Orange juice emergencies: Why you should wear multiple bras when traveling
I'm going to tell you a story. This is a beautiful story of family, international travel, and attempted homicide. And orange juice, of course.
Picture it. Sicily, 2015. No, really! I always say that jokingly because I'm such a Golden Girls fan but no joke, that's really where/when it happened! It was an epic family vacation to our homeland with my husband James, parents Jim & Joanne, and cousins Bruce & Maryanne and Mary Rose & Giuliano. This could be like a game of Clue - care to guess who nearly killed who?
We were staying in a gorgeous villa. We had a personal chef. We had an infinity pool overlooking the ocean. You know what we didn't have? Luggage. At least not me, James, Jim, and Joanne thanks to a colossal series of flight screw ups. It would seem easy not to care when you're staying in such an incredible place.
But not having an extra pair of underwear has a funny way of making you care. Deeply. The thing about Sicily is that it's rustic, you know? There isn't a Super Walmart down the road to get anything you're missing. Your options were the local grocery store, and a very trendy but cheap clothing store within it (it's weird, like finding a ghetto H&M inside your Aldi's).
So I had what few toiletries I could scrap together from the Sicilian Aldi's, a couple of tops that shrunk with one wash to around size 24 months in infant wear, and a pair of "jeans." It's in quotes because although advertised as jeans, I believe they were actually a pair of tights with a denim print. My parents and husband were in similar dire straights, except my mom had an extra bra. How you may ask? Because she shared a suitcase with my father for a 2-week trip to Sicily and literally had NO room left in there for another bra. So she wore it. Over another bra. And set off TSA metal detectors and required a physical pat-down. But by God, the woman had another bra, and in times such as that? That's like gold. I poked fun, but I ate my words when I was up nights blow drying my own bra after hand washing yet again.
Several days into the trip, I was sleeping in borrowed clothes from my 5 ft tall cousin, my bra and underwear was fraying from repetitive drying with a hair dryer, and I had gone swimming in men's trunks. I had no face products so my skin was freaking out... but I also had no saline for my contacts, so I was blind and couldn't see my gross skin. Silver lining!
Finally, FINALLY, we were alerted our suitcases had arrived! They should be there soon! 6pm. 7pm. 8pm. 9pm. No luggage. Several phone calls later we found out that a courier picked up our bags and had 48 hours to deliver them. That would have been solid information to have up front as we surely would have elected to make a quick trip to the airport to retrieve our wayward luggage ourselves. Another night in my crop top pjs, undergarments hanging on by threads. Next day? No bags. Ohhh the courier actually picked them up that morning, so 48 hours from THEN. Got it. Underwear had now disintegrated to a thong, but no worries, it was Sicily! They probably don't even wear underwear over there, with their jean-tights.
The next day, we got our long-awaited phone call. The bags. The blessed, blessed bags... they're coming. In 15 minutes, don't be late! Be by the gate of the villa community to let them in or they would go on their way to the next poor schmuck who was wearing their pashmina like an indecent sundress out of desperation. Oh happy day! And then, then my father, my father who insists on getting to airports a fortnight in advance, my father who will be in the car waiting anxiously when you're still 15 minutes EARLY to depart to an event, this man said oh-so-casually "Ok, I guess Bruce and I will head down there in 15 minutes or so." and strolls away, not a care in a world.
If you guessed that my mother would contemplate killing my father in this story, you win the game! She had some sort of psychic break in that moment. I can only imagine it was decades of living with his anal retentive habits of always being SO early for everything, colliding with his sudden nonchalance about missing a luggage delivery when we had been without clothes or products for days. That moment of mental anguish manifested as her sputtering a stream of language not fit for this blog, and strangling the orange juice container in her hands. Ever seen a voo doo doll made of an OJ carton? I hadn't either until that day. I bet she was thankful she had that spare bra to string him up if her indirect juice murder attempt failed.
Spurred into action by her violent breakdown, my father and Giuliano left IMMEDIATELY to retrieve the bags. The rest of us celebrated in the kitchen, finally at ease with the world - the luggage was here! Oh thank goodness! Wasn't it funny when mom almost killed dad? Can that OJ carton still pour, all crushed like that? And then...darkness. Power was out in the whole community. We stared blankly at each other in the dim kitchen as Bruce entered, jogging in place, saying "Hey! The power is out! I was on the treadmill when it went, nearly killed myself having it come to a full stop while I was at a sprint! But I'm not done with my run, gotta keep the heart rate up. I'll check the fuses." and off he jogged, like a deranged little Energizer Bunny.
Ok, that's funny, anyway, celebration! Luggage! I remember what I packed, I don't need light to unpack. But... the gate. If the power was out in the whole community, then the courier couldn't get through the gate. With our luggage. As this dawned on us, my mom and I fell into a different sort of psychic break, more like a daze, while Maryanne chose to have a break down of absolutely hilarity, laughing through tears collapsed on the counter. Bruce, the resident hamster on a wheel, was jogging in circles around us having found the fuses were fine.
I'm thrilled to tell you that there was a manual override for the gate. Not that it mattered because at that point, I would have marched my ass down to that gate myself and demanded the courier open my bags and pass each item through the bars to me. Bruce didn't die on the treadmill, my father didn't die at the hands of my homicidal mother, and I finally got a pair of underwear that wasn't worn to the point of being translucent. The orange juice carton, I'm sorry to say, did not survive this tale.
My mother is now the proud owner of a new empty OJ carton in a decorative glass display box with instructions to break the glass in case of marriage emergency. Crushing the hell of that is a wonderfully therapeutic alternative to ACTUALLY killing your husband - I highly recommend it.
This brings us to a few valuable life lessons, for me anyway.
1) Never share a suitcase with your spouse - even for a one week trip it's unwise, but two weeks? Ludicrous. It still doesn't mean you'll actually GET said suitcases at your final destination, but it will reduce the chance of physical altercations in the weeks prior as you quarrel trying to fit all your stuff in.
2) Always have an OJ carton handy. Marriage isn't always a bed of roses.
3) Wear two bras when you travel. TSA will have to deal.
