The Lord Chronicle

Samantha Who? has recently become a favorite TV show of mine. At first, I began watching it because of the name. Any show with my name in the title is just begging to be watched. In the show, the title character has been hit by a car and has amnesia. At first she doesn't remember her family, friends, occupation, or where she lives, and so on.

Today, I feel I have much more in common with the character than just having the same moniker. It appears I have lost part of my memory.

In preparation for sandal weather, I painted my toenails last week. Yesterday, I looked down at my toes – which had previously all been painted a cheery shade of coral – and my middle and ring toes on my right foot were completely void of nail polish.

Wait…what? I did a double take. All the paint was gone. Not even a speck of color remained. The rest of my toes still looked as if I had painted them minutes before. I began thinking back to the previous days to try to recall a reason for this strange phenomenon. Not a single explanation came to mind. I felt as if I were in the middle of a Sherlock Holmes mystery – “The Case of the Two Paintless Toes."

How did this happen? Had I been hit by a car and developed amnesia? I didn’t think so. But then again, how could I be sure? Well, for one thing, I hadn’t woken up yesterday in a hospital bed. That was reassuring. But the lack of a reason for my two naked toes still left an empty feeling inside, like I should be remembering how it happened, but couldn't.

Maybe I’ve just gotten my TV shows mixed up. Maybe I’m more like Samantha from “Bewitched,” and my crazy Aunt Clara botched one of her spells, causing my two toes to be zapped clean.

Who knows? But if anyone has any clues that would help solve this mystery, please contact me immediately.

This weekend I embark on another adventure to NYC. I love adventures. They make life so interesting. Whenever I travel, something completely unexpected always seems to happen. Those unexpected events are, undoubtedly, my favorite part of my trips...and they usually make the best stories.

Like the time I broke into an Italian airport. I literally pried open the doors and spent the night in the darkened building. I'm not sure I should be admitting this on here. But in my defense, I didn't know airports ever closed, so I hadn't considered that when I got to Pisa's Aeroporto Internazionale Galileo Galilei at midnight I wouldn't be able stroll right in and plop into an unoccupied seat until my flight at 6 a.m. Neither had Bernadette, the American girl I met on the train ride there - we were in the same boat (figuratively speaking...all we really wanted was a plane).

Note of advice: If traveling overseas, don't bet on Italians working longer or harder than they have to. They close up shop when they feel like it, whether it is inconvenient or not to international travelers. And if an Italian security guard comes up to you at 3 in the morning and asks how you got into the secured facility, just tell him "Non capisco" (I don't understand) and act as if you have no clue as to what he referring. He'll think he is crazy and go check the doors to make sure they are, in fact, locked.

But back to the story of breaking and entering...Bernadette and I noticed someone sitting in the dark building and knocked on the sliding glass doors to get his attention and ask how he got in. He motioned for us to try the doors around the side. They were locked, too. So, knowing I basically had the choice to stay outside in the frigid night air for the next 6 hours or wrench the door open, I decided the latter sounded like the way to go.

And that's exactly what I did. Let me just say I'm very thankful Italian airport security is so lax. As I was shoving the doors open and back together (there were two sets), I was half expecting to see an Italian S.W.A.T. team come out of the shadows, throw me to the floor and aim their firearms at my shaking body as I lay with my hands over my head. Luckily, I have an overactive imagination, and not even an alarm went off. When we walked up to the lone guy, we found he was American, too. Yay! He had come in earlier from Ireland and had just stayed inside (smart man). Turns out he was waiting for the same flight Bernadette and I were taking. We bunkered down and readied ourself for a long night of cards and story swapping. However, we were interrupted about 45 minutes later when another young guy knocked on the doors. We motioned for him to go around the side and break in. He did, and then there were four. Funny, but he was American, too! We were all becoming pros at being foreign criminals (and underestimating Italian hours of operation).

We were all friends and compatriots for the night, huddling close and watching out for each other as the airport slowly came to life at about 5 a.m., making sure we all got on board safe and sound when the time came.

I never talked them again, but I bet we have all included each other in our anecdotes about how 3 Americans broke into the Pisa airport all on the same night.

Definitely something I could never have planned. And that's exactly how I like it.