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.
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