Our flight leaves at 10:20 this morning - late enough so that we have time for breakfast at our hotel, but early enough that we don't have much time to spare. We are downstairs in the dining room at 7:30 when it opens, packed and ready to go. The melon we picked up in the market yesterday goes down well with our delicious croissants and coffee.

Last night we arranged with Giuseppe for a taxi pickup this morning at 8:15, but didn't think to settle our accounts then also. At 8:15 the taxi arrives, but Giuseppe isn't here yet. The woman running the restaurant assures us that he'll be here momentarily - and then gives him a call. Ten minutes later he finally shows, looking half dressed - it looks like he must have overslept. He's a very sweet man, but just a bit odd and very fixed on detail - he reminds us of Monk the detective. He knows we're a bit late and the driver is waiting, but he has to go through the complete routine - carefully flattening out the curled receipt with his pen before handing it to me to sign, and then meticulously creasing the statement into thirds with his letter opener and inserting it into an envelope. He's been a great host, but you have to factor in time for his eccentricities.

The driver (who apparently works for Giuseppe) is a marvel. Even after a month in Sicily, we are still just a bit shocked by the driving norms here. Our driver knows we're a bit late, and is giving his all to get us there on time - threading a very fine needle over and over again to weave in between and past slower cars and traffic jams. The two lane streets are functionally at least three and even four lanes wide - everyone just squeezes in wherever they can get away with it, using every inch of free space.

We make it in plenty of time and are on our first leg, a short hop to Rome, but are now worrying about making the next one. Somehow we have ended up with only a fifty minute connection before our next departure, and Fiumicino is a sprawling, confusing airport. I'm stupidly optimistic as usual, but Rachael has more or less become resigned to us missing our flight and laying over in Rome until we can get seated on a later one.

We arrive in Rome on time or even a few minutes early, which improves our chances a bit. We have no idea where we're going for the next flight though, so as soon as we deplane we ask at the information booth where the flight to Atlanta departs. She points to a woman standing nearby, calmly waiting for us and another couple bound for New York who also have an impossible connection to make. She's our personal escort, just awaiting our arrival!

For the next twenty minutes she guides us quickly but calmly through the airport, facilitating everything - holding up the door closure of an inter-terminal train to let us on too; ushering us quickly first through passport control and then security. I'm just commenting to the other three that it is very reassuring that she is so calm about it all, giving me confidence that we're fine for time - when I notice that she really doesn't look so calm any more. We've picked up the pace and she's on the phone, looking just a bit stressed. A few minutes later we arrive at our gate - the gate attendants are waiting just for us, rush us through the gate, and immediately pull the rope behind us to close the gate for departure. I turn to thank our escort one last time, but she's already gone, off with the other two for their New York departure.

When we board the plane everyone is already buckled in and safety and evacuation instructions are already being presented. Within minutes of reaching our seat, the plane taxies toward the runway. It all feels a bit miraculous, and a fitting end to a miraculous tour.

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