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Published: August 6th 2023
Today we’ve got a long and convoluted journey from Cadiz to Bologna in northern Italy. We leave our Cadiz apartment at 7.30am, which is 5.30am anywhere else in the world, and find, perhaps unsurprisingly, that there aren’t hordes of taxis queuing up waiting to take us to the station. This isn’t a good start. So it’s a long walk, a train ride, a couple of flights, a couple of taxi rides, and lots of waiting around - to Seville and then Madrid and finally Bologna. All very boring.
So if it was that boring why am I feeling so grumpy. Lack of sleep perhaps, but more likely the long line of stereotypícal sorts who often conspire to interfere in the lives of weary plane travellers. And they seem to be out in force today.
First up are what I’ll call the “Teasing Check-in Chicks”, who in fairness are sometimes male. They were in evidence when we flew to Morocco a couple of weeks ago, and they’re at it again today. There’s no one waiting to check us in when we arrive at the airport in Seville, so no one‘s bothering to queue up … well apart from three people from England, but we’ll get to them later. Two ladies in uniform then appear and take up their positions behind the check-in counter. This generates a surge of activity by passengers keen to take their places in the queue, which is then very quickly nearly out the terminal door. But are these ladies in any hurry to start actually checking anyone in? Well it seems not. They both spend an inordinately long time staring at the same screen with quizzical looks on their faces. Why is this taking so long? I’m sure it’s lack of sleep that’s now driving my imagination, but I’m sure one of them‘s pointing at messages from her husband which have convinced her that he’s having an affair. And what does her colleague think; well she agrees, that’s why she’s nodding. So what’s the next step? Her colleague is of course suggesting that the only way out of the predicament is to hire a hit man, so she disappears off to make the arrangements … which is of course getting us no closer to getting anyone checked in …. Definitely lack of sleep.
Second up are “People Who Shouldn’t be Allowed to Check-In”, or indeed allowed anywhere near airports …. cue the three English people. Fifteen long minutes later and still none of them look to be any closer to getting their boarding passes. They put their bags on the scales, and take them off again, and one of them then wanders casually off into the distance with all their passports to take a phone call. There are usually two check-in queues for flights, priority and peasants, but these guys should have a queue of their own - people who’ve got no idea what they’re doing, or even why they’re at the airport … and that queue should only be staffed intermittently or by unsupervised trainees. We’ve been watching the clock. It took sixteen minutes to get that lot checked in, it takes us two.
Next up is one of my absolute pet hates, the ”Airport Seat Hog”. We wander up to a bank of four seats, and I sit on the one vacant one while Issy heads off to get something to eat. The other three seats are occupied by a backpack, a thirty something man … and another backpack. Issy returns and, being the chivalrous gentleman that I am, I give her my seat. Backpack man is of course saving seats for other family members … or is he? Long minutes pass and no other family members appear. I stand in front of backpack man’s seat. I’m nearly standing on his toes now, but is he showing any signs of removing one of the backpacks so I can sit down? Well of course he isn’t. Eventually his flight’s called and he picks himself and his two backpacks up, and heads off into the distance, oblivious to everything that’s just happened. Where do these people come from?
Then there’s “Mr Push and Shove”; and he is nearly always male. He’s more commonly found at bus stops, train stations and football matches, but the airport variety does exist. He’s completely oblivious to anyone else’s existence. He just barges on ahead to wherever he’s trying to get to, and if you're unlucky enough to get in the way, well good luck. Today’s example is at his best getting onto the bus out to the plane. He can see an empty space and he’s going to go for it, and it matters not to him that I’m between him and his target. And phrases of the ilk of “excuse me” or “perdonez moi” or “disculpame señor” have never passed his lips. I warn Issy not on any account to get in front of him while he’s trying to force his way down the steps onto the tarmac at the other end of the flight …
And finally there’s the “Spoilt Rich Kid”. Today’s late teenage example is travelling by himself, in first class of course, with a vacant seat beside him. He’s not going to let the small matter of a plane taking off interfere with his social life - he launches into a six way video call with his friends while the flight attendant’s trying to do the safety briefing. She’s standing right in front of him, but he’s talking so loudly we can scarcely hear what she's saying. Flight attendant lady’s giving him the death stare, but he’s totally oblivious. In desperation she does the “mask dropping down from the ceiling“ demonstration right in front of his nose, but is he taking any notice of that, well of course he isn’t. We’re told to pull our blinds up for take off, but what does our boy do - well he pulls his down - can’t have the sun interfering with the quality of the video. And as we get airborne he’s still chatting away. Does he care that we’re about to crash because of his antics, well it seems not. So why aren’t any of the staff intervening …. ah that’s it …. dad owns the airline. And on the subject of safety briefings, on the first of today’s flights, the airline decided in its infinite wisdom that Issy should sit in seat 7D … and that I should sit in seat 31C - in the very back row. Who works out these arrangements? The attendant doing the safety briefing was twenty rows in front of me, but could I see her over the top of the seat in front of me, well of course I couldn’t - I left my periscope and binoculars at home.
Issy says I’m becoming a grumpy old man.
We land in Bologna where it’s cooler and heavily overcast. There are even some drops of rain; we haven’t seen any of that for about a month now. We extract a large set of keys from a safe outside our apartment - one gets you through an iron grill into the building, the second gets you through the building’s front door, the third operates the lift, and the fourth gets you into the apartment. And if you’re silly enough to walk up the seven flights of stairs instead, there’s a fifth key to unlock the gate at the top. Anyway, the apartment’s got a massive terrace with sensational views out over the ancient rooves of the city, so all good … as long as we don’t lose any of the keys, or any of the instructions on how to use them ….
We head out in search of, what else, pizza. Things seem a bit more formal here than in Spain - white tablecloths, formally dressed waiters, and a crowd that’s a bit on the older side. All this formality does seem however to be slightly offset by the diners accompanied by dogs, and the people on the next table who order pizzas … and chips … and then put the chips on the pizzas. We wonder if the now crowded establishment has picked up on our Aussie accents - Men at Work’s iconic Aussie anthem “Down Under” starts playing over the PA. We finish our mains and are presented with a large bottle of limoncello. We didn’t order this so we’re not sure whether or not it’s on the house. We take our cue from the pair a couple of tables away who don’t seem to be having too much trouble draining the bottle. Now what were all those different keys for again?
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D MJ Binkley
Dave and Merry Jo Binkley
Seat hogs
I agree I would like to slap these people.