Spending the night at the airport in Rome seemed like a really, really good idea at the time, and in the days leading up to it.
It still amazes me that three pretty intelligent people made a lucid, conscious, and deliberate decision to sleep on a cold tile floor rather than take a butt-early train from Florenze. Objectively, actually, it sounds plausible: Arrive in Rome around 10 o'clock, take the bus to the airport, sleep on a nice comfy airport bench until our flight is called, and mosey on through security to the international terminal.
On the one hand, I was absolutely exhausted that night and the day after. Despite our best efforts (which included wine, Jack Johnson, and comfy pajamas), not one of us got more than an hour's sleep Thursday night. We arrived in Sevilla and passed out. I, being resilient and relying on seemingly endless reserves of energy, adjusted pretty quickly to the lack of sleep, but my friend Lesley was dead for the rest of the trip.
In retrospect, though, it was something unique, something I don't think I could do again, but that I'm definitely glad I did. I don't think I'll ever forget Lesley chugging her mezzo-bottle of bad wine and then throwing herself at the ground, or Ben and me sharing my iPod as I complained about the bruises I was getting on my hips--bruises which are still visible.
I can't exaggerate how excited I got to see Spanish instead of Italian on the signs at the airport!