I swear some days I married Ron Swanson from Parks and Recreation. I know he's a fictional character, but every character has some basis in reality. I gritted my teeth as I answered him. "Neutral."

"Fair enough."

I sat down across from him. "You really wouldn't want to go to Rome? Even though they basically invented coffee?"

He glanced up from his plans. "The Ethiopians invented coffee."

Was that true? That sounded true.

s.h.i.t, I needed a new tactic.

"Okay, fine, maybe they didn't invent it, but they perfected it. They were all, 'Hey-a, Luigi, what if we put a little foamed milk in-a here-a?'"

"I'm sure that's exactly how it happened and I'm glad to see your Italian lessons have paid off."

"You have no curiosity about Europe whatsoever. Is that what you're saying?"

"Well, Europe is full of Europeans," he replied.

I feared this was the facial hair talking. He really didn't go The Full Swanson until he grew the beard and mustache a couple of years ago.

And did the Parks and Rec writers have a camera in my house? Granted, I'd never actually watched the show, but I'd seen enough Swanson GIFs to know that we may have had a case for likeness rights.

He continued. "Besides, if we have the cash to spare, I'd rather replace the carpet in the family room. Smells like the elephant house at the zoo in there. No, the penguin house, because it's wetter and more organic." He shuddered. "Awful. I'm embarra.s.sed every time someone comes over. Bet we could knock that project out ourselves in a weekend."

That's when I lost it.

"No! No one puts replacing pee-stained carpet on their bucket list! A bucket list item is supposed to be meaningful and makes you put forth effort to learn and try and grow!" He started to say something, but I cut him off. "Don't you dare even draw a breath to tell me that replacing carpet takes effort. A bucket list item exists because once you check it off, you get to enjoy the memory of having done it forever! Plus, you'll have a shot of yourself standing in front of the Colosseum for perpetuity and YOU CAN'T DO THAT WITH BERBER."

He put down his pencil. "You already bought my ticket, didn't you?"

I couldn't hide my ma.s.sive grin. "Let me just say this-we're both going to need a pa.s.sport."

"Then I guess I'm going to Rome, too. But for now, I'm going to mend this drawer."

The best part of planning a trip like this is that there are a million little milestones to celebrate along the way. Take, for example, the day we went to Walgreens in Lake Bluff to have our pa.s.sport photos taken.

(Sidebar: I'd planned to glam up as I do for any government ID, but at the last moment, I opted for a messy ponytail and a scowl, a.s.suming that's how I'd appear to customs agents after an overseas flight.) As soon as we told the cashier we wanted pa.s.sport pictures, it's as though we entered some underworld crime lab. We were spirited away to the side of the store, where the employee flicked a switch that raised a background screen and closed the entire store's blinds. Start to finish, the whole process-which I a.s.sumed would be a bureaucratic nightmare-took four minutes. Then we went to the local pa.s.sport office and filled out our forms, which took maybe ten minutes.

And less than two weeks later, my pa.s.sport arrived, whereupon I whooped with such intensity that I lost my voice for three days.

(Sidebar: Thank you, US State Department, for not including weight on the pa.s.sport application, as I'd prefer to not commit treason here.) (Additional sidebar: Fletch said it would be a felony, not treason. Potato, po-tah-to. Either way, I appreciate it.) For so long, I couldn't even imagine taking a trip overseas because I a.s.sumed the process was too daunting, but once I finally found my birth certificate (more on that shortly), securing a pa.s.sport was easier than going to the DMV, especially the branch in Deerfield that accepts VISA but not MasterCard. How is that possible? I was unaware these two ent.i.ties could even be separated. So, everyone who needs a new driver's license but has a MasterCard has to go down to the cigar store to use their ATM, whereupon they will immediately smell like a Macanudo for the rest of the day. The cigar store owner's delighted with the foot traffic and the fees, so he's happy to oblige, but that still doesn't explain what the State of Illinois's problem is with MasterCard in the first place.

Anyway, I even had an excellent experience applying for Global Entry/TSA Pre-Check status. After my pa.s.sport was processed, I filled out my application online, and when I pa.s.sed the initial screening, I had to go to the airport to meet with Homeland Security. I'd envisioned being chained to a table in a spotlit interrogation room where they'd grill me for hours. The reality was that I had a terrific chat with an officer who'd dated a friend of a friend. I didn't even have to write an essay on Why Terrorists Are Terrible. (Bit of a disappointment there, actually.) The only difficult portion of getting my Global Entry pa.s.s was figuring out where the office was located in Terminal Five at O'Hare.

(Sidebar: The Homeland Security office is downstairs, next to a McDonald's, and if you go at the beginning of March, you can get a Shamrock Shake to drink on the way home.) Having put the pieces in place so easily, I was super-elated about the trip. Given the amount of research I'd done, and considering how smoothly everything had flowed thus far, I felt confident that I could handle any challenge that came my way. I didn't start to grow nervous until a few weeks ago at my last Italian cla.s.s of the semester.

"You know Rome is the pickpocket capital of the world, right?" one of the other students asked. (I'd been moved to a more advanced cla.s.s partway through this semester, and regrettably, I hadn't learned anyone's names yet. And although I missed some of the other students I bonded with first semester, I appreciated the faster pace.) "You have to be on your guard every minute."

"But I travel to big cities all the time for work and I lived downtown for fifteen years," I said. "I know how to be on my guard. Italy can't be that different." I'd purchased an ugly black canvas purse with locking zippers and a cut-proof strap, figuring that would be insurance enough. I'd also made copies of all my doc.u.ments, keeping one for myself, and sending one to Joanna for safekeeping, plus I burned the info onto a stick drive. I had a money belt, as well as a little envelope that attached to my bra to hold extra credit cards. I wasn't planning on wearing nice jewelry, either. Wasn't this enough?

"Oh, it is that different," another student intoned. "They'll b.u.mp into you and while they're apologizing, another person will be swiping your wallet, quick as can be. They work in teams. And all those kids running around who seem so cute? They're meant to be a distraction while their totally normal-looking parents steal your jewelry right off your arm. Boom. Gone. Gypsies. And don't even think about taking a bus or a train-they'll rob you blind."

"I had no idea," I admitted, my stomach beginning to twist.

"And make sure you have your RFID protectors over everything, including your pa.s.sport. In Europe, they can use radio frequency to steal all your information-they don't even have to touch you. They can just pa.s.s really close by."

Panic began to creep in. "s.h.i.t."

"What about the store thing?" added the cla.s.smate sitting across from me. "You can't touch anything in a shop without permission. I learned that the hard way."

"What?"

What was going to happen to me in a store?

"It's rude for you to touch anything without asking. Also, you'd better make sure you greet them when you walk in or they'll yell at you."

"Is that insane? That seems insane considering what portion of their revenue comes from tourism," I said. The last time I actually left the country (1997, I think?) I remember Cancun feeling extra safe, like there was societal pressure to keep visitors secure to ensure the flow of tourist dollars. The Mexican people we met down there couldn't have been more solicitous or service-oriented. Maybe they hated us behind closed doors, but they sure were nice to us face-to-face.

My cla.s.smate shrugged. "That's Rome for you."

I began to worry that I'd prepared for the trip all wrong; instead of learning how to ask for directions or how to order in a restaurant, I should have been memorizing phrases such as: Andare a farsi fottere, borseggiatore! (Go f.u.c.k yourself, pickpocket!) Io ti schiaccer il piccolo capo italiano come un brufolo. (I will pop your tiny Italian head like a zit.) Sono una Americana, quindi ho una pistol. (I'm an American, so I have a gun.) I figured the statement about the weapon would come across more menacing if I actually spoke it in low tones, so that's how I practiced.

Still, even with a semifunctional grasp on Italian profanity, the more I heard about travel dangers, the more I began to worry. I wish that I hadn't sought out advice, as I was much happier in my ignorance, but once I began to gather information, I couldn't stop.

I began cross-examining my friends, too, as they've all traveled internationally. (FYI, none of them has ever made Stale Bun Pizza or contemplated whizzing in a bucket. I feel these items may all be related.) Tracey warned me of the dangers of pulmonary embolisms in flight, so I had to buy compression socks. Gina cautioned me that I could be deemed an easy mark because I'm too polite. Stacey was the one who issued the direst warning. "No matter what, make sure you pack every piece of clothing you could possibly need. There are no fat Europeans and if you forget your swimsuit, you're f.u.c.ked."

I was so busy heeding her advice and trying to Tetris-style every conceivable piece of clothing I owned into my luggage that it didn't even occur to me to wonder why they aren't fat. How are they not fat, living in the pasta and Buffalo mozzarella capital of the universe?

I guess I'll find out soon enough.

If I don't implode from anxiety first.

The few instances that Fletch and I vacationed in Las Vegas over the years, all we had to remember to bring was a credit card, as anything else was available twenty-four/seven in that city. In Vegas, you can literally call any hotel concierge and say, "Can I get a howler monkey wearing a tiny hat delivered to my room immediately?" and they'd be all, "Certainly. Fedora or fez?" And as for our one other vacation, to the Hamptons, that trip entailed nothing more than adopting a smug sense of self-satisfaction, which fit just fine in our carry-on bags.

So far the only hard part of going to Italy was tracking down my birth certificate. Of course, had Fletch mentioned that he kept a special binder of all our important paperwork BEFORE I tore through every single plastic bin in the bas.e.m.e.nt, I might have been spared some aggravation.

Then again, I would never have found my name tag from when I worked at the Olive Garden in 1992, so my search wasn't a total loss.

I finished packing last night and I was completely taken aback by the profundity of my pretrip jitters. With the number of times I've toured promoting my books, I'm no stranger to the logistics of getting from Point A to Point B, and I'm never nonplussed by travel. Aggravated, sure, but not flummoxed. Maybe it's that a trip to Minneapolis doesn't feel like A Date with Destiny the way going to Rome feels. (As an added bonus, everyone there is nice and it's Target's hometown, so what's not to love?) Tired of my pacing and incessant hand-wringing, Fletch finally made me sit down with a gla.s.s of wine and Parks and Recreation on my iPad. (I wasn't sure about the show until the episode where Leslie Knope does the "Parents Just Don't Understand" rap. After that, I was hooked.) He then issues instructions to "Calm your a.s.s down; you're making the dogs nervous."

So I tried, but as I watched Parks and Rec, I became panicky anew.

I paused my program and looked over at Fletch, who was busy mapping out an entirely new project to replace the screens on the back porch. "I was worried about you, but now what if I go all Ron Swanson over there?" I asked.

He knit his brows. "What do you mean?" he replied, glancing up from his graph paper.

I began to rock back and forth ever so slightly. "Like, what if I hate it there so much and I spend a week stomping around in impotent rage, complaining about socialism and government corruption and not being able to buy a huge soda?"

"Since when do you care about big sodas? The last time I asked if you wanted a Diet c.o.ke, you said, and I quote, 'Pellegrino represent, yo.' Because there's nothing more gangsta than a middle-aged lady with an e-reader sitting next to a pool. I blame BackSpin."

I considered this. "Well, it's just that I watched an episode where Leslie Knope tries to inst.i.tute a soda tax and-"

"Nonsense," he interrupted, not even willing to entertain my anxiety. "You're worrying about nonsense from a television show that takes place in a nonexistent town."

"Oh, really? Mayor Bloomberg's fictional now, too?"

"Let me ask you this: When was the last time you felt compelled to order a dump truck full of Fanta in New York?"

The fact that the answer is "never" did not negate my point, but I switched tactics anyway. When Fletch gets all logical, it's very hard to derail him, so I felt like I should play to his emotions and sense of fair play. "What if all the horror stories I've recently read online are true and the cabdrivers rob me blind by taking endless loops around the city, thus turning a five-euro ride into a three-hour tour? A three-hour tour."

He shrugged, running a hand over his beard. "Then you'll enjoy seeing a new place from your favorite position-seated."

Ooh, had me there.

As I drank my wine and watched my show, I unclenched a tiny bit, much to everyone's relief. But now that I'm in the car on the way to the airport, my anxiety is back tenfold.

"Hey, slow down," I tell Fletch as we pa.s.s a Hyundai.

He glances at the speedometer. "I'm going the speed limit."

"You're in such a rush! Take your time. Smell the roses. Maybe we could find a more scenic route to O'Hare."

Fletch cuts his eyes over to me as he merges into the turnoff lane for the airport. "You'd like me to leave the highway despite our almost being there and then drive, say, twenty miles west, which is how far we'd need to go to get anywhere even remotely scenic."

"Yes. I'm not in a hurry." I fold my hands in my lap to demonstrate how very calm I am.

"Really? Because I'm in a hurry to get you out of the car at this point."

"Fine," I snap, gazing out the window at the dozens of trucks heading to and from all the cargo holds by the airport. Normally, I loathe driving next to semis with every fiber of my being, having once seen an episode of 20/20 in which an expert claimed that motorists would be safe to a.s.sume that every driver out there was hopped up on goofb.a.l.l.s and delirious from having had zero sleep while hauling illegally large loads, one heavy-lidded blink away from jackknifing and causing a thousand-car pileup on the expressway. But today? Today the trucks seem like something I'll miss desperately while dodging Vespas and navigating the tiny, winding cobblestone streets of Rome.

"On a scale from one to ten, how likely is it that my flight will be hijacked? One being the least likely and ten being the most? Also, what if someone in Rome tries to sell me into white slavery? Like, this could be another scam the cabbies are running. They're going to take one look at me and be all, 'American woman st.u.r.dy like ox.'"

"Why will they have Russian accents in Rome?" Fletch asks.

Ignoring him, I continue. "They'll be all, 'Many buckets she could haul!' I fear my strong back will be my downfall."

Fletch inadvertently scrunches up his face in a manner that I call Muppet Mouth because it reminds me of a sock puppet tasting something sour and subsequently folding its lips back into its head. This happens only when he's simultaneously flabbergasted and frustrated by something extremely challenging. The last time I saw this look was when he discovered he'd measured all the screens wrong on this first iteration of the back porch project, after he'd already torn down the old ones.

(Sidebar: It's possible he went all Muppet Mouth because I'd said, "Wow, that seems like kind of a rookie mistake," as we surveyed the ma.s.sive, gaping holes.) Very deliberately, he takes a bracing sip of his iced coffee before telling me, "You must chill. Understand me? You. Must. Chill."

Yet. I. Can. Not. Chill.

"What if they lose my luggage and I can't buy a fat-girl swimsuit? What if the dogs miss me, or what if Hambone figures out how to scale the fence at the kennel? She has a four-foot vertical jump from a standing-still position! Remember when we found her on the counter that day eating hot dog buns? It's totally possible! What if someone really awesome dies while I'm gone, like Mary Ann from Gilligan's Island, and I never hear about it until well after the fact because the Italian news stations don't report it and then I'll be all upset because I won't have realized she'd already been gone for years? I hate that! What if there's an issue with the plane while we're in the middle of the Atlantic and we go down and, provided we don't go kablammo on impact, no one can find us? You always used to promise me that planes can't just disappear, but a whole bunch of Malaysians would beg to differ. Planes can just disappear now. It's a thing. What about that, huh? WHAT ABOUT THAT?"

Fletch patted my hand. "Stop it, Jen. I mean it. I love you, but you sound like a lunatic. All is well, okay? Stop trying to ruin this for yourself. Remember that you've looked forward to this trip every single day since you walked into your first Italian cla.s.s in college. When was that, like 1994? This has been your dream for twenty years. You've plotted, you've planned, and I've no doubt you're going to surprise yourself at how well you do once you get there. So please do me a favor and take a deep, calming breath before I accidentally drive us into an embankment."

I process everything he's said and I try to get a grip on myself. He truly is my rock, my touchstone, my port in the storm.

"What if the Wi-Fi is as spotty as everyone says it is and I can't download episodes of Parks and-"

Fletch pulls up to the skycap in front of American Airlines. "Oh, look, we've arrived. I'll miss you very much but you should go now. Here, lemme help you with your luggage." He hops out of the car, after barely having put it in park, sprinting to the hatch. He kisses me good-bye and I keep him locked in a hug for long enough to attract the TSA's attention. "Time to go. You'll be great. Go eat gelato and get the lay of the land and I'll see you in a few days. Love you."

I reply, "I love you, too. But what if-"

Fletch tells the skycap, "She's all yours! Have a safe trip and stop worrying!"

And with that, he gets in the car and pulls away and I suddenly want to cry.

"Where to today, ma'am?" the skycap asks as I hand over my bags and my ID.

I tell him, "I'm going to Rome by myself like a big girl and I'm so nervous I think I may barf in my handbag."

He has the courtesy to not laugh at me and with a completely straight face, he replies, "Young lady (!!), that sounds like quite an adventure, so I'll make extra sure your bag is waiting for you at the other end. Don't you worry about a thing."

And with that, for the first time in weeks, I feel a tiny bit less tense.

All the guidebooks say to arrive at the airport early for an international flight, which is why I find myself with almost three hours to kill before boarding. I think the early-arriving rule must apply only on the way back to America, as there was nothing different about going through security. Because I have the Pre-Check, I was through security in less than five minutes and I didn't even have to remove my shoes. Plus, my flight's leaving from the regular terminal, not the international one, so essentially this feels no different from flying to Minnesota.

I sit at the bar in the Admirals Club and order a grilled cheese and a small ginger ale (I guess I really don't need to worry about suddenly wanting big sodas?) and I begin to think about my friend Angie. A couple of years ago, she traveled to China alone for two months to take a summer teaching position. I'm suddenly overwhelmed by how very courageous she was, considering I'm shaking in my boots about being by myself for three days in a place where I already know I love the food and I sort of speak the language. I'm staying in a pretty hotel with a rooftop pool and I don't have to worry about setting up a household or navigating a new job or, most important, dealing with the feeling of loss from being away from my children. I make a note to buy her something nice while I'm there, because bravery like that merits a reward.

The bartender who serves me has the most spectacular eyebrows I've ever seen, all clean lines and dramatic arches. He's also wearing glittery foundation and has long, black, perfectly manicured nails, which causes the cowboy-types sitting next to me to giggle every time he turns his back. Really, a.s.sholes? You're drinking vodka-and-Diet-c.o.ke and you have the nerve to laugh at anyone else? Not cool. I make sure to compliment the bartender on his whole look before leaving an extra-large tip.

After I finish my lunch, I settle in by the window to watch a few more episodes of Parks and Rec before boarding. I don't know if it's the dulcet tones of Ron Swanson/Duke Silver's saxophone, the kind skycap, the distraction of directing my roiling disgust toward those in s.h.i.t-stained boots, the knowledge that I packed every item I could conceivably need, or possibly the two Ativan I swallowed, but I'm now finally a tiny bit relaxed and a whole lot excited.

Bucket list, I'm about to TREAT YO-SELF to the kind of check that new carpeting simply can't deliver.

Sorry I'm Not Sorry You know all those a.s.sholes who crowd the gate at the airport?

I can't mock them because I happen to be them.

I may even be their leader.

I'm fairly unapologetic about it, too.

I believe everyone's allowed one tiny aspect of their life where they're not on their best behavior. Maybe you're the finest person in America, t.i.thing extra to your church, volunteering at a soup kitchen every single week, taking care of your elderly neighbor because he has no one else, and sending your kids to school with lunches that are both healthy and delicious, yet you still can't stop yourself from stealing People magazine at your dentist's office whenever Angelina's on the cover.

I think that's okay.

Or maybe you put your Ivy League law degree to work at Legal Aid, toiling eighty hours a week, choosing not to get rich, and instead concentrating on bringing justice to those in need. No one's going to judge you too harshly if you bring Tupperware to stash extra bacon at the all-you-can-eat brunch place.

For me, I'm beyond polite the entire year, save for those ten-minute increments leading up to boarding a flight. I mean, I'm all about thank-you notes and unexpected gifts. I let everyone cut in front of me at the grocery store, even when they're clearly violating the fifteen-items-or-less sign. I wipe pee off of whatever public toilet I've used, even what was there before I went. If there's ever a debate over who gets the parking s.p.a.ce, I always defer to the other driver and G.o.d help us all if I wind up at a four-way stop with the like-minded because we'll be there all day, waving each other on.

I don't even yell at strangers anymore. (Much.) Should I be nominated for sainthood given the above? Of course not, because it's all part and parcel of being a decent human being. No one gives out Congratulations on Not Being a Douche-Canoe medals, because good behavior is part of the social contract. I'm just saying that when presented with the opportunity, I do the right thing.

Except at the airport gate.