Airport Express Lines and Italian Bartenders Following Ill-Advised Beard Trend

It's a given. Airport line ups for check-in, security, passport control, Starbucks. They're everywhere. While I don't consider myself a travel expert, I have navigated enough of these lines in enough countries to have a decent grasp on how to at least not raise the ire of flight crews, customs officials, and baristas.

Some more modern airports have blissfully caught up with technology and you can, if you have an electronically-chipped passport, breeze through passport controls by scanning your documents, having a quick snap taken of your travel-weary mug, and off ye tot. This was the case in Rome, so I found myself a good 45 minutes earlier than expected, as I had circumvented a huge line of plebe passport holders that had to wait for an actual PERSON to process them. (Yes, I become that snobby and entitled that fast when it comes to border crossing.)

I smugly sauntered in to the Priority Plaza Lounge, which was fairly new, and gathered some snacks, maneuvered around obvious first-timers (sigh) and plunked down at the bar. At this lounge, beer and wine are complimentary, but not spirits. Having my newfound (ha?) superiority complex, I indulged in a "premium" gin and tonic.

My bartenders, both in their late twenties, were mildly distracted by some printer issue. Between gesticulations and the small amount of Italian I could discern, the printer had been down all morning, no one had come to fix it, and they were ready to throw the printer onto the runway. I, too, was distracted by this, being an industry "veteran" (thanks, AMo, I'll never live that down), I felt the pain of broken equipment, and even briefly thought of offering a glance to see if I could help. I decided against, for gin reasons.

I ordered a second round, and it was at this point I realized, to some mild horror, that both of my bartenders had beards. Like, bartender beards.

I haven't been back to Italy for some three years, but when I was there last, there were no beards. Young men were clean shaven, especially in hospitality. But there they were. Groomed hipster dumb-ass bartender beards. I was, and am still, underwhelmed by this new data.  I had to ask, so I gestured the seeming senior of the two men over. "Scuzi... How long have you had a beard?" He looked a bit shocked, but answered, less than a year. I nodded.  "Why did you grow it? Does your mother like it?" I knew the answer to this in advance, but wanted to see his response. He threw his hands up in despair. "NO! She hates! She won't take me to Mass as long as I have this beard. I have to go to the later Mass." So, why keep it? "Madam, I am a bartender, not only here, but in Rome, and all the important barmen have beards." Dear god, I thought. This is insane. "What about women bartenders? They cannot have beards?" "No, no," he shakes his head. "They have the tattoos."

I am dead.

European Vacation 2019

Travelogue: en route to Rome.

Landed in Milan, at Malpensa Apt, which is 1.5 hours away from Milan, so not in Milan at all. The "express train" is 45 minutes and not cheap. It is a tranfer airport, quite austere except for the pornographic duty free shop in the international departures wing.

Wandered to the transfer point, where there was a considerably long line, and one security station open, processing one person at a very slow time on an ancient scanner that looked like it was being cranked by a circus monkey. Some locals on their way to Palermo thought that due to their flights leaving sooner (not true for all in the line) that they should be allowed to budge. They have children, they have bad hips, they don't want to walk fast, it's hot, their mothers are waiting for them. My ears tingle on the last one, for if an Italian man is going home to a mom, he is likely single.

If you have ever seen an Italian car accident or even a heavy traffic jam, you may know what ensued. Why are people from Palermo more important than everyone else? My mother was from Palermo, I wait like the others. If you were from Firenze/Bologna/Insert Italian town, you would be healthier and not have bad hips. If the food in Palermo was better, you would have more energy.

Then, of course, the retorts. The gestures. The vulgarities causing mothers to cover the ears of the young and cluck at the men.

Security, and eventually the Polizia showed up.  It was a complete stand still as all the customs officials had to get involved. I believe some showed up from other gates.

I am drinking gin. Thank you Priority Pass lounges.

Bonus blog material:

I flew Air Italy, out of Pearson. Security and boarding were a snap, in fact our plane was loaded so efficiently that we sat for 35 minutes as we were early.

We were handed moist towelettes as compensation for the lack of air con. Children were screaming.

No one was in first class, and I was seriously thinking about bribing the purser to let me sneak up there, just so I could sleep.

Dinner came rapidly after reaching cruising altitude, a menu with choices  of Chicken Velouté or Tomato Pasta, with potatoes and mixed veg, lemon mousse, one drink and tea or coffee at the end.

I urge you to look up Velouté, if you don't know what it is, and please know, this was no Velouté. This was melted  butter floating sulkily, unsalted, in milk. The veg were steamed to death. The Lemon Mousse reminded me of cool whip with lemon juice vaguely spritzed on it by passerby. The wine was cold. That was the highlight. 

I am now suffering the consequences  of being too hungry to refuse the refuse, and must now quell the churning with free pouring gin and tonic.

Xtina out.