We hugged our pals Nicola and Dolores goodbye and entered the Naples airport. The cue for the Alitalia desk was long but we bravely entered. My jaw dropped, my colon cramped, and my heart started pounding. Barely a whisper came out of my mouth as I turned to Jack and said, “I don’t have a passport.” He turned towards the glass doors looking for Nicola – maybe they could race back before our flight. My chest tightened, we were due to leave in 2 hours and I needed to get to Sardegna. Suddenly my fingers felt a wee bit of plastic in my purse. My Carta Identità – every Italian citizen has one – I turned back to Jack. “We are just going from one Italian city to another right. I mean we don’t stop in I don’t know – Switzerland?” He looked at me like I was pazzo. Right? Right, Naples to Rome and Rome to Alghero.
We were surrounded in the line by two tour groups – Canadian and Australian. All of the happy lemmings were holding up their blue passports. Question – Do all former British colonies have blue passports??? The line slowly moved when speaking Italian – noting I’m guessing my Carta Identità – a representative moved Jack and I up to the ticket counter. Nice! When we got to the gate, I noticed well dressed men and women holding up their Carta Identitàs. It hit me – I’m part of the in crowd! Weeeooooo. So glad that passport is still sitting on the counter.
When we got to Rome the disorganized crush was uncomfortable. The running from changed gate to changed gate and then standing there for almost an hour was tortuous. Paying airport prices for a lousy panini was insulting in a country that prides itself on its cuisine. Grrrrrrr. Remember when it was glamorous to fly? If you are over 60 you do!!
Working with ones the best Italian language schools, Centro Mediterraneo Pintadera, means we get to go to Alghero, Sardegna once a year. When we landed the ace school administrator, texted me that a member of my group’s bags never made it to Alghero from Rome. #&*#! The bloody bags are tagged. How hard is this to keep straight. I breathed a sigh of relief when our bags came down the chute.
Pintadera’s trusty taxi driver, Fredrico, greeted us like long lost pals and shepherded us to our little house. The concierge opened the door and I started gagging and grabbed my inhaler. What the heck is that obnoxious whore house smell? Did the perfume counter at Bloomingdales explode? The concierge raced around and opened all the windows. Jack found the disgusting plug in make fake smell devices and tossed them. Apparently, the house had been shut up for a while and this was the crews way of refreshing the air. GAGG.
Travel, just another joyous way to spend the day.
PS. Once we got settled everything was actually joyous – well except for paying double what we spend in Pontelandolfo for our morning cappuccino.