An Italian Story
Aug 7th, 2007 | 11:46 AM
#1
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Joined: Jun 2006
Posts: 93
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An Italian Story
I just want to share this email from my friend, Joe, who just returned from 3 weeks in Italy, about his effort to get home from Bologna. It's a *hoot*! He's Italian, himself, and spent a week in an Italian intensive class before some touring with a friend.
'Well, I made it home. 22 hours late. Not flying out of Italy again. The whole thing was so typically Italian.
Italy has millions of signs. It just never has the one you need at the moment you need it. You can take the A14 Autostrada from Otranto on the Mediterranean to Bologna. A distance of over 450 kilometers and find signs directing you to Bologna very 2 kilometers until you get to a 6 way crossroad where you really need a sign and not find one.
I got to the Bologna airport around 8:30 Saturday morning after taking the 7:00 train from Padova. It was a cool, clear, beautiful summer morning in the Veneto. I didn’t know that it all meant WATCH OUT.
The airport was busy but not too busy for a Saturday holiday morning. The first weekend in August begins the “great escape” for Italians. None of the signs above the 33 check-in windows were indicating any flight numbers or destinations so I went to the info desk to take my chances of getting information on which one was processing the passengers for my flight to Amsterdam and then to the USA. Ten minutes later I had a lot of information but, unfortunately, not much of it useful. It could be either 12, 15, 16, 30, 31, 32 or 33. I went to the Bar across from the check-in windows to get a cappuccino and a brioche and asked the Barista if he knew. Without missing a beat he said, “KLM?” I said yes. He said, “KLM and Air France use windows 30, 31 and 32” which proves if you need any useful information, ask a bartender.
Those windows had about 75 people each standing in line. I went to 30 and waited. I couldn’t figure out why so many people were there so early. The plane didn’t take off for over two and a half hours.
Air France cancelled a flight to Paris. The flight had been delayed twice and the people, about half of them Italians, had been waiting for several hours already. (Italians don't wait well.) Now they are told it is cancelled. (You don't make a deal with an Italian and then not go through with it. Of course unless you are the Italian canceling the deal.) They are understandably upset. They are told that they have to go to another window to process because these windows are needed to process the next flight (The one that I'm on.) and that there are three agents ready at the other window to get them on to new flights quickly. The French, Americans, Spanish, Africans, British - in other words, everyone EXCEPT the Italians, move quickly to the other line. Now the fun begins.
The three lines of Italians, now having lost the glue of rational thought with the departure of the other nationalities to the new line, quickly dissolved into a bubbling, shouting, arm waving, hand biting, cursing, angry mass that starts to threaten the ticket agents. At one point, a couple of them jumped over the counter and grab a couple of computer keyboards and start typing and looking at the computer screen as if they were going to fix the problem themselves (because in their minds it was just someone typing the wrong thing into the computer and they were going to do it correctly.) At one point, a ticket agent in her late twenties gets shoved off of her chair by an angry passenger. They don't want to hear that they have to move to another line. This is their line and that is that. The agents try to move them physically to another line and some of the folks grab on to the counter in desperation. Then the police are called.
Two of them arrive with their nifty looking hats and gloves and an air of, "We'll take care of everything." They proceed to argue for the the next ten minutes with about 50 really pissed off Italians who have suffered an injustice. As a whole, the group starts shouting, "Non è giusto, non è giusto" (It's not right) and start pushing and shoving at the police. The cops, by this time are red faced and ready for an espresso and Grappa. (I'm trying to measure how fast I can get to the nearest door and if I have what I need in my back pack in the event I have to run for it and leave my bags.) They remain pretty calm and with an assortment of hand gestures, blows on their whistles and unbuckling of their gun holsters, and well chosen curses, get the crowd to quiet down a little. The ticket agents make a run for it at this point.
While all of this is going on, the non Italian passengers who went to the other line to find other flights to Paris have all been processed and the line is empty. The police finally make the group see this and then in one surging mass, they all head to the empty window to try to be first to get their new flight. The two police re-buckle their holsters, take off their hats and sag, relieved against the ticket counter.
The fun isn’t over, though. Ten minutes later the ticket agents return to window 30, 31 and 32. They order coffee and hash over the previous hour’s events with absolutely no concern that they are an hour behind in processing the next flight. MINE.
Finally two women sit down at the terminals and ask for the passports of the first people in their lines. I’m the second person at window 30. Ahead of me are a guy, his wife and daughter and his mother-in-law. The computer cannot find the ticket of the mother. She has an issued ticket in her hand but the computer doesn’t have it listed and won’t print a boarding pass. 45 minutes later the problem is resolved. Remember what I said about Italians not waiting well? The people in line almost hang the guy for holding up the rest of us for 45 minutes. I learned a few more hand gestures and a few more great curses but my line wasn’t the fun one. The fun was happening at window 31.
The girl there begins to process the first person in her line. Just after she begins, she gets a cell phone call (cell phones in Italy are called Telefoninos) and talks to her mother for ten minutes. She hangs up and continues to process the first person again and the phone rings a second time. It’s Mamma again. This time she gets up and walks away talking to her mother. 15 minutes later she returns and starts again. She makes it through the processing for a couple of minutes and then breaks out into tears and then uncontrollable full blow hysterical crying. Another ticket person, the one at window 32, comes over to console her and the two of them walk off through the crowd. 20 minutes later, another person shows up at that window and begins to process the boarding pass again. The guy with the mother-in-law finally gets finished in my line and I step to the counter. Three minutes later I’m heading to the gate. Things are looking up.
We got into Amsterdam 30 minutes before the plane to Minneapolis took off but they decided it was too much trouble to hold it for us so they bumped us and told us we had to stay in Amsterdam for the night. They listed the reason as Air Traffic Control Problems so we got no compensation for lodging. I was able to talk the agent who was trying to find me a flight for the next day into a ten Euro meal voucher (which in Amsterdam is good for a beer and a bag of chips), a 5 minute phone card and an upgrade to Business Elite class from Amsterdam to Houston. I found a hotel nearby. Took a train to the city center to look around and kill some time and ran into the Euro Gay Pride Day Celebration in downtown Amsterdam. How lucky can a guy be.'
Karen
http://www.pbase.com/karenmickleson
'Well, I made it home. 22 hours late. Not flying out of Italy again. The whole thing was so typically Italian.
Italy has millions of signs. It just never has the one you need at the moment you need it. You can take the A14 Autostrada from Otranto on the Mediterranean to Bologna. A distance of over 450 kilometers and find signs directing you to Bologna very 2 kilometers until you get to a 6 way crossroad where you really need a sign and not find one.
I got to the Bologna airport around 8:30 Saturday morning after taking the 7:00 train from Padova. It was a cool, clear, beautiful summer morning in the Veneto. I didn’t know that it all meant WATCH OUT.
The airport was busy but not too busy for a Saturday holiday morning. The first weekend in August begins the “great escape” for Italians. None of the signs above the 33 check-in windows were indicating any flight numbers or destinations so I went to the info desk to take my chances of getting information on which one was processing the passengers for my flight to Amsterdam and then to the USA. Ten minutes later I had a lot of information but, unfortunately, not much of it useful. It could be either 12, 15, 16, 30, 31, 32 or 33. I went to the Bar across from the check-in windows to get a cappuccino and a brioche and asked the Barista if he knew. Without missing a beat he said, “KLM?” I said yes. He said, “KLM and Air France use windows 30, 31 and 32” which proves if you need any useful information, ask a bartender.
Those windows had about 75 people each standing in line. I went to 30 and waited. I couldn’t figure out why so many people were there so early. The plane didn’t take off for over two and a half hours.
Air France cancelled a flight to Paris. The flight had been delayed twice and the people, about half of them Italians, had been waiting for several hours already. (Italians don't wait well.) Now they are told it is cancelled. (You don't make a deal with an Italian and then not go through with it. Of course unless you are the Italian canceling the deal.) They are understandably upset. They are told that they have to go to another window to process because these windows are needed to process the next flight (The one that I'm on.) and that there are three agents ready at the other window to get them on to new flights quickly. The French, Americans, Spanish, Africans, British - in other words, everyone EXCEPT the Italians, move quickly to the other line. Now the fun begins.
The three lines of Italians, now having lost the glue of rational thought with the departure of the other nationalities to the new line, quickly dissolved into a bubbling, shouting, arm waving, hand biting, cursing, angry mass that starts to threaten the ticket agents. At one point, a couple of them jumped over the counter and grab a couple of computer keyboards and start typing and looking at the computer screen as if they were going to fix the problem themselves (because in their minds it was just someone typing the wrong thing into the computer and they were going to do it correctly.) At one point, a ticket agent in her late twenties gets shoved off of her chair by an angry passenger. They don't want to hear that they have to move to another line. This is their line and that is that. The agents try to move them physically to another line and some of the folks grab on to the counter in desperation. Then the police are called.
Two of them arrive with their nifty looking hats and gloves and an air of, "We'll take care of everything." They proceed to argue for the the next ten minutes with about 50 really pissed off Italians who have suffered an injustice. As a whole, the group starts shouting, "Non è giusto, non è giusto" (It's not right) and start pushing and shoving at the police. The cops, by this time are red faced and ready for an espresso and Grappa. (I'm trying to measure how fast I can get to the nearest door and if I have what I need in my back pack in the event I have to run for it and leave my bags.) They remain pretty calm and with an assortment of hand gestures, blows on their whistles and unbuckling of their gun holsters, and well chosen curses, get the crowd to quiet down a little. The ticket agents make a run for it at this point.
While all of this is going on, the non Italian passengers who went to the other line to find other flights to Paris have all been processed and the line is empty. The police finally make the group see this and then in one surging mass, they all head to the empty window to try to be first to get their new flight. The two police re-buckle their holsters, take off their hats and sag, relieved against the ticket counter.
The fun isn’t over, though. Ten minutes later the ticket agents return to window 30, 31 and 32. They order coffee and hash over the previous hour’s events with absolutely no concern that they are an hour behind in processing the next flight. MINE.
Finally two women sit down at the terminals and ask for the passports of the first people in their lines. I’m the second person at window 30. Ahead of me are a guy, his wife and daughter and his mother-in-law. The computer cannot find the ticket of the mother. She has an issued ticket in her hand but the computer doesn’t have it listed and won’t print a boarding pass. 45 minutes later the problem is resolved. Remember what I said about Italians not waiting well? The people in line almost hang the guy for holding up the rest of us for 45 minutes. I learned a few more hand gestures and a few more great curses but my line wasn’t the fun one. The fun was happening at window 31.
The girl there begins to process the first person in her line. Just after she begins, she gets a cell phone call (cell phones in Italy are called Telefoninos) and talks to her mother for ten minutes. She hangs up and continues to process the first person again and the phone rings a second time. It’s Mamma again. This time she gets up and walks away talking to her mother. 15 minutes later she returns and starts again. She makes it through the processing for a couple of minutes and then breaks out into tears and then uncontrollable full blow hysterical crying. Another ticket person, the one at window 32, comes over to console her and the two of them walk off through the crowd. 20 minutes later, another person shows up at that window and begins to process the boarding pass again. The guy with the mother-in-law finally gets finished in my line and I step to the counter. Three minutes later I’m heading to the gate. Things are looking up.
We got into Amsterdam 30 minutes before the plane to Minneapolis took off but they decided it was too much trouble to hold it for us so they bumped us and told us we had to stay in Amsterdam for the night. They listed the reason as Air Traffic Control Problems so we got no compensation for lodging. I was able to talk the agent who was trying to find me a flight for the next day into a ten Euro meal voucher (which in Amsterdam is good for a beer and a bag of chips), a 5 minute phone card and an upgrade to Business Elite class from Amsterdam to Houston. I found a hotel nearby. Took a train to the city center to look around and kill some time and ran into the Euro Gay Pride Day Celebration in downtown Amsterdam. How lucky can a guy be.'
Karen
http://www.pbase.com/karenmickleson
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Aug 7th, 2007 | 01:50 PM
#8
Joined: Jul 2003
Posts: 432
Likes: 0
The terms "Bologna," "Air France," and "computer" all sent shivers down my spine as I had that exact experience in 2002. Fortunately the Air France computer HAD my reservation but it involved going BLQ-CDG-IAD-ATL, instead of the BLQ-CDG-ATL routing that my paper ticket had....
That pleasant nonstressful airport experience was at the tail end of a trip that involved record heat, my spraining my elbow slipping on the Riomaggiore boat ramp, and getting caught at Florence SMN station the day before a train strike.
That pleasant nonstressful airport experience was at the tail end of a trip that involved record heat, my spraining my elbow slipping on the Riomaggiore boat ramp, and getting caught at Florence SMN station the day before a train strike.
Aug 7th, 2007 | 04:41 PM
#12
Joined: Mar 2006
Posts: 97
Likes: 0
Thanks for sharing that hillarious story. I can't wait to e mail it to my friend who works in the US office of an Italian company. When I e mailed her on the afternoon of July 6, I received a blanket "out of office" response saying the whole office "would be closed on 28 May for the July Fourth Holiday"!
Aug 7th, 2007 | 06:35 PM
#14
Original Poster
Joined: Jun 2006
Posts: 93
Likes: 0
I'm delighted to bring you this bit of Italian pleasure. I wrote Joe to tell him I'd posted it here (and at one other site), and this was his response:
'Holy shit. People really liked it. i just typed it at the computer Monday morning before I went to work. Now I wish I'd spent some time on it. I'm glad people could identify with it and it's obvious that others have had similar experiences. One of my friends wrote back about how horrible my day was there. I didn't think it was horrible. When in Italy, you simply have to accept these things about the people and culture and love them for what they are. Being in Italy is like watching one huge, on going play. All the people you meet are characters playing their part. It's a drama. They do it so well. I love them and while the inconveniences can be a pain in the ass sometimes, you just have to smile and love it for being so honest and truly Italian. No other place like it.'
I take liberty posting his thoughts here, but it adds to the endearingness of the ideas he expressed so eloquently.
Karen
http://www.pbase.com/karenmickleson
'Holy shit. People really liked it. i just typed it at the computer Monday morning before I went to work. Now I wish I'd spent some time on it. I'm glad people could identify with it and it's obvious that others have had similar experiences. One of my friends wrote back about how horrible my day was there. I didn't think it was horrible. When in Italy, you simply have to accept these things about the people and culture and love them for what they are. Being in Italy is like watching one huge, on going play. All the people you meet are characters playing their part. It's a drama. They do it so well. I love them and while the inconveniences can be a pain in the ass sometimes, you just have to smile and love it for being so honest and truly Italian. No other place like it.'
I take liberty posting his thoughts here, but it adds to the endearingness of the ideas he expressed so eloquently.
Karen
http://www.pbase.com/karenmickleson
Aug 8th, 2007 | 06:41 AM
#18
Original Poster
Joined: Jun 2006
Posts: 93
Likes: 0
I didn't say he's *an* Italian 
He's an American of Italian descent. And he started taking Italian classes at home in Sacramento a few years back when he wanted to visit Italy and track down the villages his parents were from. It progressed from there.
Karen
http://www.pbase.com/karenmickleson
He's an American of Italian descent. And he started taking Italian classes at home in Sacramento a few years back when he wanted to visit Italy and track down the villages his parents were from. It progressed from there.Karen
http://www.pbase.com/karenmickleson
Aug 8th, 2007 | 07:02 AM
#20
Joined: Aug 2004
Posts: 7,342
Likes: 0
Josser,
A lot of Americans will refer to themselves as Italian, Irish, German, etc. because that is where there ancestors are from. Most of them don't speak the language of the country they are talking about and many have never been there. Personally, I find it an odd. I think it is good to be interested in one's heritage, but to go around referring to yourself as that nationality/ethnicity is what is odd to me.
A lot of Americans will refer to themselves as Italian, Irish, German, etc. because that is where there ancestors are from. Most of them don't speak the language of the country they are talking about and many have never been there. Personally, I find it an odd. I think it is good to be interested in one's heritage, but to go around referring to yourself as that nationality/ethnicity is what is odd to me.
