The Globe and Mail
By Silvana Saccomani
2022
I was reminded, recently, that a beautiful face is both powerful and effective in Italy, especially in lineups. That shouldn’t surprise you. After all, Italy gave birth to Michelangelo’s David and Botticelli’s Venus – Renaissance masterpieces that represent physical perfection. Modern-day Italian ambassadors of femininity and sexuality include Sofia Loren, Monica Bellucci and Caterina Murino, among others.
After a 15-hour transatlantic flight, my husband and I land at the Leonardo da Vinci airport in Rome. Da Vinci is, of course, another Renaissance heavy weight whose Mona Lisa is considered one of the most beautiful creations ever because of its realistic usage of perspective.
Since buying our pied-a-terre over ten years ago in Montepulciano, nella bella Toscana, the Leonardo Da Vinci Airport, or Fiumicino as the locals call it because it is in that town, is our point of entry into and exit from the Citta’ Eterna.
A decade worth of passport stamps means we know our way around this mammoth building. Along the way, we have also learned a few airport time-saving tricks.
The first one has to do with passports. We have two: one issued in Canada; the other in Italy. They both come in handy at different times for different purposes. To get through Customs or dogana in Rome in a timely fashion, we pull out the Italian document. That allows us to take our place in the EU lineup; by experience, it is always shorter and faster on international flights coming into Italy’s capital. Truth be told, I wish I could have flashed my more youthful photogenic picture that’s in the maple-leaf document instead of the less flattering, older-self in the Italian government-issued document.
But here and now, time, and not, beauty matter. So out comes the passaporto italiano.
Once we get our stamp, we smugly make out way to the luggage carousel, still ahead of the crowd. Confident that the Italian luggage handlers will treat the ‘priority’ tag stuck on our bags out of Calgary as such: with privilege and speed. We wait. Five minutes pass. Then ten. By now, the inexperienced vacationers from our flight start to join us at the ritiro bagagli. Thirty minutes later, those same less -travelled vacationers have claimed their respective bags and gone merrily on their way. There is one lonely red suitcase spinning round and round. It is not ours. Ours doesn’t ever emerge.
We are disappointed and surprised by this, especially since Fiumicino (locals refer to it as such because of the town it is in) has a good reputation for not mishandling or loosing luggage; that is quite a feat since it handles over 20,000 a day.
Now in line at the lost luggage counter, or bagaglio smarrito, we scold ourselves for not knowing better and travelling exclusively with carry-on luggage. Fifteen minutes later, the customer service agent proudly reports it is not Fiumicino’s fault. Apparently, our priority luggage is not lost at all. “It is safe,” she informs, “in Montreal’s Pierre Elliot Trudeau’s airport, never having made the connection.”
Realizing neither good looks or charm will change the course of events, we head to the car rental counter. My spirits are raised slightly when I recognize faces from the luggage carousel now waiting in the car rental lineup, which spills around the corner and down the hallway. The ticket dispenser spits out number 63. My golden number loses its shine when I look up at the screen and realize they are serving numbers 49 and 50. There are three customer service agents. One in his mid-50s, who I call Mr. Congeniality because in addition to getting people cars, he also provides recommendations on where to eat when in Rome, sites to see and good shopping districts. I like their female colleague more. She knows her job and sticks to it. Unfortunately, Ms. Efficiency is stuck with problem travellers who can’t find their reservations papers, not sure if they left them on the kitchen counter back home, or even if they are at the right car rental counter. There was a third agent. But I just saw him stand up and leave, abandoning his customer standing at the counter.
Minutes pass. Graham is assessing our grim rate of progress. “Four customers in 30 minutes,” he announces, calculating we are in for a two-hour wait. It is 40 degrees outside. Not much cooler inside because of the country’s air conditioner restrictions.
An hour into the wait, my eyes catch the entrance of a fresh-faced young Italian. Her chantilly-white linen dress drapes her tiny silhouette. No trace of panty lines. I wonder how they do that? Her sun-kissed skin sets off her emerald eyes. I call her Bella, for obvious reasons. Her companion is Italian, too. He is also bello.
Bella proceeds confidently to the ticket dispenser. Mr. Congeniality announces number 57 just as Bella pulls 68. Her smile quickly vanishes as reality sets in. I overhear her conversation with Bello, and they are worried they will miss the train they have scheduled out of Florence.
A decade worth of passport stamps have also taught me that Italians don’t like lineups. So now I am curious to see how Bella will handle the predicament. Without hesitation, Bella strides over to Mr. Congeniality’s desk just as he is wishing his latest customers safe travels and reminding them that the Trastevere neighborhood is a must see. I watch to learn. Quickly, masterfully, Bella states why she needs to jump the queue. He pleads forgiveness, pointing to the sweaty and tense crowd behind her. Each one tightly – clutching numbered-tickets for fear they might slide out of their clammy palms.
Bella’s first attempt did not go as planned. I secretly am happy. But it’s a minor setback. I watch her as she is watching and assessing the crowd.
Numbers 60 and 61 are called. That means we are in the next batch. I recognize the quiet Asian couple in front of us. They were on the plane from Montreal and have been standing respectfully in front of us for the last two hours. His soft-spoken wife, whispers something into his ear before leaving his side. I assume it’s mother-nature calling because she has been calling me, too, for the past hour. I dare not answer when we are so close to the front.
What happens next is another learning moment. With wife out of the way, Bella makes her move, sliding next to Hapless tourist. She explains her woes. It doesn’t matter Bella is speaking too rapidly in English with a slightly off vowel pronunciation.
What matters is that Bella’s beauty has cast its spell. Hapless tourist has stoically handed over ticket number 62, and Bella is now at the counter getting the paperwork done for her rental. Minutes later, wife of Hapless tourist reappears. A disapproving look freezes her face when she understands how it is they have lost their place.
Ms. Efficiency calls 63. That’s me. Wait. Actually, it’s not. I’ve automatically fallen back to 64 thanks to Hapless Tourist and Bella. I want to scream and cry out about the injustice. My patience is strained after two and half hours of waiting and the lost luggage. Then my Canadian passport catches my eye. A quiet reminder that patience and civility are always an option. Secretly, I would have preferred to play the beauty card. END