There's nothing like oversleeping on you first day of a new job in a foreign country.
My cell phone alarm just didn't ring this morning, or maybe it did and I pulled one of my infamous semi-comatose moves where I turn the alarm off without realizing it, which is probably more the case. I can't really be blamed though. I tossed and turned for almost 3 hours last night as a two-year-old ran around the apartment above me and screamed "Mamma" like a broken record. And I had Thanksgiving lesson plans dancing around my head. I couldn't stop humming the tune of:
The turkey ran away, before Thanksgiving day...said she, "You'll make a roast of me if I should stay..."
So I woke up an hour late, which meant I had to skip my caffè and race down Via Vittorio Veneto on my bicycle (which lacks breaks). I got to the historical center at 7:15 and rattled through the just awakening cobblestone village, barely remembering the way to the stazione. Thankfully I made no wrong turns and locked my bici on a rack across from the bus stop.
I thought I was in the clear...I purchased my bus ticket at the Tabachi yesterday and knew I needed the #6 line at 7:45 to Quinto. But of course, the 6 line was the only one not listed on the bus stop signs. I found every other line, from 1-11, but not the 6. I asked a few students but received no clear answer. They seemed much more interested in smoking their cigarettes and gossiping about the boys on the corner.
Then I saw it, the #6 bus. I made a mad dash and was the last person on, but I made it. I franked my ticket and stuck my hands in my pockets only to realize that one leather glove was missing. It must have fallen out as I darted across the street.
The bottom line --no matter where you go in the world, Monday mornings will always have you asking, "Is it Friday yet?"