Who will remember my years certainly the film "Airport." There were four. The first was with Burt Lancaster and Dean Martin and dates back to 1970. The plot was always based on an aircraft in distress that was scheduled to land in conditions of varying fortune. The success of the series was that in the early eighties they decided to parody "Airplane" ("The plane in Love"). Forty years later told that the film has become part of reality. The series could be continued today with the fifth episode entitled "Fiumicino".
I'm writing from Vevey (Switzerland speaking) where today inaugurated an exhibition focusing on Egyptian objects of the late Giuseppe Sinopoli. This afternoon I have to take a flight Geneva - Rome and I am absolutely terrified. What to expect when I arrive? I will face what dark threat on landing? I can embrace my own?
my statements I base this on my two most recent steps in Fiumicino. Last Wednesday I'm back from Turin, on Saturday there I left for Geneva.
(Wednesday) at Caselle, thanks to the frustration of not so much a nice young lady of the Blu-Express, I was forced to ship my luggage hand, once removed the computer was more than five pounds be granted to six hundred grams. You can well understand my depression when I saw embark manager with trolley, computer and twenty-four hours. Why them and not me so? But so be it. Flight quiet. Arrive half an hour late. The baggage claim is on the tape ten. I open my yellow and I prepare to wait. Skip quarter of an hour in agreement. I keep reading. It passes another, but really! Leggiucchio throwing the eye continuously on the screen. He spends third quarter of an hour. I can not read. The other passengers start to worry. Despair and destruction are the two women with children that now are uncontrollable. After ten minutes ask some explanations at the information. Tell him to wait another ten minutes. Then you hear: "But that's my suitcase." He says aloud a lady who goes to great strides towards the tape nine. In effect, our luggage was there, running from who knows how long. Before you detach from the tape ten, which in the end I had some 'fond of, I look to the screen. Continues to be written that our cases are up to ten tape.
briskly I reach the train station. It's almost nine. Of course, the ticket offices are closed, of course, the vending machines do not work and, of course, there is a long queue at the box office that sells tickets with a minimum charge. The train station is already in hand and in two minutes. I put myself in line at the box office and then think again. I crashed into the train, of course, some with almost ten minutes late. I could make the ticket. I hope that there are other passengers in the same conditions and I am confident in my understanding of the controller. We are now halfway through when the car starts to come alongside a lot of noise. A well-placed if the controller is taking two young East European origin clear. He tells them that is sick of seeing them always travel on this train without a ticket. The screams get off. Replicate these songs. She takes them literally to the role of the chest and throws them out. When a fellow comes to Levet, everything is now finished and the controller is to have dinner again. The CDL.
With me there are two other passengers. The controller is directed toward us. We look at each other exchanging glances in the best style of Sergio Leone triello. I understand that they do not have a ticket. I read a minimum of panic in the Lord further away from me and closer to the controller that is coming up in the meantime. "I do not have a ticket," he says almost in a whisper. The controller looks at him angrily. "Neither," said the second passenger in a trembling voice. "The machines were broken," I add quietly. Time of high tension and the look of the controller broke up and went from rage to profound fatigue mixed with resignation. We are the tickets without even making us pay the premium we would have taken the box office.
(Saturday). Nice day. The flight to Geneva is at Terminal 1, the farthest. A treadmill is completely torn it in for repair, the second is stopped, the third function, the fourth there is a bit more 'years. I go down the escalators and the glass door is closed. Climb the escalators and I am faced with a huge sign, around which there is a pile of papers, saying that the elevators do not work because they are renewing. It must be so for some 'time, as a homeless man decided to turn the landing in his home. And now? There are other access roads to Terminal 1 unless you take a long detour. I look down an elevator shaft and I see a lift, despite the cartel moves. A man who goes with me says: "Nice business card for Italy" materializing my thoughts. I head to the check-in: an endless queue. Provo with slot machines for check-in kiosks. The first attempt fails. With the paper Ulisse Alitalia. Thank goodness. Now I have the problem of the suitcase to be shipped. It does not seem that there are sites dedicated. That is, there are, but have been turned into normal check-in desks and even here the queues are interminable. I approach the bench for Ulysses and Freccia Alata and ask alla signorina se mi può imbarcare la valigia. Le domando perché c’è tutta questa confusione. Mi risponde laconica: “E’ sabato.”. Come sarebbe a dire? Tutti i sabati è così e nessuno ha pensato a una soluzione? Ma non è finita. Soltanto due varchi per i controlli sono aperti. Qui la confusione è totale. Mi ci vorrà un buon quarto d’ora, ma con la carta d’imbarco in mano e il bagaglio spedito non temo che mi lascino a terra. Un gruppo di persone, evidentemente nord-europee, fendono la folla spintonando tutti e ricevendo in cambio appellativi che meglio che non capiscono. Proprio in quel momento un’addetta Alitalia apre il nastro della fila accanto a me e ci invita a passare per il varco reserved for crew. The apparent north-European, some people later, looks at me with hatred. Not even worthy of a glance. Reach the plane. The board has already begun. Arrival in Geneva and luggage recovery in ten minutes despite the airport is crowded.
Aphorism. Best Cairo airport during a revolution than to Fiumicino in peacetime. Need we say more?
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