Alice at the airport, part Deux ADULT CONTENT WARNING!!

AIRPORT ‘08
Starring: Alice (That’s pronounced Ah-Lee-Chay) Viano

-ADULT CONTENT WARNING-

Put away the children boys and girls, Alice is at it again!

I was oh, so proud of myself for making the executive decision to skip the hike to the Metro to the Termini and train it to Fiumicino airport with my suitcase heavy with wine and olive oil. Choices to reduce stress are always wise ones…unless the choices one makes after are as lame-brained as mine were.

Once again, I found myself wandering around the airport, looking for the Alitalia desk to check my bag and obtain my boarding pass. It’s cool, though. I’m here with TONS of time. I’m so clever! I finally found am employee who could direct me, and even she could not explain why there were no signs in Italian or English which might help. When I approached the desk, I could see that Alitalia had pushed my flight back, yet again. Departure at 5:10, instead of 4:25. Now this flight is officially delayed almost seven hours. While waiting in line, I strike up a conversation with a gal named Debbie who explained that she was returning to New Jersey after living in Rome for 16 months. She had four giant bags to check. Yikes, I thought. That’s gonna be expensive. She was chatty and nice. She was accompanied by a friend who was not travelling, but assisting her. His name is Rick, and he’s an ex-pat, a retired college professor from Boulder, CO. Needless to say, we chatted as we waited. Rick and Debbie seemed to know the language, the system and the process of navigating this airport. I was relieved and accepted their invitation to meet them at the café where Alitalia would pick up the tab for our lunch.
Note: I will acknowledge here, that Jim and Jackie specifically warned me about talking with strangers from my own country. Sadly, I heard but didn’t heed.

When I finally met up with the “americans” I had already filled a tray at the café only to be flatly rejected by the cashier. She would not, in fact, accept my boarding pass from Alitalia. No idea what I was talking about. I left the full tray of food with her and walked away. (I HAD already enjoyed a delicious lunch…just wanted to get some free stuff from the effing airline.) Debbie and Rick were dumping large amounts of vino into plastic cups and gulping it down. MY FIRST CLUE. Debbie still had a push-cart for her “carry-on” items, which included two VERY heavy bags, a fur coat, and a large golf club. SECOND CLUE. “They won’t let you carry a golf club on the plane” I suggested, politely. “Oh, sure they will,” Rick and Debbie both asserted. “Security in Italy is nothing like the states.” Well, what did I know, right?

At 4:15, I was up and collecting my things to head to the gate. My companions chided me for going so early, again proclaiming that security, etc. at this airport are pieces of cake. “Really?” “Sure,” they replied. I pictured the gate just on the other side of the doors downstairs. “We’re just gonna finish up and we’ll go together.” Okay, I thought. They know better than I, surely. (Am I on crack?)

At 4:40 we got in line at security and there, on a big sign was a picture of a golf club with a red line thru it. Now I’m pretty sure we’re cutting it close…and I want nothing to do with the security routines about to ensue with my travelling companion. I turn to her as my backpack passes through the x-ray machine, “I’m gonna kill myself if I miss this flight. Good luck, Debbie. I’m outta here.”

The next hall revealed a line about 100 people deep to get through immigration-with one officer working. I stood there about 30 seconds and marched up to the front. It is now almost 5:00. Holy shit, I’m gonna miss a flight I’ve waited all day for. Seriously, I’m going to commit a violent act-on myself. Now I certainly wish I had some crack. I begged the couple at the front of the line, and they mercifully let me go next. Why they shouted, “Have a great flight to Argentina!” I didn’t pause to find out. Excellent! Passport stamped. Where’s the gate? I start to sprint. I go about a quarter mile…and the sign directs me downstairs? That’s weird…No, wait. A train? This is not happening. Sweat pouring off me, I pace as I wait for the train. Hopping off at some other location, I begin sprinting again. It is 5:11. I’m fucked. I can’t believe my stupidity. Up the escalator two steps at a time, shouting all the way. Another quarter mile at full speed…and I mean like a sixteen year old track star. And then I was there. “Newark?” an attendant called out to me as I approached, panting and nodding. She points to the stairs to her left. I trip down two flights to…wait for it…a BUS, empty and waiting for us. I climbed on and we waited. Go, go, go! I want to scream. Don’t even wait for that crazy woman. Please, just take me now! I’ll blow the lot of you, seriously.

About two minutes later, they closed the doors and drove me another mile out to the waiting aircraft which seemed to be parked in Tuscany. I tongue-kiss the obviously gay flight attendant after he announces my arrival to the pilot “Grazie mile!”…at which point the door closes, I get buckled in and we are on our way. Debbie never makes it on.
So much for reducing stress.