As my week in Rome is going to be woefully poker-less, I’ll be sharing anecdotes instead. Specifically, I’ll be sharing with what I’m good at sharing: Incidents with people annoying me.

In the immortal words of Alice Cooper, “It’s the little things.”

So. We get off the plane and mosey our way towards the baggage carousel. My first impression of Rome’s “Leonardo da Vinci” airport is “not too shabby.” It’s not Singapore’s airport (nothing beats Singapore’s Airport) but it’s certainly isn’t that clusterfuck of a mess known as Charles de Gaulle in Paris, either. It’s an airport. It has signs that actually make sense, but it’s still a miserable place to spend a day. Average, in other words.

Now, we get to the baggage carousel, and we - Lori and I - are among the first people to go stand in the vicinity of it. Why that is, I’m not sure, since we were among the last to get off the plane. Maybe the other passengers all went to the bathroom, or maybe they simply couldn’t find their way. I hope it’s the former, but I fear it’s the latter. So we’re standing there waiting for our luggage. It’s a large carousel, lots of space. People instinctively try to stand as close to the opening - the place where the luggage comes out onto the belt - as possible, and I’m no different. So I find the opening, and then I trace my way down the conveyor belt to the first spot unspoken for. And then I do something that I seem to be alone in the universe of doing: I stand back three feet.

See, here’s the thing - and I hope the readers of this blog learns from this - standing back a few feet from the conveyor belt has a few really nifty advantages to it, if EVERYBODY DOES IT. First, it allows more people to actually stand and see the conveyor belt. By backing up a little, we can all fit. Secondly - and more importantly - if we all stand three feet from the belt there’s room in front of us that can be used to retrieve a bag. Since bags tend to weigh in the vicinity of 40-50 pounds each, some smaller women may have a problem getting them off in one sweeping motion. By leaving room in front of the belt, they don’t have to bump into three people as they get dragged on down the belt by a piece of luggage about their own size; they can simply walk next to their baggage as they get a good grip before yanking at it.

Anyway, I don’t have to preach the advantages of stepping back a few feet to you; you’re smart. It’s the other people. The ones who actually hang out around conveyor belts; they’re the problem.

Because there I stand, clearly by the conveyor belt, clearly with the intention of picking up my luggage, but I’m not actually leaning against the side of it as if it was a bar about to take last orders at 2:30 in the morning. I’m being smart about it. And there he comes.

My countryman.

The idiot.

And he actually walks up to the belt immediately in front of me. Now, you will recall, I stand back about three feet. That’s enough room for someone to pick up a bag, but it’s also decidedly small enough that in an otherwise empty room, a stranger will definitely be considered to take up your personal space if he gets that close. That’s how close he was; I could smell his shampoo. Now, I’ve travelled a lot, so I’m not unfamiliar with the idea that a Swede’s belief ni personal space is not shared by everyone else on the planet. That idea gets pretty quickly shot down the second you enter Asia, trust me. But this was one of MY people. A middle aged man, complaining about to his wife about how crowded it was at this airport. And me, standing one foot behind him rolling my eyes.

Now it had reached the point where I could no longer see what was coming down the conveyor belt, I could only see what had passed. The smart thing to do… No, not the smart thing. Let’s use a better word. The RATIONAL thing to do would have been either to politely point out to him that he’s blocking my view, at which point he would have immediately backed off (because Swedes’ idea of personal space goes hand-in-hand with our fear of conflict) or to avoid said conflict (the Swedish thing to do, after all) and walk down the belt to the next open spot and give up my utopian dream of everyone standing back, and leave no space in front of me.

I did neither of those things, and the option least tempting was to move away. I was there first. And this guy - and not least his wife - were amusing. They were complaining to each other about just about everything going on around them. The fact that their bags hadn’t come yet. The fact that it was so crowded. About the asian people standing directly to their right (who, they were sure, had misread the prompter and weren’t at the right carousel, because why would asian people fly SAS? Come on!*). About, and this made me chuckle, the woman who had to cut in front of him to pick up her bag (The Guy look at his wife, looked to the woman who was trying to get her bag, and then looked back at his wife and rolled his eyes). Yes, it’s awful when people just cut in front of you, isn’t it?

[* They were at the right conveyor belt. I mumbled “yes!” to myself when they picked up their bags.]

I stand there, and I consider my options. Do I ask him to move, or do I simply hold my position fully aware that he must be uncomfortable having me this close behind him? There’s plenty of room around us, and I’m essentially standing as near him as only a close relative would normally be allowed to do. I’m SURE he’s uncomfortable by it. I ponder asking him to move, but I figure that unless his bags arrive very soon, the total amount of uncomfortability that I’m imposing on him will be much greater by me simply breathing down his neck than any verbal conflict ever would be.

And God heard my prayer. We stood for a solid 20 minutes before our bags - simultaneously, as god has a sense of humour - arrived.

That said, the rest of the night worked out as intended. We arrived safely at the hotel, had a quick dinner at the roof garden (which overlooks the ancient part of Rome, but you can’t really see much when it’s dark) and then swiftly fell asleep. The only thing left for me to share today is the very elegant way I was dismissed by the concierge when I entered the hotel:

We walked into the hotel, and I walk up to the counter to the first person I see and say “Good evening. I have a reservation.” Without even looking up, the older gentleman in the uniform says, “Good evening, sir. That is an excellent reason for you to come to our hotel.” With a barely noticeable nod of his head to my left he continues, “and my colleague a few feet down will help you get checked in.”

Message received.

/FP