She's Got a Ticket to Ride . . . But She Don't Care.

We left Sorrento on a Sunday morning and headed to Rome to spend two days before catching a flight from Rome to Frankfurt to Athens.  The Circumvesuviana -- the train that runs from Sorrento to Naples -- was more crowded than we expected -- breathe in your face, 'howdy neighbor,' is that a pepperoni in your pocket or are you just glad to see me? -- crowded.  We thought we were leaving so early on Sunday morning that there would be no one on the train.  But we had failed to recognize the change to Daylight Savings Time and so, it was an hour later than we had supposed -- an hour closer to the Napoli vs. Whoever football match time -- an hour closer to Miller time -- an hour closer to 'let's start a brawl' time. So our casual Sunday morning train ride up the coast got hot and very hairy when the fists started to fly in the next car. I immediately made the decision that, if the fight made it into our car, I would just start chanting, "Napoli! Napoli!" playing the odds that there would be more people defending my old ass.

On the morning of our scheduled departure form Rome, we made it to the airport in plenty of time and got to the Lufhanza check-in long before necessary only to find there was a strike in Frankfort -- our destination city -- and we would not be flying to Athens via Frankfort, at least not with Lufthanza.

So we got in line to get re-booked. We were third in line. Just ahead of us was a young lady, whose husband was a small forward for some minor league Italian basketball team with a baby, and ahead of her, was a Chinese tour group re-ticketing twenty people. It took almost two hours for the tour group to get re-ticketed.

In the meantime, there were a lot of angry people milling about, harassing the very German Lufthanza employees for not having more than two people to help with the process and for taking so goddamn long to complete each transaction. I have to admit I was among them. At one point, I actually told a Lufthanza employee . . .

Am I ashamed?  Perhaps.  I  do have days when I find my own behavior troubling.

I am not fond of religionists.  I find religion and religionists to be the greatest impediment to problem solving that exists in the world.  Religionists are trouble-makers.   And I despise religionists who insist on proselytizing.  As a staunch supporter of their right to believe whatever they will, I tolerate their existence; but when they encroach upon my space I get downright cranky.  I think of the several times I spotted Jehovah's Witnesses heading toward the house.  As I opened the door, I smiled broadly and greeted them warmly, stark naked, then invited them in for a little Bible study.  (They never would.)  It seemed appropriate at the time, but in retrospect . . .

*   *   * 

When I was living in Hollywood, I got on the freeway at the same spot every morning.  The on-ramp had an HOV lane -- a lane reserved for people with passengers in their cars -- which allowed said cars to zip on through to the freeway without stopping, while single occupant cars stood in line and waited for a green light that would allow one car at a time to enter.  The line to get through the light was always very long and, every morning, I watched single driver after single driver enter the freeway by the HOV lane.

  (There were, I might add, a disproportionate number of Mercedes and BMW's who committed this sin/crime.)  

And each morning, I would sit alone in my car, patiently trying to zen my way to a calm and forgiving place as I watched them go by.  But there came a day, probably the result of circumstances -- heat, perhaps, money issues, a nose hair that wouldn't stop annoying me -- and pent up rage related to the HOV cheating issue itself, when I just had to vent.  I decided no one was getting through without knowing exactly how I felt.  So, I stared into my rear view mirror, counting heads in each car. waiting for a car with only a single occupant to head down the HOV lane to my left. 

Spotting the first offender, I spun, thrust my arm and head out the driver's window and threw my middle finger at him like an emotional spear.  He passed, but never looked my way. 

The occupant of the second car, flipped ME off as he went by. 

The third driver was a dark-haired and very beautiful woman in her mid-twenties, dressed to kill, driving a black Mercedes 450 SL with gold trim.  I flipped that one off with both hands.  She winked and waved as she passed. 

A violent storm was brewing in my gut.  There were still two cars waiting at the light in front of me when the fourth, clearly single-occupant vehicle entered the HOV lane.  Things went into slow motion.  I unsnapped my seat belt and lunged, waist-high out the window, both fingers thrust high and hard, my face contorted in disproportionate rage.  The target car, stopped next to me in the HOV lane and, there in the passenger seat, sat a very mean looking, older, little person, smoking a cigar and silently sneering at me.  I panicked, slammed my foot on the accelerator, and ran directly into the rear of the car parked in front of me.  Shame doesn't begin to describe what I felt.

. . . anyway, I told an employee that I doubted these problems would have happened if the fuhrer were still alive.  In very German fashion, he completely ignored me; but, judging from the way he looked down his nose at me and sucked in his normally flaccid Arian cheeks, I think he might have agreed. 

As a result of another person's rant(One must assume that other person was a Business Class customer who felt that his premium price should have its rewards.  And who can disagree?), they opened a third window to accommodate people who had Business Class tickets and the line was immediately populated with some people who had Business Class tickets and a bunch who did not, but wished they had Business Class tickets.

Patti took note and, when the first of the counterfeits arrived at the window, she threw herself physically in front of the woman and told her that, unless she could show a Business Class ticket, she wasn't getting anywhere near the open ticket window. The woman said she was re-ticketing for a group of twenty people, some of whom had Business Class tickets. Patti told her that it would be best for everyone if they got into the line with their Business Class tickets and got re-ticketed on their own. Nobody showed up and Patti -- demure little kitten that she is -- threw her back against the counter and spread her arms across its full width, making it physically clear that this woman was not going to get a ticket for herself or anyone else.

There was such a threat of physical violence in Patti's voice that the ticket agent offered to re-ticket us, just to get rid of Patti.  But Patti is a true hero of the people.  She refused the offer, pointing to the basketball wife and announcing loudly to everyone, that the woman with the baby -- not she nor anyone else, was going to get re-ticketed next.  I stood in the background with my hand over my heart, proudly humming "La Marseillaise."