On My Way to Milan!

In order of appearance, this episode includes: Shoes. Rocket Pop. Ranch, The Tell. The Inquisition.
Yeah. It's random.

SHOES

Sitting on the tarmac at JFK, ready to take off for Milan. Let me just say:

OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD. I am going to Milan!! (Oh my god, will I be able to muster the same enthusiasm for Poland?)

I hear that for the oh-that-is-so-yesterday Milanese, fashion is high on the list. So I will spend time focusing on shoes. A fashion Mecca should have OUTRAGEOUS people wearing RIDICULOUS shoes!

I should walk the aisles right now.  Surely there are
SPECTACULAR shoes somewhere south of row 45. Unless the Milanese are practical travelers. How boring would THAT be? (God, is this the blog of the CAPS LOCK key?) Seven minutes to take off. 6 minutes to a glass of champagne (oh, never mind … it just arrived). This blog is about 2 inches from becoming a self-indulgent crawl of you-had-to-be-there observations. I better have another drink. You probably should too.

ROCKET POP

The world is your rainbow-striped rocket pop when you are suspended thousands of feet above the clouds continuously falling across the Atlantic. You just have to tilt your head south and squint. Right now, I want a glimpse of myself in a mirror. I want that snap second where I borrow someone’s eyes and really see.  No preconceptions. No habitual “oh yeah the one I’ve known-seen-done-been for going on half a century.”  What would I see? What would you see?  A middle-aged woman? Sure. If you looked close, would you also see the fourth-dimensionally off-centered I’ve-got-a-secret look winking out at you? No? Then you are NOT paying attention!

RANCH

I am going to Italy, where I will be force-drowned in vats of oil and vinegar by hot Italian waiters. So, for a switch, I ordered ranch. Channeling Kansas 32,000 feet above the Atlantic.  If I ever had the chance to travel with Mitt Romney, I would order ranch dressing.  I would! You just watch.

THE TELL

You can tell who flies first class all the time. They are the ones who dutifully rattle free their Ambien,  put on their monogrammed eye shades, turn down all offers of booze and food,  and go to sleep, dammit. Then there is the rest of the cabin. The ones who are probably flying on someone else’s nickel. They look forward to each interruption like a kid looks forward to Christmas. What? Oh, of course I would like a hot towel! Champagne before take off? Yes. Please! By the time dinner is served, they could give us a fucking Birdseye frozen dinner and we would be absolutely delighted. Yes we would.

THE INQUISITION

The only thing more painful than getting hotel internet to work at the Grand Visconti Palace, is probably the techniques used at some time in the past 1000 years during a time charmingly called The Inquisition.