My Virgin Voyage

By Patricia Winton

As I began my first trip to Italy, I became one of 6,000 people stranded at Kennedy airport during the February 1969 nor’easter that shut it down and paralyzed the northeastern United States for three days. I was 23, alone, and a fledgling traveler. Only the kindness of strangers got me to my destination.

I was moving to live near the place I most wanted to visit in the world—Florence. I had booked a seat on a charter flight—the company’s name long forgotten—from JFK to Frankfurt with another flight to Italy. On arriving at JFK, passengers were to call Brown’s Taxi for transport to the North Terminal. I think that ride was included in the charter fare.

The snow began falling on February 9—two days before my scheduled departure. Flights from JFK were being canceled, and people were sleeping in terminals. In Washington, DC, I watched the news with alarm. My plane would surely not go. I called the charter company, and they told me to come on to JFK. By the 11th, snow was falling in Washington, too. Another call to the charter company. More instructions to proceed. I snapped my suitcase shut and called a taxi. Before it arrived, Eastern Airlines called to cancel my flight to JFK. My heart raced as I called the charter company again. They told me that the transatlantic flight was still on. My anxiety level ratcheted up a couple of notches until a friend suggested that I take the airline shuttle.

Shuttle Ticket Sales

The shuttles that ran from DC to New York in those days didn’t require a reservation. You just arrived at the airport and climbed aboard. The beverage carts had been converted to ticket sales counters, and you simply bought the ticket on board. Forty plus years ago, they even accepted cash. As my taxi approached Washington National Airport, the driver told me the shuttle to JFK had been canceled, but the one to Newark was still flying. I gulped and had him drop me there.

As luck would have it, my shuttle seatmate traveled frequently from New York to Washington. “How can I get to JFK?” I asked. “Take the helicopter,” he replied, telling me the route to take once I deplaned, where to turn, and how much it would cost. At the terminal, Shuttle Man pointed me in the right direction, and I soon found myself aboard a helicopter flitting between airports.

As luck would have it, my helicopter seatmate was booked on my charter flight. A travel-wise woman just a couple of years older than I was, she took the lead when we arrived at JFK and called Brown’s. We made our way through the terminal, past sleeping people, past crying babies, past mounds of trash. At the pickup point, we met other passengers for our charter. Eager to depart on time, we joked about “a little snow.” After more than an hour’s wait, our confidence waned. Finally, a big old car—brown, of course, with a few rust spots—pulled up. We looked at each other, shrugged, and five or six of us piled in. There was room for all, plus our luggage.

The taxi ride proved to be just as challenging as the other legs of the trip. Every route the driver tried was blocked by police or snow banks. We were getting dangerously close to departure time. I could hardly breathe. But the driver persevered. He went outside JFK, chugged along highways around the airport, and found another entrance. That strategy worked, and soon we climbed out at the North Terminal. I relaxed then, certain that we’d be airborne soon.

At the check-in counter, we were told to wait, and we searched for a place to sit. A snow plow had deposited snow on the roof; water dripped from the ceiling and puddled on the floor. The snack bar had closed because it had run out of food. The vending machines were empty. It was now past 6 PM. I hadn’t eaten since my morning coffee and toast. My stomach rumbled, and Helicopter Woman shared her candy bar.

At last, a company representative announced that we would not be flying that night. We were herded onto a bus which slid on the slush as it careened toward a distant hotel. There we were served a box lunch (a dry sandwich, some chips, and an apple) and assigned rooms. People had to share, so Helicopter Woman and I joined forces. I worried about sleeping in the same room with a stranger, and I remember tucking my purse under the covers with me. The following morning, we were given coffee and stale donuts before being bussed back to the North Terminal.

Finally, we boarded. Since I’d spent the night unscathed, I stayed with Helicopter Woman. With no assigned seats, my savvy travel companion snagged an exit row and we settled in, stretching our legs. A flight attendant (or stewardess as she was then) soon arrived with a man in tow. “I want a man to sit by the emergency exit,” she explained, “so this fellow will take the remaining seat in the row.” I kept my window seat.

As luck would have it, Emergency Man was booked on the same flight I had from Frankfurt. We teamed up for the remainder of the journey. The flight was uneventful, except that our meals were out of order. We were served the dinner we would have had the previous night for breakfast, and for lunch we had what passed for scrambled eggs and bacon.

By the time Emergency Man and I reached Germany, our flight was long gone, and we couldn’t get another one for a couple of days. He suggested that we take the train and led me to the station. We bought our tickets, had something to eat, and soon were riding the rails south. I admired the gingerbread houses along the German countryside and dozed a bit. My excitement grew as my energy level drooped.

Photo of Red-tiled Roofs by Jasmin Lee

We had a compartment to ourselves, second class though it was, and Emergency Man showed me how those old trains let you convert the seats into makeshift beds. Seats opposite each other could be pushed down until they met in the middle, leaving one end slightly elevated like a pillow. I actually slept, but we were nudged awake by ticket checkers and passport control at the Swiss border. We tunneled under the Alps and stopped again for ticket checkers and passport control in Italy.

My heart rat-a-tat-tatted in my chest. I was here! At the next stop, we bought crusty rolls filled with salami from a cart on the platform. The red-tiled roofs sped by, and I munched my first taste of Italian food as the train wended its way to Florence. 

Join me on alternate Thursdays at Italian Intrigues where I write about food and wine, mysteries and crime. And please visit my new website at www.PatriciaWinton.com

The First Big Trip

Jeanine Ertl is a rural, mini-homesteading mother to three young children on the Lost Coast of California. She blogs at RosieDreams. She loves writing, gardening, travel and following her ever-changing passion for learning-something-new-until-thoroughly-sidetracked.

I’m gonna backpack through Europe this summer, I told my boyfriend that day as I watered my mom’s sun parched lawn.

We were twenty years young, in college, living at our parents’, and in love.

I wanted to see with my own eyes one of the many famous landmarks imprinted from years of text books and television. I wanted to venture away from home on something bigger than a road trip.

But on that balmy San Diego evening I was met by a dreadful silence. Honestly, it hadn’t occurred to me that he might not be interested. When I’d heard about “backpacking through Europe” my mind had connected with it immediately.

But now my heart raced, my thoughts canvassing the little I knew about actual “backpacking.” I had many questions, and now, the thought of a solo adventure left me a little worried.

So I re-stated my plans, preparing my thoughts better this time. Don’t you wanna see the Eiffel Tower for yourself? Visit the Louvre? Ride trains around the countryside and feel like you know what lies beyond the USA?

I was holding my breath now. Hoping with all my might that he’d be interested.

Now’s the time. We’ve got nothing holding us back!

The idea hung in the world of anticipated dreams for a few days longer. I thought about it obsessively while batting it down into my subconscious. Midterms were at hand.

A few days later, when it was obvious that I wasn’t changing my course, my boyfriend changed his. And it was with a deep sigh of relief that I set off in research- planning-mode for our first overseas adventure. Backpacking Europe.

I like to hear about people’s first travels. The journeys that pushed them beyond. To soak up more than they’d expected. To go a bit further. To step out of a comfort zone they didn’t know existed.

And Europe was ours. It was our big First Trip. My boyfriend and I had road tripped already a handful of times, borrowing a car and heading off for a few days to check out the coast, mountains, desert.

But Europe taught us to travel.

It was the trip that taught us to breathe in life.

To stop and taste the gelato, on a curb, in the heat of the Italian afternoon.

To sleep with our heads twisted up, one eye open as the train swayed through the night.

To put up with a fresh or stale baguette--morning, noon and night.

And most importantly, Europe taught us to revel in the art of serendipity, both in everyday life and especially in travel. Because truly there is an art to beginning one’s day with an open heart and a willing mind.

Europe started like this for us…

Bag won’t zip shut. Analyze contents again in search of unnecessary items.

Drive to airport late and realize Eurorail Pass tickets are in photocopy machine at local drug store.

Fly across the US and Atlantic, curious how life will shape up for the next six weeks.

Find ourselves safely delivered to England’s doorstep. Heathrow International.

Fifteen years ago that summer, my now-husband and I stood looking at each other, said backpacks claimed from baggage and now teetering on our backs. We stood quietly for a few minutes, watching as families and passengers confidently strode by in a current of togetherness. Our backpacks loaded and our travel know-how at point zero, we were felled by the very first move.

Umm, how do we get to London? we contemplated, not knowing precisely where we were.

Hmmm. Do we want to take a taxi? I don’t think there’s a train station at this airport. I suppose we should exit that way and look for a bus?

Yeah, that would be the cheapest. Definitely a bus.

So off we went, integrating into the lifeblood of flowing busy moving people exiting airports at all hours, our feet moving at last.

And that’s the way it all continued rolling those first few days. After waking at noon to the darkness of velvet wallpaper and tiny beds, crackers neatly waiting at the door, we’d ask each other “What should we do? Bus? Tube? Walk? Where to?”

We were new travelers in every way, in awe of the simple existence of this foreign-to-us-reality--double decker buses, red telephone boxes, the Queen’s guard in all their seriousness.

We rose late, which we learned was our typical style and not actually jet lag. And we walked until way past dark each day. Flipping through our guide books at times and wandering at others, the magic of the day tumbled out at its own pace.

And our trip continued on for six more incredible weeks. Including of course, new friends along the way and missed trains, late night drinks under lit verandas and plenty of stomach ailments, crazy dormitory hostels and tiny, stuccoed apartments, non-admittance to countries we had no visa for (bad planning on my part) and sleeping in train stations and on sidewalks when those closed. And the insanity of finding peace in simply not knowing; a first for me at the time, but a lesson I’ve continued to learn over and over since.

We fell in love with the whole process of traveling. The not knowing where we’d stay that night. What we might see the next day. Who we might meet. What deliciousness, or not (let’s be honest), would fill our bellies when our feet finally stopped walking.

After traveling Europe that summer we were hooked. We felt ready to take on any of the continents. Eager actually. And to this day, though we’re much more homebound with three little children under the age of six, we love the thrill of driving into the night, pulling over to a hotel that fits the moment’s need rather than having a stringently organized itinerary. For as much as I love making an itinerary, they leave our trips feeling too much like a “to do” list and less like an adventure.

So, if you’ll humor me now. Comment with your First Travel? The trip that hooked you? And if you’re so inclined, what moment stole you away to being forever torn between home and craving the next journey?