For the handful of souls that are interested in keeping up with my adventures abroad, and in the continued spirit of writing updates of previous happenings, I thought I’d give another quick update on, not Genova, but myself.
“…you are now entering the world of Italian bureaucracy.”
“I am?”
“Yes. The Italians have made bureaucracy an art form and it is summer and they are sleepy or sleeping or thinking about sleeping and they are not, in-truth, so serious about the working…”
Remember those words? They’re from a previous post, Still here. My Director, uttered these words when I mentioned I was excited about leaving to go to Italy immediately, had just sold all my belongings and would be there within the week.
“…Now you will have to focus all your energies on assembling documents to submit for your work visa…”
Ah, the illusive work visa. For those outside the know, if an American teacher is so lucky to get hired in Italy, before they embark they must go through an Ironman-length trial that is the paperwork equivalent of walking over a field of hot coals.
Except that in Italy, once you hotfoot it over to the other side of the coals, feet on fire, the Mad Hatter and the Caterpillar—now dressed in Armani suits and two-toned shoes—inform you that your destination is actually back at the beginning, on the other side of the coals. Hot foot it back, Jack.
Why am I back stateside? Back from my vacation? Is it for a girl? Is it to take care of some sordid family business? Nope. I’m here for the Visa.
That’s right. The paperwork I submitted back that first week in July to the Italian Consulate has been processed. Two weeks ago it was DHL’d over to Genova—for some more processing on the Italian side—put in an ‘expedited’ stack and finally, on Friday afternoon, was finally authorized.
“Jeffrey, cancel your week in Sicily. You’re going back to America,” the Director said in his thick but perfect English.
“Okai. When do I leave?”
“Tomorrow morning, 7:30.”
Yikes.
I was instantly sure this was how a spy feels. Suddenly told by his superiors that he must be wheels up in less than twelve hours, he must rush home to pack his kit bag, and go man, go! I sped home, disappointed to cancel Sicily, but excited to be pressed into action. James Bond, look out. Frantz is on the scene, ready for action.
The next morning, I missed my alarm. I was supposed to be out of the house at 5. I woke up at 5:30.
Great start.
Okay, so that international man of mystery stuff is probably out. That said, I did manage to pack the other half of my bag, fold the 6 pieces of laundry on the line and sprint the mile to the mammoth Brignole Train Station bouncing and dragging my beleaguered suitcase behind just in time to catch the airport shuttle, all in under 20 minutes.
Yes, yes, spies probably don’t take airport shuttles either….
Or do they…
But I digress.
Or rather, I am going to anti-digress to the future, moving past the crawling shuttle, past the still-dark approach to the red block neon sign marking the squat, fire hydrant of a building that was Genova’s Cristoforo Colombo Aeroporto, past the interminable flight to Roma (normally only 50 minutes) that Airitalia managed to turn into an hour and twenty, past a sprint and a tram ride to another terminal in the sprawling Fiumincino Aeroporto, past a score of uber-high-end shops and Mangiagustos, past all of these to the point where I had finally reached my gate and caught my breath and was waiting amongst the crowded masses to board that long, long flight home from Italy. My walk over coals.
I was wondering when the last time an international man of mystery had to fly coach when I got the “Buon giorno,” from the slim Airitalia desk jockey in her nifty blue pencil skirt and green blazer.
“Buon giorno,” I said handing her my boarding pass.
She smiled and passed my boarding pass over this little glass scanner that had been glowing green and chirping away happily for all the previous passengers.
Instantly, a harsh burping sound came from the machine and my boarding pass was from underneath by a fiery red light.
My heart sank. I bristled.
She scurried off without a word to another desk behind her, muttering all the while ‘Frantz, Frantz, Frantz.’ She returned a moment later all smiles. I relaxed a bit.
“Do not worry. You’ve been upgraded.”
“Upgraded?”
“Si.” She passed the new boarding pass over the glass scanner and it chirped and glowed green.
She handed my boarding pass back to me. It was, for lack of better words, a pretty ticket. Nothing like the dull 80% post consumer recycled slip of tissue paper I had gotten in Genova. No. This was of good hearty stock, the landed gentry of paper, perhaps 40 pound stuff and in color too! That same smart green of that Airitalia blazer.
I unbristled.
“Buon viaggio.”
It was a buon viaggio.
Armed with the ticket, I felt like little Charlie Bucket. 10G! What would this mean on a 777? Could it be first class? One of those lay down seats?
As I walked down the gangplank, my heart soared. A moment before I had been resigned to spend 10 hours with knees jammed up against the poor bloke in 42Q, but not any longer. Plucked from the masses to reign on high. I won the lottery.
Upon boarding another smiling blonde clad in blue and green gave me a knowing smile as she saw my seat assignment. I turned as directed right, and there it was. I don’t know if it was Business class or Economy Plus Plus or what but it was niiiiiiice.
10G.
Pull those curtains on the peons in the back please. Their huddled masses are creating quite the ruckus.
A glass of Prosecco as soon as we pushed back? Don’t mind if I do.
Oh and what’s this? Another basket-carrying women in another dapper green blazer and a matching little paper hat. A goody bag? Why certainly.
I showed little restraint. Others around me didn’t deign to even look in the bag. This was not their first rodeo. Me? I tore into it. What could it be? Was it Christmas already? A silvery toiletry bag filled with items to make my flight easier: tube socks, sleep mask, lip balm, hand cream, comb, toothbrush and toothpaste.
“Scusate signore?”
“Huh?”
I looked up from the goody bag, frozen, like a kid caught in the cookie jar. I flushed.
Is there anything that betrays an American and English speaker more readily than a spontaneous, ‘Huh?’
I lost the game already. I have this game I play where I try to fool people into believing I’m actually a native of Italy. Trick them with my wide a varied language skills into thinking that I’m a local. This absolutely never works. The longest I think I’ve lasted was 4 mid-length sentences. Still, today was a record low. My ‘huh’ gave me away imediamatamente.
“Hot towel?” she said, no longer speaking Italian.
My disappointment evaporated as I took the molten article from the proffered tongs. A warm towel does more than clean those germy hands and evaporate discontent, it rejuvenates the soul.
“Biscottini?”
“Bottled water?”
“Noise-canceling headphones?”
“Glass of Prosecco?”
“Newspaper?”
All before takeoff.
I sighed happily, sank into the cushy chair, and stretched my legs. Yes. I actually stretched my legs. For those of you not intimately familiar with my legs, while not too long, they are primarily responsible for my height. Long enough to give me problems on airlines and in some European dressing rooms. Incidentally, they are also quite shapely, if you like women’s legs.
And I could stretch them in those oversized seats.
It made for a lovely little flight.
If I had to come back to the US, this was the way to do it.
Definitely better than a trot over hot coals.