New Violence
Part One - 01.06.2024
The chubby old man at the check in counter goes back and forth with his two much younger colleagues in the nearby booths. One of them is lounging back in his chair, his leg swinging relaxed in the air. They speak in Catalan, too fast for me to understand. There’s no one else checking in at the other booths, or behind me. The only words I can catch are “Florencia”, “limitado” and “asiento”. It doesn’t sound ideal. Ideal is when they check you and your baggage in without having to have a prolonged chat about it with their colleagues. The man turns back towards me and with a soft smile explains to me that I don’t have a seat assigned. A subtle way to say that I’m in overbooking. He tells me that Florence has weight limitations in place for landing and that for these complicated flights it’s always better to buy a seat when booking the flight. I ask him politely how was I supposed to know that was a complicated flight. He chuckles and gently attaches a striped labeled saying “FLR” to the handle of my golden carry on. “Go to gate B47 and talk to them, I’ll put the bag in stand-by for now”.
At gate B47 there is no one. Too early. I stand right in front of the booth. Waiting for someone to take their place behind the plexiglass screen. I need to get on this flight. I feel a mix of anger and anxiety bubbling up inside me. The Wi-Fi keeps disconnecting. After a few minutes, a girl materializes. She looks younger than me and she’s wearing a long dark blue trench coat, her hair collected in a neat bun. I patiently observe her beeping her badge on a couple different readers, and let her do her thing. I need her help, there’s no use in stressing her out. She logs in the computer and nods in my direction with a funny smile.
“Yes?”
Her eyes are bloodshot and it’s clear she’s fighting a fierce internal battle to keep a straight face. I picture her in some smoking area right outside the terminal sharing a spliff with some other attendants. I explain to her that I don’t have an “asiento” and that I really, really need to make this flight because at 9AM tomorrow I have a visa interview at the U.S. consulate in Florence.
“You need to wait for us to finish boarding, please take a seat”. She looks like she’s about to burst into laughter in my face, but for some reason that doesn’t phase me at all. I find it funny.
The long line of people starts trickling into the plane one by one, like rosary beads. Looking at the boarding line, I am as always appalled by the amount of people that can fit inside a plane. And why are so many people going from Barcelona to Florence anyways? What’s their deal? A group of Italian teenagers surrounds me. They are loud and stupid and they infinitely annoy me. Why don’t they stay grounded? I’m sure there’s no urgent business awaiting for them. I hope one of them somehow loses the ticket. They’ll be fine, they’ll just get home a day later. Some commotion attracts my attention: the boarding is now handled by a tall bald middle aged man with the same uniform as the stoner girl. The man is getting yelled at by a North-African looking guy. “Come mierda!” The attendant is blushing. The guy keeps aggressively yelling in his face, demanding respect like a broken record. “Si tu me respieta yo te respieto!”. His behavior makes me want to pulverize him. The bald attendant looks down at the tickets and stays quiet. He looks to me like someone who’s been bullied as a kid, and the pain echoes from his past within me. I hope he will call security and kick the three broke dumbasses off the line. Selfishly, of course. Look at me. I am quietly sitting here, waiting for my turn, even if I have a more valid reason to be angry than not having enough money on my credit card to pay for my luggage. I paid for my ticket and yet, my seat on this flight is not guaranteed. Look at me. Polite, put together. I deserve a seat. They don’t.
The last people to board are a Portuguese family. I know it because they speak Portuguese from Portugal, rolling words in their mouths like toasted hazelnuts. They are quiet, calm, the older sibling smiles at me sweetly. They disappear inside the tunnel feeding the people-hungry plane. Stoner girl gestures towards me. I approach the booth without a word. They print me a new ticket. Seat 7B. I got an asiento.
“Muchas gracias” and I go, truly thankful, feeding the plane one more soul.
The airport in Florence is very tiny, and very empty. The suitcases immediately appear on the conveyor belt, meaning that the last uncertainty is solved. I am relieved. I’m a few miles from the consulate, even if I had to walk there now I would be perfectly on time for my appointment tomorrow morning, even with some time to spare for a cappuccino. I walk outside in a mild, wet, Tuscan night. There’s a tramway beeping on its tracks. I walk towards it and hear the beeping accelerating. I don’t have energies to accelerate myself. As I get closer, the beeping becomes frantic, faster, faster, going, going! I’m coming! I run the last few meters. The driver looks at me with the corner of his eye and releases the brakes. The tram starts rolling away. A wave of frustration rises from my feet to my head. I show a middle finger to the metallic carcass when I’m out of the driver’s sight. Coward.
Twenty minutes later, I get on the following tramway. The man sitting in front of me is watching very loud videos. My head feels about to explode, and the headphones aren’t enough to cancel the noise out. I move as far as I can away from him. I can still hear it, but only slightly. My phone vibrates. A tiny, unexpected blue notification. My hostel reservation is canceled. No explanation. A small flood of hot tears rushes from the dark bottom of my throat to the rims of my eyelids. I manage to balance them all there, all except for one. I realize that while I cried plenty of times on the subway in New York and felt that to be a perfectly normal thing to do, an initiation almost, a pledge of alliance to the city, I don’t know anymore what is the policy in Italy in terms of public displays of sadness. I feel exhausted and defeated. The idea of someone approaching me to ask if I’m okay feels more haunting than stop crying. I swallow the small warm ball of tears and decide to go to the hostel anyways. I don’t have the energies to look for a new accommodation. Rebelling against this last obstacle seems like the only rightful, sensible thing to do. After a long spell of stations whose names I have never heard before, the tramway finally stops at Santa Maria Novella, the only familiar name on the line, and my destination. I drag my carry-on on the streets in the heart of Florence, paved centuries ago with large slabs of grey stones that make my passing very loud. My mood is just as grey. I keep going only by inertia and spite.
At the address of the hostel, I find an unsurprisingly ancient palace, right at the corner of a deserted street and a peaceful square. By the massive wooden door, three golden plaques saying “ Emerald Palace” in three languages. I wonder why the splurged so much on the plaques. One would have very much sufficed. I ring the bell. Someone answers immediately.
“Yes?” Plenty of passive aggressive questions in this question.
“Hello, I have a reservation” I try innocently.
“No Beatrice, you had a reservation” I’ve been unmasked. I also feel a sort of weird sense of satisfaction in being called by name by a stranger who cannot see my face but knew I was coming.
“Well…why was it canceled?” I relaunch.
“Because check-in is only until midnight”. I unlock my phone. I have no idea what time it is. It could be 11:59 as well as 3 am. I was merely on a mission to get here.
It’s 12:30.
I taste the taste of victory.
“It’s 12:30. Trust me, if it was for me I would have been here way earlier”
A small pause. We both know the outcome now.
The door buzzes open.
“First floor” he says.
pt.2 coming soon
I felt the frustration and isolation in this piece. I’m a little stressed out and I think I need to lie down, but I’m still stuck in the hotel lobby where the narrative ended. I particularly liked the imagery of the people entering the plane like rosary beads and them being eaten by it. Thanks for sharing!