Italy rather than France, and I was proud that I remembered the word "camicia" for "dress shirt" when the salesman tried to get him to buy a sweatshirt. And I got some pretty good gig clothes. Of course, all of this time & expense was rendered unnecessary when our bag magically reappeared in our hotel room the following evening.