Back at home blog catch-up: Part I

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Where to start? Paradoxically, there seems to be an inverse relationship between the level excitement in our life and the quantity of prose we produce to chronicle it. Lately we’ve done a lot and blogged but little. What follows is a series of unconnected posts aimed at catching up.

Flight to Rome

A flight in an airplane is generally a forgettable experience, notwithstanding the airline industry’s long efforts to give its customers the illusion of some measure of difference between their experience and that of so many sardines stuffed in a tin can—which the British would perhaps call a tin tin. But our flight from Frankfurt to Rome, our first with RyanAir, was memorable indeed.

For those who don’t know, RyanAir is an intra-European air line that sells tickets for peanuts and seeks instead to earn its keep by fining its customers for various indiscretions (pieces of luggage that weigh more than the allotted ten kilograms, for instance). As we boarded the plane, the names of various customers were called out in a thick Italian accent and those named were asked to come to the front of the plane. This, it turns out, was a sort of shaming ritual in which persons whose luggage exceeded permissible weight limits were made, publicly and on the spot, to pay a fine of thirty Euro or so on pain of having their luggage left behind. This took a while, and the captain soon chimed in on the loud speaker that we had missed our slotted time on the runway and would have to wait fifteen minutes or so for another chance.

But soon enough we were in the air, which was when the real fun began. RyanAir, as it happens, supplements its fine-collection business by foisting upon its passengers an improbable omnigatherum of overpriced in-flight products. No sooner had one flight attendant finished going through the motions of safety instructions than every other flight attendant became a salesperson, none of them sounding all too convinced of the value of their wares and none of them speaking anything quite resembling fluent English.

“Ladies and Gentlemans,” the procession began, “in a few momutes our flight attendants will be patrolling the ice-les with a thick arrangement of tasty food-eating products, like such as: Hot dogs, hamp-burgers, rices, and puddings.”

Moments later:

“Ladies and Gentlemans, there is no bester time to smell goodly than on a RyanAir flight. Our flight attendants will soon be patrolling the ice-les with the offer of body smelling products: Chez Marie parfumes for the ladies and Armani colon-yays for the gentlemans—all for the economical prices of forty Euros.”

And immediately thereafter:

“Ladies and gentlemans, smoking of any kind, legal or illegal, is absolutely forbitten on this RyanAir flight. However, for those who would like to whet the keen edge of their powerful addictions by holding a package of forbitten cigarettes in their hands, our flight attendants will soon be patrolling the ice-les with packages of to-be-smoked-immediately-after-this-Ryan-Air-flight cigarettes for the economical price of only seven Euros. Interesting persons may signal their interestingness by calling out to our flight attendants or by they may contact myself.”

And so it went, for ninety rollicking minutes. No filmmaker, however funny, could have produced so delicious a parody. I had always been told that you get what you pay for, but how could such high entertainment be included in the paltry price of admission? It was wonderful. When the plane touched down in Rome, our fellow travelers erupted in applause—as much for the flight crew’s delectable dada as for the captain’s virtuoso performance. We have hardly stopped smiling since.

At the airport we were met by the great and famous Gabriele DeMatteis, fresh from the beach and dressed for the occasion, who gave us a ride to our hotel.