Final Round

With my ticket in hand I proceed to security rationalizing my new purchase in realizing I can always dispute the charges with my credit card company. The line moves well enough and I am the lucky winner of the full body search. My bags are torn apart in front of me: sans shoes, belt, coat, and dignity. Next up passport control. More problems. I hand the woman my passport and boarding pass. The toad of a woman, roughly resembling Madeline Albright, but in a less dignified manner, croaks at me in Italian. A smile and a simple reply that I don't speak Italian. She croaks back that she doesn't speak English. So now I must get the translation from the other passport control officer. She continues, croaking and holding some blue governmental form with a picture that I am supposed to have. I tell her I do not have one. She inquires, are you sure. I am not Italian, therefore when I reply no it means no, not I am really lazy and if I say no and act uninterested maybe you will go away and I won't have to work. "You must have a blue form." Maybe the school has it, I have never seen that form before in my life. "Where is your blue form." Ok so now I am at my breaking point. I respond in a slow, calculated, enunciated manner. "I don't have a fucking clue." She gives me a stern lecture and tells me I need it next time I leave Italy. Sure I tell her, maybe I should just stay in Morocco. With some time to spare and because I enjoy pain so much I attempt to try and get my tax refund. Now technically you have to show them the goods, which of course are in storage in Rome. But I reason it is Italy and they are pretty laid back. Not so, he stamps two of the forms and refuses to stamp the third one. Then writes on the third one that I was unable to show the goods. Ok, two out of three isn't bad. Next to the money line to get the dough...or not. A plane load of Chinese tourists has just rendered the line helpless. To the gate before the world ends. Once again I am searched before boarding the plane, but alas they let me board. For six hours I was harassed, poked, prodded, ridiculed, and threatened. When that plane finally took off with me in a seat I had bought twice, I quickly fell asleep. I was exhausted, worried, frustrated, and uncertain of what Morocco would present. Ding...this is going to be close...in a split decision the winner is...oh thank god I am not in Italy.

Round Two--Missing Ticket

Sent on my way from round one to two with a salute from the Carabineri I reluctantly join the line for Royal Air Morocc. When I arrive at the counter the polite woman informs me that my ticket is being held at the booth just across the hall. Now my paper ticket was supposed to arrive by mail. Those were the directions of the French email I got. By purchasing the tickets from the French version I saved 225 Euro, go figure. So when my tickets did not arrive at the Rome Center I called the New York office, because I could not locate a Rome office and they speak English...few. They informed me to pick my tickets up at the airport. So at this point I assume there is no problem. However, the inquisition from the Carabineri should have been an indicator of what I was up against. The man across the hall informs me that I have to buy my ticket. Well, I thought I already did. He says that the website does not charge the credit card, simply holds the reservation. He ensures me that in buying my ticket here, I will not be double charged. Fine, a small loss in my translation of French. Then Maximo (typical) tells me that my ticket is back at P. Barberini waiting for me to pick it up. Well that is great, how the hell was I supposed to know that, not to mention the ticket is therefore a two hour round-trip away from the airport. I ask him how I was supposed to know this when neither the confirmation email nor the airline notified me of this. Knowing that arguing will get me nowhere, I ask if he could find a solution. He calls the Rome office to see what he can do. Great there is a Rome office, why wasn't this information on the email! Surprise, Surprise...he can not issue the ticket here at the airport. Why? Because the ticket was mailed to me on "5 (not fifth) of December". Well it is now the 7th, I have checked the mail box multiple times on each day and guess what Maximo, no ticket! 35 minutes of me nicely arguing that the ticket did not arrive and him countering that he can prove that it did, yield me no closer to Morocco and no further from Rome. A solution I plead, I need a solution. You can purchase your ticket again for the same price and when you return go to P. Barberini and get a refund if in fact it was our fault. Terrified yes, I know all about refunds in Italy. Left with little choice, as I have nowhere in Rome to live, hardly any money, and a frail hope that everything will somehow work itself out, I reluctantly buy my seat for a second time. Ding, in an overwhelming slaughter Rome takes the Round...Levi appears to have little fight left in him. Will our desperate hero ever enter the promised land of the "secure" in the airport?

Terroista, Italian for this could take a while

So I finally arrive at the airport after the serendipity on the tram. As I am quite early for my flight (this would be my saving grace) I decide to find a place to sit. Well if you have ever tried to sit in Italy you know how difficult this is. Benches do not exist in this country and if you do find one there is likely a man with a whistle to ensure you don't sit on it (try Monumento Victtorio Emanulle II). So needless to say I am mindlessly ambling around the airport until I can procure a boarding pass and enter the "secure" part. Then out of nowhere a Carabineri points his machine gun at me and barks, "Passport" with a thick Italian accent with just enough entitlement to his voice. Dumbstruck and startled I am sure I fumbled trying to recall which pocket my passport was in. I hand it over while he radios for back-up as if I must possess some super human power that renders me bulletproof. Perhaps he is just unconfident with his shooting skills, a common theory amongst us. Now I have four more machine guns pointed casually at my chest and two at my head from the level above. Casually is the only word to describe how Italians hold guns, but the poses were unmistakably Italian. The conversation is quick and animated, all I can discern is "terroista". So glad to hear I fit some profile, I start looking at my chest half suspecting to see small red dots peppering my chest. Then the Sarge come sashaying across the terminal. He views my passport, mutters something about me being an American and I am free and on my way. Ding, Round one goes to Rome.

Ciao for Now

So I know it has been quite some time since I have updated. But alas the trials of world travel combined with the requirements of the holidays have delayed my writing. So to get things back in order I need to catch up on my travels to Morocco.
Deciding that I had endured enough of the Italian attitude I decided to leave the country for some much needed relaxation. An assignment had just been given to me on the last day of class and I was in no mood to focus on any more school, I mean my quarter was over right? But I have never had so much trouble leaving a country.
I guess it was Rome's way of getting even with me for some unforeseen cultural violation I must have made in the past quarter. Upon boarding the tram to Statzione Trastevere we were greeted with an accordion playing gypsy and his rattle playing gypsy son. The tram did its normal skid--stop routine, but instead filled with a carnival of noise. At the next stop a group of school children boarded, their small bodies rearranged by the jostling tram, music providing comic rhythm, and me eager for the clowns to board. Little did I know that this was the end of balloons and cotton candy.