Maybe Italians don’t waste their time on the little things, or maybe my flight was just jam packed, but the following baggage claim experience was the first stroke of hilarity outside the States. Back at home, for any domestic flight, claiming your checked bags is an adventure in itself. A crowd always gathers at the entrance to the eternally rotating track, in anticipation of the next bag that will magically form behind the heavy black plastic flaps. Why are those flaps there anyway? Is it so that the passengers can’t see how miserably slowly the workers are unloading the carts of luggage? One way or another, American airport workers somehow manage to take upwards of a half an hour to finish the job. And to put the cherry on top, my bag is always the last one to find its way through those flaps.
Upon my arrival into
Ignoring him, I approached the mass as thick as would be in any American airport. I fought my way to the front of the group – passing by intense-looking German twins, and barely making by the swinging gut of an older Italian man on the phone, with an unlit cigarette hanging from his lip. Based on the number of people around me, I knew this morning (if you can call it that after 14 hours of travel) would be off to a slow start. Just as I secured my spot with firm footing in clear reach of any luggage that would pass, the conveyor belt whirred to motion, calling to attention the hundreds surrounding me. By this time, European body odor had already been introduced to me, but now I was trapped against the track not only by a wall of people moving tighter, but an encroaching wall of stench as well. If the bags had not started to appear from those black flaps to divert my attention, I might have suffocated.
It only took three bags to fall onto the track for me to realize how much different this experience was about to be – simply because they all fell on top of each other, faster than the moving metal track could drag them out of the way. Perhaps mine was a flight with all the overpackers, but it went on like this the entire time. It was quite impressive until the first bags on the track came back around. I don’t know how it happened, but none of them got picked up on their first rotation. Whether this was due to passengers not paying attention, or simply that these weren’t anyone’s bags, it became clear that Fiumicino was not prepared for this type of occurrence.
Upon this first stack of three full sized suitcases fell another, barely hanging on to the track on its upper edge. I chuckled and shifted my attention back to the endless amount of luggage spewing from beyond those plastic flaps, only to hear an, “Ohhhhhh… Awww…” to my immediate left. Confused, I watched for a moment, and joined in as a bag balanced on the upper edge of the track. As the metal machine made a right turn, it pushed the bags together just enough to nudge the top bag over, sending it falling behind the track. This is not what I thought my friend had meant when he mentioned “lost luggage,” but since two bags were now “lost,” the Italian man in charge stopped everything and climbed over the massacre of suitcases to the pit on the other side, where he returned the little blue and big red bags into existence. The little old lady standing about 10 yards down received her luggage very graciously and walked off as the machine clicked into gear once again.
Maybe it was because I was the tallest in the front, but as the luggage resumed its spewing, I became the person responsible for saving these bags from falling to their misery behind the track; after all, if its owner doesn’t see it happen, who will remember to fish it out? I did not ask for this job. Rather, I simply responded to foreign words and gestures at bags dangerously close to falling. It was me against the airport workers behind those black flaps. Every once in a while, there would be a muffled yelp behind me and an Italian man to my right would reach frantically for a bag just out of reach, and each time, I would grab it just before it turned the corner. The baggage claim became an appreciative team effort.
Unfortunately, every time I was distracted by grabbing someone else’s bag, the luggage would pile up again, and one bag would be lost over the edge – always accompanied by the helpless sounds of the crowd as it slowly gave way to falling backward. As Europeans around me laughed, I was relieved to find that humor translates very easily across the world. Of course, I was more relieved to see the man in charge pull my bag out from among the fallen bags. After I labeled myself as an American by shouting, “that’s mine,” I lingered in the crowd a bit, wondering if I should stick around to prevent the perpetual disaster, but the bags were claimed faster now, leaving everything to work as it was originally intended.
On the plane, in that awkward time when you can’t listen to music or have your tray table down, I thought about the European view of Americans. I thought about all the clothes I had bought to blend in, and overall how I would be viewed. After leaving Fiumicino, I felt a step ahead of my friend in fitting in to what was sure to be a different culture. While there is no denying that they all knew I was American – even the German twins and the aromatic Italian – saving each bag was replied with such gratitude and genuine smiles that I at least knew that I was viewed differently than the traditional American. It was almost as if I shattered their expectations, surprising them beyond belief. At the same time, I was surprised myself at my first lesson on the Italian value of efficiency and perpetual movement. Even as the man in charge stopped the metal track, people all around me were shifting and fixing the bags so that more could fit.
I left the airport that morning ready to take on
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