I arrived back home in southern Oregon just after midnight this past Tuesday morning after a wonderful vacation with my sisters in the Mediterranean. I’ll continue to share my adventures and impressions of the ports we visited on our cruise in upcoming blogs, but today my body and mind are still recovering from the epic return portion of my journey. I was really quite fortunate in that all of my flights were smooth and on time, but the number and length of the legs of my trip really tested my endurance. I have lovingly informed my husband, who booked my flights (but who did not get to go on the trip . . . hmmmm . . . I don’t think I’ll pursue that train of thought . . . ), that in the future the extra cost for a more direct route is definitely worth the price. My day began at 3 a.m. in Barcelona after four hours of sleep (or, at least, of being horizontal). My flight on British Airways wouldn’t depart the airport until just after 7 a.m., but my sister’s flight was leaving earlier, and we decided to share the cab ride to the airport. After paying 38 euro to check my second bag (definitely worth it to avoid schlepping that piece of luggage onto four different planes), I had a comfortable wait for my flight as I watched the sky brighten and the corridors begin to bustle with travelers. I enjoyed the two-plus-hour flight to London’s Heathrow, looking down over France’s Gironde Estuary and the vineyards of Bordeaux between short naps and a light breakfast. I wasn’t concerned about negotiating the transfer from Terminal 3 to Terminal 4 at Heathrow, as I had at least three hours to do so and had accomplished the same task in reverse on my way to Venice. I collected my bags, checked them in with Continental and got through security again — no problem. I did learn that I would have to go through customs control in Houston (I had naively hoped it would be Seattle, at the end of my Continental flights), where I only had a one-hour, 15-minute layover before my next flight. The ticketing agent told me I would have plenty of time for that (REALLY?!!)  and not to worry, which I proceeded to do off and on for the next several hours. A flight attendant on the nine-and-a-half hour flight also assured me that they had the process down to a science, so I felt a little better. I did make a note, however, in the future to not book a seat that is directly in front of the bulkhead, because it cannot be reclined — a definite minus on a lengthy flight. Arriving in the customs hall with what appeared to be thousands of other people, I was thankful that our flight had arrived a bit early and had deplaned quickly. For a while, as my line stalled, I reflected on the fact that I seem to have a singular talent in picking the slowest line, be it at Costco, the bank or customs! I zinged through at last, with 50 minutes before my next flight was to take off, picked up my luggage at baggage claim (no wait), but at the next stage was told I needed to have my bags inspected. Directed into that area, I, huffing and puffing, dragged up to the only other person waiting, a tall, elegantly dressed gentleman with a British accent. He glanced at me with some concern, and I realized how I must look. I explained with wavering voice that I had less than 40 minutes to my next flight, and he graciously urged me to go ahead of him. We watched as four agents manning the site became two (shift change, curse my luck!), and those two seemed to be moving in slow motion. As one stood tapping at his monitor, I explained my timetable and inquired as to whether I could still make my flight. He typed away and explained as soon as he was finished he or someone else would help me. After what seemed another eternity, he called me up. As I struggled to get my bags on the conveyor, I asked (again, quavering voice; I did not voluntarily use that tactic; I was 20 hours into my day, 16 of which was travel time) if there was any hope of me making my flight. He took a quick look in my folder, decided the pittance I would have to pay on being slightly over the customs limit was not worth having this middle-aged woman fall apart on him, and sent me on my way. I dumped my luggage at the bag-check, not caring whether it’d make it on the plane (it did) — at least it was in the U.S.! — and tore off to go through security (again) and hop a train to my gate. I made it with minutes to spare, and once on the plane made a quick call to let Harry know I had made it that far. He sounded very relieved, but it was only while I waited for my last flight at SeaTac Airport that I fully understood why. A woman in the seat next to me mentioned that an Air France flight flying from Rio to Paris had been reported missing over the Atlantic. Suddenly my very mundane travel difficulties slipped into perspective, and I said a prayer for those missing and their loved ones, and one of gratitude for my own safe transit. At last, after 26 hours of flight and layover time and 30 hours after I arose from my bed in Barcelona, my Horizon flight touched down at Rogue Valley International-Medford Airport. I have never been more thankful to be home and safe. Again, my thoughts and prayers go out to the 228 souls on Air France flight 447 and all those who knew and loved them. Patty Vanikiotis, proofreader