We arrived in Copenhagen exactly a month ago. As I write we’re in the very pleasant sun-filled cafeteria of the tiny airport in Florence, preparing for the flights that will see us get home to Charlottetown in 20 hours.
Last night in Florence was stunningly beautiful: warm, windless, with the sliver of the Moon over the river. We had one last meal—pizza, a few doors up the street—and then walked 15 minutes for one last gelato.
This morning has gone remarkably well, given the number of branches on my scenario planning tree. I booked us a taxi for 7:00 a.m. The taxi arrived at 7:00 a.m. The driver, Oliver, was kind and helpful and we learned a lot from him; he altered our route to go through the park (“same cost, same time”) and we arrived at the airport at 7:18 a.m.
We now enter the rarified atmosphere of intercontinental travel; home is far enough away right now that it’s inconceivable that I’ll be sleeping in my own bed tonight. But—touch wood—I will.
I am 
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