Week 5, why I love Coffee Crisps and why Alitalia is getting a nasty letter

The last week in Italy was a blur of performances, one of which was a musical theatre concert at an outdoor venue next to a halfway house for recovering mental patients. Read it again for the first time. I have nothing against people who are attempting to re-enter society, I just wish we had been forewarned before the onslaught of half-dressed men following us around and mumbling in Italian.

But all's well that ends well, I passed the Italian certification test, and managed to get all of my stuff into my suitcase under the weight limit, checked in on time (despite the fact that it might take an act of God and/or Interpol in order to find your terminal in under an hour) and downed a capuccino before I got on the plane with two of my girlfriends from the program. Nine hours, two meals, and two marriage proposals from flight attendants later, I landed in Toronto. Canada has always been high on my list of favorite countries. The people are polite, civilized, and they sell Coffee Crisps at every drugstore. So after I cleared Canadian customs, I went downstairs to collect my suitcase, noticing that it was getting on 3:15 and I was supposed to be on a flight to Boston at 4pm. I approach an Alitalia representative who tells me that Air Canada (who is flying me to Boston) will happily put me on the next flight out, no trouble.

And so, I wait. For half an hour, I wait for my baggage to come. At about 3:45, the big yellow light comes on that indicates the baggage is about to appear on the carousel. And then, it happens. My worst nightmare, come true, right there in Toronto. My Samsonite suitcase that has braved years in foreign countries, been dragged to Eastofnowhere and back, sat on and thrown and dragged on cobblestone streets, is wrapped up in brown tape. The zipper on the top is no longer attached to the suitcase, and the top of the bag is actually INSIDE the bag. It actually no longer resembles a square, instead, a sort of sad, bowling pin shape of a bag, the heavy duty plastic and metal frame completely bent. But at this point in time, I've been awake and traveling for close to 16 hours and I just want to get home. I speak briefly with another Alitalia rep who tells me to make my way to Air Canada and get my things sorted out with customs because otherwise I will miss my flight. So I take a bus to the other terminal with a pilot who looks at my suitcase and makes a joke about how on the days when things run slow it's because the luggage eating machine is down and they are destroying the bags by hand that day. I am not amused. The kind woman at Air Canada tells me that, even though I did not miss my 4pm flight because of carelessness, there is no such policy as the Alitalia rep stated and I will be charged for the changing of my flight to Boston. At this point, I am borderline hysterical and say in my most controlled voice, "You mean to tell me that I will have to pay for a change to a flight that I missed because Alitalia's flight from Rome came in late due to a thunderstorm, and then they shredded my luggage?"

Sidebar: In my year of living in Canada, I noticed that they are rather non-confrontational, and when presented with an hysterical American, they will do one of two things: freeze over or avert their eyes and comply. I was not hysterical (yet), but perhaps it was the deranged glint in my bloodshot eyes that gave away my altered state.

So the very nice woman at Air Canada changed my flight and sent me through to customs, where I was given several raised eyebrows about my luggage wrapped in tape, and a very nice American customs official named Paolo stamped my passport and said, "Welcome home, Emily." After two unsuccessful attempts to call my husband, I used the circa 1992 internet terminal to send him a text message, purchased six Coffee Crisps at the shop, and went to the Molson Pub. I met up with another girl from the program who also had a layover, and we ate steak and drank Rickard's Red and tried to think of more pleasant things. My flight to Boston was a little late, but very pleasant, and a nice man switched seats with me so I could have the aisle. I got home to Boston a little before 9pm, took a shower, and passed out in my bed, blissful at last.

You might think this is the end of my story, but oh no. This is just the beginning. Since this morning, I have been discovering what was stolen out of my suitcase. The list is almost a page long now, and perhaps the most injurious of all items stolen is the ONE dress shoe that remained in my bag. The ONE of TWO enzo angiolini strappy satin heels that was sitting amongst the ruin, the ONE shoe that reminded me of how long I waited for those shoes to go on clearance, and how much I love them, and then I began to notice the other items that were conspicuously absent. Like my bras. ALL OF THEM. Like my linen skirts. Like my button-down shirts and my favorite flip flops (again, only ONE was stolen, not both) and my dress pants that were the perfect length to wear with heels for auditions. And the list goes on.

I have called Alitalia twice now. Sat on hold for over 30 minutes at a time before being transferred to an answering machine, while listening to some pre-recorded voice wax lyrical about how Alitalia represents the best of the Italian nation and how they attempt to embody a people who "truly know how to live well" by serving fine wine and food on their flights, and strive to be courteous and ingratiating to all. So I am going to Linens and Things to look at hardside suitcases, having spent most of the morning fuming and foaming and doing online research about suitcases, and when I return, a calmer, saner individual, I will write the world's most eloquent scathing Miss Jean letter to Alitalia, and not only will I tell them that I want remuneration for the shopping spree that someone had in my luggage and the damage done to my otherwise sound suitcase, I want them to apologize for disgracing all of the nice people that I met in Italy who went out of their way to be helpful to a stranger in their country, because if this is customer service, then I'm the Pope.

Love to all, it's good to be home, pardon the explosion of bile.