Clay laments a rare failing in German baggage-transfer efficiency, plans a few interim wardrobe additions — while awaiting his bag’s return — and sticks close to his flat lest he miss the improbable delivery window.
Rome — Early morning hours of my first full day in Rome. I did not sleep enough, but I believe I slept hard and woke up for the last time around 5:30 a.m. It is not light outside yet, but there are stirrings in the Airbnb where I am staying. I’m drinking a Coca-Cola Zero Zucchero (no Diet Coke here). Here, the cap is leashed to the bottle, an EU-mandated regulation to reduce the proliferation of plastic in landfills and promote recycling. It’s cold in this flat. I don’t think the heater works between 10 p.m. and 8 a.m. I’ve got a couple of hours before my reservation at the fabulous Borghese Gallery, where the best Bernini statues in the world are clustered.
I left my house in Bismarck yesterday (was it yesterday?) at 7 a.m., and flew in three airplanes to Rome, where I landed yesterday (local yesterday) at 2 p.m. Bleary, sleepless, grungy, and wanting only two things in this world: a hot shower and a place to burn my airplane clothes. Good thing I didn’t, because after watching the baggage carousel cough up the bags from the flight, I discovered, when I was the last person in the area, that my suitcase had not made the flight. It is a sad thing to watch one person after the next get their bag and leave for the taxi queue, as the numbers go down from 100 people to 50 and then 20 and then five, and to begin to realize that there is a very good chance that your luggage has been lost. I’ve traveled extensively in my life — scores of flights per year for 40 years — and my luggage has only been lost perhaps 10 times. It became clear to me as I sat there disconsolately, that this was going to be one of them.
I believe the correct technical term is arghhh. It’s one thing to lose your luggage in Tampa or Denver, where you know there is a Target store or Walmart within a few dozen miles and a rental car that will get you there, to purchase a shirt, a few toiletries, and a packet of boxer shorts (perhaps also a harakiri sword), but dramatically another in a foreign city, where there are no known box stores and you are dependent on public transportation.
It took some time to find the Lost and Found Desk. In the U.S., you go to the glassed-in Lost Luggage cubby operated by your specific airline. Here at Rome International there is only one place to conduct this business for all the airlines. The brisk, efficient Italian woman who helped me fill out the paperwork exhibited a kind of detached professional commiseration. They don’t want to feel your pain lest you launch into an autobiographical monologue or a spirited denunciation of the airline business. I have learned long since never to be snarky with the agent who is helping you solve your problem. This is not their first rodeo and their only way of surviving this job is to stick to logistics. My response to all crises in life is the same: What’s the remedy? No whining. Suck it up and get on with the transaction. If anyone was responsible for my lost luggage, it wasn’t she.
The Lost and Found agent was able to locate my suitcase thanks to the advanced luggage tracking system. It was stuck in Munich where my flight from Denver had landed early, with a layover of more than two hours before my short flight to Rome. In other words, there was no earthly excuse for Lufthansa failing to transfer my bag from one plane to the next on the same concourse. The agent told me that it would be on the next flight, which landed at 6:30. Before I could enjoy my full sigh of relief, she informed me that they would deliver the bag to my Airbnb, of course, but they stopped lost-bag delivery service at 5 p.m. I could stay four-plus more hours (after 24 hours of travel) at the airport and pull my bag off the carousel, or they would deliver it tomorrow (is it tomorrow?) after 8 a.m. and probably before 10 a.m., but they couldn’t be sure and there were no guarantees. Understatement.
I took all of this stoically. I had my passport, my wallet, my computer, my charging devices, and, by some miracle of planning, a toothbrush and toothpaste. I’d just go to the Airbnb, nip out to buy a T-shirt and maybe a razor, and get some much-needed sleep. The only thing that really disappointed me was Germany. To lose luggage at Newark International is almost expected or in any airport in Italy or even Britain. But in Munich? On Lufthansa? If I had to make a list of nations where your luggage is not going to get lost I would put Germany at the top, then Japan, then Switzerland …. But Deutschland? This is Germany, reduced to rubble in 1945, and yet soon enough the strongest economy of Europe, the most efficient industrial nation on earth! When we got on the plane for Rome, for example, and settled in, the pilot came on the intercom (this always makes me nervous until wheels up) and said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, I have a bit of bad news.” My heart fell to the floor. In America that translates as: “There is a good chance you will never reach your final destination, just saying.” Then he said, “Due to some air traffic congestion in Munich I’m afraid our departure is going to be delayed by about six minutes. I’m sorry for this delay. We appreciate your patience and understanding.”
I wanted to stand up and shout: “Ladies and Gentlemen, Meine Damen und Herren, you have just heard a statement that has never been uttered in my home country!” But since my German is weak, I just smirked and settled in for a head-flop nap.
So now it is beginning to be light here in this remarkable Airbnb flat about 200 steps from the Pantheon, my favorite building in the world. I’m going to crack a second Coca-Cola sans sucre. I’m going to shower. I’m going to put on my fetid clothing from the three flights. And I’m going to wait all morning here for my lost bag, because if I venture out, even for a few minutes to buy a pastry (there are five charming little bakeries within shouting distance), that’s when the baggage delivery man will appear, and then the disastrous yo-yo effect would begin. “We tried to deliver the bag as we indicated, but since you were not there, we had no choice but to bring it back to the airport, where you may pick it up between 1:15 and 2:45 p.m. Thursdays except on saints’ days.” You all know the cable-guy paradox. If you stay in your house all day waiting for him to appear for his appointment between 11 and 1:30, he’ll never turn up. He senses your neediness. But if you venture out for five minutes to pick up a carton of milk, when you return, he’ll have left a Post-it on your door saying, “Missed you! Please call 1-800-INFERNO to reschedule.”
I bought a pretty good T-shirt. I had a superb small plate of cacio e pepe and washed it down with a good glass of vin ordinaire (house wine — in this case, red). Jefferson said, in Europe, always order vin ordinaire. I got a pretty good night of sleep. I won’t miss my appointment at the Borghese Gallery (Bernini’s exquisite statues) at noon (that would be madness), and I have rescheduled my visit to the Basilica of San Clemente (a church on top of an earlier church on top of a Mithraic temple on top of a Roman republican structure, with an underground river gurgling under all of that). I call this an architectural palimpsest.
By this evening (is this today or late yesterday back home?) I will almost certainly be buying a second T-shirt.
And yet I feel nothing but joy in being in one of the most splendid cities on earth, with echoes of most of my non-American cultural and intellectual interests, and pasta to make Olive Garden blush. Eight thousand miles at 38,000 feet, on three planes by two carriers, only one plane six minutes late, from the northern plains of America to the fons et origo of western civ in a single long day.
I traveled to Rome and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.