8
A private jet waits for us at the Aeroporto di Firenze-Peretola.
Having run back to my apartment to change into a pair of cargo pants, a tan
work shirt, Chippewa work boots for footwear, and my worn-in bush jacket
(pockets stuffed with everything from passport to a mini first aid kit), Anjali
and I are escorted to the runway via private van. Once aboard the jet, we’re
greeted by a pilot who smiles and shakes my hand with all the eagerness and
enthusiasm of a professional politician.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Chase Baker,”
the Indian man greets me. “I’ve heard much about your exploits.”
“I hope you still respect me,” I
say. Then, “What, no copilot?”
“God is my copilot.” He laughs,
then introduces us to a female flight attendant whom he calls Beatrice. She’s
tall, tan, with dark h
