ADVENTURES WITHOUT PASSPORTS (Chpt. 8, Essay No. 5)*
It was essential to show identity papers every time you crossed a national border. From Germany to France to Switzerland to Italy. Well, maybe not Italy; my husband once traveled to Venice without his passport.
Somehow, when packing for an official trip to Italy, he grabbed my passport instead of his own. This little distinction escaped notice when he left the Frankfurt airport, but it was a bit of a problem when he arrived at Venice Airport Marco Polo, and an Italian official compared the bearded man before him with the long-haired woman in the picture.
“Questo non è il tuo passaporto,” the man in the uniform said. This is not your passport. John explained in English that he did, in fact, possess a valid document but that he had mistakenly brought his wife’s. See? Same last name.
“Si. Where isa’ you passaporto?” Again, this is my wife’s; I forgot my own. I’m sorry. Can we call her? I have other ID with me: U.S. military, my driver license. The official is nodding as the story goes on, as though he’s following every word. But at the end of the second explanation, and the third, the response is still, “Yes, but where is your passaporto?” Finally, the official sighed and motioned for John to proceed to baggage claim and into the country.
Leaving Italy would not be a problem either, but it was doubtful he could talk his way back into Germany without proper papers. He had me meet him at the Frankfurt airport immigration desk so we could have the correct document passed along to the officials in passport control.
The trip to Italy had begun with a little bump when John, sitting at the departure gate, glanced at his ticket and read Venedig as the destination. “Venedig?” he exclaimed, dashing back to the woman at the Lufthansa counter. “I’m supposed to be going to Venice!”
The German agent, prim uniform, sleeked back hair, hollow cheeks, dead-eyed, weary voiced, informed John: “Venedig ist Venice.”
Having entered Italy more or less legally and much delayed, John finally picked up his rental car: a sleek and sporty little model. His first challenge was how to put it into reverse as he crept closer and closer to the concrete wall of the parking garage. It turns out, you squeezed up on a ring on the stick-shift knob. All right. He was on his way, braving the autostrada, where speed limit signs and lane markings were apparently mere suggestions, when it began to rain. Just a sprinkle. No problem. It was a warm afternoon, the windows had been left open, and the damp breeze was refreshing. Then it turned into an actual rain, and John thought he might roll up the window. Hmmm. No window handle, lever, knob, or button. Not beneath the window. Not on the door. Not on the dashboard. The shower became a downpour, and still he could not find a way to close the window. He hadn’t reached his hotel, let alone started his job, and Italy seemed to be getting the better of him.
He rolled his eyes heavenward… and then he saw them. Two round buttons on the ceiling by the rear-view mirror. The window controls.
The day had been a trying one. Dinner would be relaxing. He peeked at his Marling Menu Master but forgot to take it with him to the restaurant. That’s OK, he could probably figure this out. How about a local specialty, a dish named in honor of this splendid city? He decided he’d try the Fegato alla Veneziana. Venetian-style something-or-other. Surely you couldn’t get much more Italian than that.
Indeed, the meal was excellent. As long as you liked fried liver and onions.
*Other favorite chapter titles of previous readers:
- Adventures without Passports
- Alpha Male in Kindergarten
- They Buried the Lead
- Too Fluent to Understand
- Why Women Take Longer in the Bathroom
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