My last experience in Tuscany was untraditional by Italian standards. That afternoon, I was privileged enough to experience a typical German drinking day with a friend I had recently made in Florence — Axel, a 26 year old who made his living working at a brewery in south Germany.

I'd heard the stereotypes associating Germans with excessive beer drinking, and by these standards, Axel was definitely a true German.

To prepare, my host and I went along with Axel to "la Standa" — the local supermarket — and literally purchased its entire supply of Peroni, along with various finger foods. Once we arrived back at the apartment, my friend and I tried our best to act like real Germans. We ate, we drank, and we learned a lot about German culture and traditions in talking to Axel about his life.

The next morning, I had to catch a 5 a.m. train from Florence to Rome, then take another train to the airport, which sits on the outskirts of the bustling city.

I was tired, and a bit hungover, but I made it to the airport. That's when my plans changed. I was traveling with standby tickets. The only problem with standbye tickets is you aren't guaranteed a spot on any particular flight. When I arrived at the ticket counter, I soon learned my flight was overbooked and I would have to wait until tomorrow for another chance at going home.

Before I could plan my next move, I realized I had only 12 euro left in my possession, which left me with only a few options.

The train from the airport to the main part of the city was 17 euro each way, so heading to a hostel was out of the question. I spent my day under the shelter of the airport. I daydreamed about my time in Italy while eating a delicious slice of airport pizza. The pizza in Italy's airports is so choice compared to that in American airports.

While munching my pizza, I started chatting with a guy sitting next to me and found he was facing the same dilemma as me. Bekele, a 25 year old ethiopian college student who just transfered to University of Georgia on a full soccer scholarship, was my new friend for the day. Once the sun had set and everyone but Bekele and I had left the terminal, the search for a place to sleep began.

A word of advice — if you ever find yourself stuck in an airport terminal over night and can't fall asleep on the marble floor or in the chairs with unmovable arm rests, try to find a newborn family room.

That night, an Italian janitor woke me up and showed me to a secret room. I thought he was kicking me out of the airport at first, but he was actually doing me a favor because he showed me a couch reserved for pregnant women and newborns. And so I slept on the couch for a few hours before trading off with my ethiopian amigo.

After time had finally passed, we had to find out if there was room on today's flight or face another full day in the airport. We were surprised to find the flight had only two seats available. But these weren't just any seats — they were first class seats. Up to that point, I had never flown first class; and let me tell you, it rocks. I am completely content with pretty much any travel arrangement, but after 22 hours on a marble floor, and an empty stomach, champagne never tasted so great.

Cheers