International commuting
If today, 5 January 2010, someone still has the temptation of asking me if I had a quiet and relaxed time over Christmas holiday, I will restrain from kindly inviting them to go to a very crowded place largely known in Italy called Fanculo. Other than the usual stress of running around like a headless chicken trying to see everyone, both flights were days to forget. Flight #1 was delayed by over 3 hours because of 3 inches of snow, clearly a considerable amount which can force an international airport like Heathrow to cancel all domestic and European flights. Flight #2 was surprisingly ok in itself and only delayed by 40 minutes, but a cold and blocked ears turned the last 30 minutes of flight in a painful agony – not to mention further 24 hours of deafness.
The only good thing about last flights of the day to and from London on 22 December and 2 january respectively is the social scenario. Italians living abroad and coming back home for Christmas on the former, English coming back from holidays (and a few Italians going back to London) on the latter. Needless to say this changes completely your flying experience.
22 December. Gatwick. An airport I fiercely detest, if only because you never know which gate you’re supposed to go to until it actually opens. This translates into a long waiting staring at a screen, which makes waiting in airports on your own even more depressing. If your flight is a flight to Rome, the situation is a bit more complex. Everyone knows the gate opens at 4.50 because they’ve told you so, but there will always be someone who decides to stand in front of the very last screen, right next to the doors, from 3.30. It’s only a matter of second before everyone else runs to the screen and stands as well, as close as your enemy (other passengers) as possible. Then, everyone of course starts grumbling and complaining, very loudly and all at once, that the gate doesn’t show up on the screen, regardless of the fact the screen clearly states ‘gate opens at 4.50′ and it’s 3.30. If anything, it’s probably because Italians cannot conceive the idea of information being given and being what is actually going to happen, especially if transports are involved. The crowd grows exponentially by the minute, people look around suspiciously trying to locate the fastest way to sneak out avoiding bags and children, or walking over both if necessary. Some pretend they’re going for a walk just to mysteriously re-appear 4 rows ahead of you, even closer to the door leading to the gate. Tense moments. More loud chatting and complaining. AND THEN IT BEGINS. You run for your life, even if you’re on a wheelchair, because it doesn’t matter if it’s completely pointless as there’s another waiting room, YOU HAVE TO BE THE FIRST. Once in the waiting room, no one actually sits. They all crash at the gate, creating an even thicker and louder crowd that doesn’t even allow crew members to get through the door.
Aforementioned flight on the 22nd was a usual one (like this, that is) so far. But once in the waiting room we were told we had to wait for another hour. Then another hour. People push on the front. Someone passes out, and we are told to please spread across the room – well, they, I am quietly sitting in a corner watching. In what was then mayhem, the very brave captain enters the room and faces the crowd of enraged Italians and said we are 2 crew members short, one arriving from East London, and we then have to wait another hour. We are now on the verge of revolution and, like in any other critical situation, bonding between compatriots begins. Because Italians are Italians, everyone is hugging/patting/joking/telling the secrets of their souls to each other within the first 2 minutes of conversation.
My travel companions (who I also sat next to on the plane) were a girl and a man I never knew the name of. The interesting aspect of these flights so close to Christmas is that you have the chance to hear different life stories from people coming from your same background. The girls had just moved to London after 2 years in Germany, and she was working in advertising for the same company she was working for in Germany. The guy moved to London 6 year ago to be with his now ex-girlfriend, and had been working for UNICEF since then, also spending some time in Africa. It is somehow relieving to hear other Italians sharing your views. Ever since I moved to London I had to struggle with the widely diffused idea all I do is being on permanent holiday, because that’s what you do in London. And, of course, I am guilty of high treason for leaving my country. Without mentioning the question ‘but what has my country done for me?’, it is soothing to talk to someone who shares your language and cultural background without having to justify everything you’ve done over the past 3 years. When I decided to leave Rome I remember saying I had spent my life justifying myself, and when I’m Italy I still spend half of my time justifying myself. Justifying why I chose a place that isn’t ‘the best city in the world’, ‘your home’ or ‘your roots’.
The answer is clear and simple: London is everything Rome isn’t. I can’t go into details on why because it will take me all night, but you can see it from the reasons people give me when I say I prefer London: ‘Food!’ ‘People!’ ‘History!’ ‘Sun!’. This only makes me shake my head in despair and cements, year after year, my idea that no political, economical and historical reason is an adequate justification of why Italy is what it is today. The real, tragic reason is in people’s heads, which will never ever change unless said people decide to stick their noses out of the 4 walls of their houses and see themselves and their – our – country with a slightly more objective eye. I see no hope in the near future, but I am only free to say so with a few minority of people and those who, like me, had to leave before being stifled. And who still stifle every time the set foot on our homeland.
2 January. Fiumicino. I arrive at the gate. Silence. Pretty much everyone is sitting either reading or listening to their iPods, or simply whispering to each other animatedly. When the gate opens, 90% of the people calmly stand up and start forming a perfect queue. The remaining 10% arrives from the other side of the airport running and with brute force positions themselves at the side of the queue, right beside the people at the front of said queue. Nationality of the 10% is left to the imagination of the reader. The 90% is clearly very annoyed, as a slight movement of the eyebrows reveals. When finally on the plane, finding a seat is almost a pleasure. I hit a poor guy with my handbag, but he apologises to me. We take off. Quiet flight. Painful landing for me. I go out of the plane, feel the freezing air on my face and take a deep breath, the exact opposite of what I do when I arrive on the other side of the Channel. I think I’m home – which is, by the way, such a relative concept.
