Hell with Friends

The catchphrase for our Italy trip, whenever anyone felt miserable, quickly became:

“Well, at least it isn’t Dallas.”

Saying Goodbye

We all left with high hopes on the morning of July 8th. I kissed my kids and husband goodbye outside the Dayton airport and then stepped inside, where I found myself unable to speak to anyone for at least thirty minutes—I knew if I tried, I’d collapse into a puddle of tears.

Once I recovered, I started to get to know my three roommates:

• Kaitlin (28): loves to travel, works in hotels at National Parks, had just gotten back from Alaska.

• Jenna (25): Kaitlin’s sister, a printing major (we had actually taken a class together), creates stunning landscape art (check her Instagram: @jrs_gallery), works at a daycare, and is engaged to be married next summer.

• Mya (19): a business major who runs her own successful cleaning business and loves her boyfriend.

  
  

We left Dayton on time and even arrived a little early to Dallas. That’s where everything unraveled.

Dallas: Where It All Went Wrong

Delay after delay. We finally boarded hours late, only to sit on an unmoving plane for three more hours because of weather, plane backups, and then—my favorite phrase of the day—crew timeout.

Eventually, we were herded off, given Super 8 hotel and food vouchers, and told to take a shuttle. Except there was no shuttle. Several people called the hotel repeatedly, while our poor professor tried to find an American Airlines employee for help.

By the time we arrived at the motel—around 1:00 a.m.—I was just grateful to shower and sleep. My socks were so stinky I threw them in the trash, and the next morning I marched straight into Target to buy an entirely new outfit.

Purgatory or Dallas?

Jenna, Dallas airport, 9th of July 2025

Mya, Dallas airport, 9th July 2025

Grabbing food with our twelve dollar food vouchers on the way to go find a shuttle

Collapse after getting off of the plane that we sat on for three hours without moving

My margarita and Jenna's margarita and pizza/Pringle dinner

Trying to take a positive picture of myself as I resort to lying on the airport floor

Kaitlin, Dallas airport, 9th July 2025

Our cozy reclining area

Ashley, Dallas Airport, 9th July 2025 (people on the floor everywhere!)

We found seats with foot rests!

Just two sisters playing spoons

Shuttle?

Abi, Dallas airport, 9th July 2025

After breakfast, we headed back to the airport. And that’s when it started to feel like purgatory. Delay after delay. Excuse after excuse. I began to feel like I was living inside some kind of time capsule, like The Truman Show or Groundhog Day.

Deliriously tired, I caught myself asking:

• What mistake am I making that keeps me trapped here?

• Why does it feel like time isn’t moving?

• Why does everything I do here involve eating?

  
  

By 8:00 p.m., I went off with Jenna to find dinner. I told her I needed a drink. We found a bar, and I ordered a margarita. Enter Victor—a man who prowled over, insisted on buying us drinks (Jenna’s apparently didn’t even get paid for), and told us he worked in oil and that we should “come party” with him on his yacht while we were in Italy.

Three margaritas in, I was half convinced we were never going to escape Dallas...or Victor.

When we tried to leave gracefully, he got pushy about phone numbers. I told him—firmly, repeatedly—that I was married, Jenna was engaged, and we were not interested. We laughed it off afterward, but the whole interaction left me feeling uneasy, like he thought we were some naive females down to party and we were about to be kidnapped and trafficked.

Yes. I listen to waaaay too much true crime. Hellooooo Crime Junkie and Dateline!

Freedom at Last

Finally—after thirty hours of waiting—we boarded a plane. We were actually going to Italy! Yes, we had lost three days in Venice, but at that point, we didn’t care. We were going.

The Silver Lining

As frustrating as Dallas was, it gave us one thing we didn’t expect: bonding. There were nineteen of us, and hardly anyone really knew each other when we started. But after being stuck together in the purgatory known as the Dallas airport, suddenly we were playing charades, battling through intense games of spoons, and wandering aimlessly around in packs

I’m sure those things would have happened in Italy, too, but Dallas set us on a faster course to camaraderie. We were all trapped together—with the same destination in mind.

Because honestly, that was Dallas: hell with friends.

And from that moment on, whenever the trip got rough, we could always say—

“Well, at least it isn’t Dallas.”