Heather Anne

The last thing I said was Verona, but from there I went to Venice and from Venice to I went to Switzerland and from Switzerland to Paris. It was warm enough in Venice for short sleeves, and I ate a LOT of pizza and gelato, plus also I took a gondola ride and visited the Doge's Palace and St. Mark's Basilica, both of which BLEW. MY. MIND. In Switzerland I took a train ride up into the alps and then a sunset boat ride across Lake Lucerne. I took more pictures there than anywhere else on account of it was like being inside a painting. In Paris I did... everything. I had quarter-sized blisters on my feet after two days in that city, and it was very worth it.

When I got back to London, I nearly prostrated myself before the Underground station in Russel Square, so happy was I not to have to wrestle the trams in Amsterdam or the taxis in Munich or the subway/bus/bike stations in Paris. In Amsterdam, I caught the correct tram back to my hotel at 11:53 pm. (Trams stop running at midnight.) And in Paris, I caught the 11:45 train back to my hotel. (Trains stop running at midnight.) Part of my public transportation woes was the language barrier, part of it is that I--like Joey--need to go inside a map to read it, and part of it is that The Tube spoiled me, what with it's circus-colored map and the lovely lady with the perfect accent that says, "Next stop: Victoria Station. Mind the gap between the train and the platform." Sadly, London lulled me into a false sense of security, because it was there that my backpack was stolen.

I was just coming out of a Waterstone's book shop when I noticed a woman in the middle of Trafalgar Square that seemed to be in serious distress, but every one was sweeping past her without stopping. I rushed toward the woman, reaching out to catch her just before she hit the ground. She was having a full blown asthma attack, and her inhaler was empty. I shouted for a doctor or a nurse, because I was just a dumb tourist, but no one in the growing crowd had any medical training. Finally someone came up with an inhaler and the woman was able to catch her breath enough not to die. I phoned her husband as the ambulance was pulling up. It took her away and people patted my back, and then I realized my backpack was missing.

My money belt with all money and credit cards and my passport and a list of phone numbers was in my backpack because of the way I'd rushed into traffic from Waterstone's. Also inside was my camera, with all my European pictures, and my souvenirs. Some things happened then with phone calls and emails and paperwork, and then the most outrageous thing of my life: I went back to the police station and the person who stole my backpack had returned it! He said it was a bad omen to steal from someone who was saving someone else's life. The backpack was checked for drugs and explosives, and insanely enough, it was fine. Not even my one pence coins were missing.

My trip was better than anything I ever imagined. It was actually kind of perfect. So, too, is being Home.