The only problem with traveling is the travel required to get there.

I start out in a thirty-seat Dornier jet from Boston to New York's Kennedy Airport. Our travel agent is determined not to have a repeat of last year's mistake, in which my parents and I flew separately to Paris from our respective cities and my plane missed the connection to Florence. Instead, we will meet at Kennedy and fly together to Rome, where we will pick up a connecting flight to Naples and a driver from there to Sorrento.

Because my suitcase is checked through, I do the whole passport dance before being allowed on the little Dornier. Everything is in order; the agent tags my suitcase and wishes me a good trip. I don't check the luggage tag. I will regret this.

While the TSA security team peers at all the gadgets in my backpack, I bond with the metal-detector guy over my Doc Martens. He loves them. "No metal, no problem. Everyone should wear them." These words will come back to me as well.

The flight to Kennedy runs along the eastern coastline in late afternoon. We're barely above 10,000 feet and the view is beautiful. I like little planes. They make me feel alive. The flight attendant tells us that the Dornier is an FRJ, which must stand for Frequent Regional Jet. I spend the short flight imagining other possible interpretations: Funky River Jumper, Fine for Regional Jaunts, Fully Retractable Jumbo, FAA Reject Junk.

I run through Kennedy and link up with my parents just in time to to board for Rome. We take our shoes off and get comfortable. After dinner and the second half of Pirates of the Caribbean (hysterical) on my little pull-out video screen, I wrap myself in a blanket and drift off in the darkness.

It's not dark for long. The plane catches up with daybreak in just a few hours, with more hours still remaining in the flight. I make a valiant effort to wake up and reset my internal clock, but I'm sleepy and blinking as we descend toward Rome.

Rome is sunny. I'm confused. Haven't we heard for weeks that Rome would be nonstop rain? I have no time to consider the possibility that I'm hallucinating, because we've landed a bit late and now have to sprint through the airport to catch our connecting flight to Naples. This is becoming the story of my life.

My legs start to hurt. The pain is on the outside of my shins and nearly intolerable. I don't understand; I'm wearing my trusty Docs. It finally dawns on me that for the first time in a week, I'm not wearing my orthotics. The good news is that I've apparently become adjusted to them. The bad news is that they're in my suitcase.

We stop at security to check in for the Alitalia flight to Naples. Security will not let us through: these are not tickets, we are told, only receipts. E-tickets, we explain. No, no, not tickets, only receipts. We step to the side and let my father take over. (He can get out of the Balkans when airports are closed; Alitalia is comparatively civilized.) Finally, the problem is solved and my parents are issued boarding passes. But they have no record for me.

I show my itinerary and ticket receipt to my father. His face falls. He shows me the luggage sticker on the back of our ticket envelopes, comparing the two. His says

Washington, DC to NYC-Kennedy to Rome to Naples. Mine says

Boston to NYC-Kennedy to Rome. No Naples.

The ticket problem is a simple error, easily fixed, and I'm issued a boarding pass. We are allowed to pass through security and run for the flight to Naples. But my suitcase, bearing only a Rome destination, will not make the plane with us. We'll deal with it in Naples. No suitcase for YOU!

Twenty minutes later, we're scattered into separate middle seats on a hot, crowded Alitalia jet. The plane sits on the tarmac with its engines off for forty minutes. Sweat rolls down my ribs; I use the passenger safety card as a fan. The Italians surrounding me appear unfazed; I do my best to hide my discomfort. By the time we're airborne, I'm nearly asleep again. I don't wake until we hit the runway in Naples.

It's not raining in Naples, either. I'm astounded.

We register the missing suitcase with Delta. The lost luggage office has a clever identification sheet for suitcases, offering thumbnail photos of different styles, handles, wheels, tags, and colors, like the sets of eyes and noses and mouths police artists use to make sketches. I'm impressed, but the most readily identifiable thing about my suitcase is the red electrical tape all over it. I add that in writing.

A young couple near us is also registering a lost suitcase; they're Americans on their honeymoon and headed for Positano, a few towns down from our destination of Sorrento. While my suitcase is understandably in Rome, her suitcase is just lost in the machine. We make hopeful small talk, then head out to meet our driver.

Filippo is a polite, quick-moving man with four languages and a dark-blue Mercedes. The car looks like a cruise ship among the little Mini Coopers and Smarts crowding the streets. We give ourselves to him gratefully; three planes and four airports have begun to wear on our nerves, and we're starting to snap at each other.

Filippo drives us to Sorrento along a narrow, winding road, handling the car capably and pointing out the sights. He teaches me to say non sta piovento: it's not raining. Finally, he pulls into a long driveway lined with citrus trees and umbrella pines; we pass formal gardens and statuary before arriving at a broad staircase leading down to the cliffside hotel. Damn, people.

Unloading everything, he suggests 8:30 as a pickup time for the next morning. We'll spend half the day cruising the Amalfi Coast and the other exploring Pompei. My mother and I protest loudly. "We're on vacation," she complains (and fairly, I might add). We settle on nine and stumble into the hotel.

The suitcase, I'm told, might not arrive until the next day. I can't stand it. The idea of spending three days in the same clothes is just wrong. We set the desk clerk to the task of calling the lost luggage office every half hour. I take a nap while Sorrento closes for siesta and the promised rain, then walk out into the damp night with my father to buy underwear.

I also stop at a camera store and offer the Sony to the man behind the counter. He listens carefully and pronounces the camera dead. With a sigh, I buy a new camera. The Sony and I had a few good years together; I'm sorry to say goodbye to it. But I'm grateful to have a camera.

We go out for dinner, then try to sleep. I wake again and again, looking out at the darkened bay and listening to the waves hitting the breakwater. Finally, the sky starts to lighten, and I call down to the front desk to inquire about my suitcase. It arrived overnight; a bellman delivers it immediately. I'm overjoyed. I slip him some euros, take a hot shower, change into clean clothes, and get ready for the day, even though it feels like midnight.

Buon giorno, Italia.

I'm not impressed with the new camera's abilities at night, but these were among my first shots with it. I hope I can do better than this. Both photos were lightened in Photoshop (badly, hence the vast sucking sound). Maybe I should leave them at a higher resolution. Maybe this camera sucks.