to Alitalia!
This is a true story of our amazing adventures as Alitalia passengers on our way to and back from Prague for the new year. We were supposed to fly out on the 27th of December and return on the 5th of January. The way it eventually turned out will definitely beat all of my Ryanair/Easyjet adventures and give a valuable insight into Italian organising.
At first, it seems a bit too careful to leave home at 1pm for a flight leaving at half past 6 in the evening. But with the country-line bus usually taking at least an hour to reach civilisation, and the trains moving as it happens (75 minutes late, and the only way of reaching Venice), we arrive in the Marco Polo airport barely in time.
The three queues don't seem to be in a particular hurry, as the huge clock over the departures board is showing 40 minutes until take-off. For the first half-hour we don't move at all. 10 minutes to take-off. The poor Japanese guy is still standing, humble back turned to us, at the first check-in desk. The Russians in front of another queue need a translation by phone. Restlessness show in every face. Will we catch our connection flight? Do we have to sleep in the airport? People meet each others' eyes in search of news, or just a comforting eye-roll – yes, I too think it's outrageous. The tiny Dutch woman in front of me keeps dashing off to the information desk, turning more and more red every time.
Some talk of fog reaches the end of the queue. 5 minutes to take-off. The “estimated time” so politely added to every check-in notice board is still 18:30 for the flight to Milano Malpensa, an airport roughly 4 hours away by train. Malpensa, the most important transport centre of half of Italy, the biggest airport of Milano, serving the sprawling mess of a city with the official population of 1,3 million (same as whole Estonia), has happened to be built in an exceptionally foggy area. This means that the airport's strict schedule rules apply only for the passengers, but not for incoming or outgoing flights. Because of fog. Or something else that can be called fog. The rumours moving along from person to person is the only news we receive.
At departure time, a strict-looking woman in a uniform appears to divide the line. The ones whose flight is still scheduled to leave from Malpensa, and the others. - Where are you flying? - Milano. - And then? What is your final destination? - Prague. - (she checks her list) Alright, stay here. It's clear that we won't fly anywhere tonight. In the meantime, the official-woman has found the Russians, and keeps repeating: fiiinnnaaalll destination! Milano, yes, and then?? I see a nerve going in her temple, as she shakes her papers with white knuckles. Apparently the poor Russian woman doesn't understand a word, shakes her head helplessly and repeats to each question: Miljano... Miljano...
Half an hour after scheduled departure time, we have tickets to another flight for the next morning and a promise of paid accommodation for the night. Along with a Greek tourist group and two queues of delayed passengers. The tension has fallen a bit. Nervous as everyone is, they know there is nothing left to do but wait. People are sorted into double and triple rooms. A bus comes. There aren't enough seats, and we are given a taxi instead. It's definitely more comfortable, and the driver is talking in a broad Venetian about all the eccentric tourists he's transporting. We arrive before the bus and park next to a Ferrari on the hotel's driveway. Our accommodation is a five-star 18th century villa, with doubles for 255 euro for a night.
Villa Condulmer
As all the passengers file into the elaborate hall, the anxious faces change. Expressions of indignation turn into curiousity, and then disbelieving smiles. The place is something we've never seen before. The elaborate walls, Murano glass chandeliers, gold-lined mirrors, soft sound-muffling carpets. I, and most likely most of the group, would normally never set foot in a place like this. And, indeed, we do look remarkably out of place. The pot-plants spill some leaves in surprise. Glancing up at the carved ceiling, we lower our voices and straighten our backs, half-heartedly wishing to have worn something smarter than travelling-sweaters. Many will rush off to their rooms to change for dinner.
Considering they could have had only an hour notice of receiving 50 people at once, the kitchen performs admirably. We have a choice between a fish-menu and a meat one, the skinny waiter informs us in the best standard-Italian. The fish-menu is an insalata di mare (sea-food salad) for a starter, the first course a taglierini con frutti di mare (long pasta with assorted seafood), and the second course a branzino con verdura al vapore (fish and steamed vegetables). The meat menu is culatello con verdura (the most tender of Italian hams, with vegetables), tagliolini con anitra (a long pasta with duck), and tagliata di manzo con spinaci (tender beef with spinach). We get an excellent sparkling white wine to start. From the appetizer onwards, my Italian companions go through every detail of the meals and find it to be at least one of their best dinners ever in sense of preparation, quality and style. It's true. The food is wonderful, and I see even the lamentuous Dutch woman looking happier.
The boys round up the culinary experience by ordering some French cognac from 1938, paying 9 euro for each glass, and staying to enjoy all their money is worth for as long as the wide glass allowes them to. To Alitalia! To a good night's sleep! To Alitalia! To Le Corbusier, 1938! To Alitalia!
The flight goes on
We take the bus to the airport at 5 in the morning. Yawning, we check in, nap until the boarding time and find the flight delayed by half an hour. This cuts our time for changing flights in Malpensa fine indeed. But the airport is still foggy. We're delayed for another 10 minutes. Is that how long it takes for the fog to blow off? Apparently it does – we finally take off from Venice. I'm sure to miss our second flight, as we run a record-breaking 5 minutes across the terminal from arrivals to the gate. The second flight is delayed by half an hour, and our queue mixes with people hoping to fly to Delhi – old men in turbans, forever-young hippies in flip-flops, huddles of brown-eyed children. But even this flight takes off eventually. We're amazed.
The time spent in Czech Republic moved by fast enough. It was a great chance to enjoy some snow, ski, sleigh, drink beer and do other things people generally do for relaxing in the winter. By the 5th of January we were quite tired from it all and the thoughts of our own beds seemed more and more appealing. Until the check-in desk tells us that our flight to Milano Malpensa is delayed by two hours. As it's hopeless to catch our connection flight to Venice this way, it means a night in Milano, and probably not 5 stars either. The information desk says they can put us on another flight to Rome. Yes, please, this way we could at least arrive by midnight.
But Rome is notorious for it's transfer flights. As the trip itself hardly takes any time at all (though the noisy Napoletan family right behind us makes it feel much longer), we arrive in good spirits, happily looking forward to arriving home. We finally leave an hour later, after Daniele has reported his missing backpack. It was to be expected, and we were lucky to retrieve the other bags – after all, Rome is a mess in the best case, a black hole in the worst. But the luggage is found in a few days and despite having flown 4 flights, not even one of them without a delay or some other problem, we are left excitedly telling anyone who would listen about villa Condulmer.
At first, it seems a bit too careful to leave home at 1pm for a flight leaving at half past 6 in the evening. But with the country-line bus usually taking at least an hour to reach civilisation, and the trains moving as it happens (75 minutes late, and the only way of reaching Venice), we arrive in the Marco Polo airport barely in time.
The three queues don't seem to be in a particular hurry, as the huge clock over the departures board is showing 40 minutes until take-off. For the first half-hour we don't move at all. 10 minutes to take-off. The poor Japanese guy is still standing, humble back turned to us, at the first check-in desk. The Russians in front of another queue need a translation by phone. Restlessness show in every face. Will we catch our connection flight? Do we have to sleep in the airport? People meet each others' eyes in search of news, or just a comforting eye-roll – yes, I too think it's outrageous. The tiny Dutch woman in front of me keeps dashing off to the information desk, turning more and more red every time.
Some talk of fog reaches the end of the queue. 5 minutes to take-off. The “estimated time” so politely added to every check-in notice board is still 18:30 for the flight to Milano Malpensa, an airport roughly 4 hours away by train. Malpensa, the most important transport centre of half of Italy, the biggest airport of Milano, serving the sprawling mess of a city with the official population of 1,3 million (same as whole Estonia), has happened to be built in an exceptionally foggy area. This means that the airport's strict schedule rules apply only for the passengers, but not for incoming or outgoing flights. Because of fog. Or something else that can be called fog. The rumours moving along from person to person is the only news we receive.
At departure time, a strict-looking woman in a uniform appears to divide the line. The ones whose flight is still scheduled to leave from Malpensa, and the others. - Where are you flying? - Milano. - And then? What is your final destination? - Prague. - (she checks her list) Alright, stay here. It's clear that we won't fly anywhere tonight. In the meantime, the official-woman has found the Russians, and keeps repeating: fiiinnnaaalll destination! Milano, yes, and then?? I see a nerve going in her temple, as she shakes her papers with white knuckles. Apparently the poor Russian woman doesn't understand a word, shakes her head helplessly and repeats to each question: Miljano... Miljano...
Half an hour after scheduled departure time, we have tickets to another flight for the next morning and a promise of paid accommodation for the night. Along with a Greek tourist group and two queues of delayed passengers. The tension has fallen a bit. Nervous as everyone is, they know there is nothing left to do but wait. People are sorted into double and triple rooms. A bus comes. There aren't enough seats, and we are given a taxi instead. It's definitely more comfortable, and the driver is talking in a broad Venetian about all the eccentric tourists he's transporting. We arrive before the bus and park next to a Ferrari on the hotel's driveway. Our accommodation is a five-star 18th century villa, with doubles for 255 euro for a night.
Villa Condulmer
As all the passengers file into the elaborate hall, the anxious faces change. Expressions of indignation turn into curiousity, and then disbelieving smiles. The place is something we've never seen before. The elaborate walls, Murano glass chandeliers, gold-lined mirrors, soft sound-muffling carpets. I, and most likely most of the group, would normally never set foot in a place like this. And, indeed, we do look remarkably out of place. The pot-plants spill some leaves in surprise. Glancing up at the carved ceiling, we lower our voices and straighten our backs, half-heartedly wishing to have worn something smarter than travelling-sweaters. Many will rush off to their rooms to change for dinner.Considering they could have had only an hour notice of receiving 50 people at once, the kitchen performs admirably. We have a choice between a fish-menu and a meat one, the skinny waiter informs us in the best standard-Italian. The fish-menu is an insalata di mare (sea-food salad) for a starter, the first course a taglierini con frutti di mare (long pasta with assorted seafood), and the second course a branzino con verdura al vapore (fish and steamed vegetables). The meat menu is culatello con verdura (the most tender of Italian hams, with vegetables), tagliolini con anitra (a long pasta with duck), and tagliata di manzo con spinaci (tender beef with spinach). We get an excellent sparkling white wine to start. From the appetizer onwards, my Italian companions go through every detail of the meals and find it to be at least one of their best dinners ever in sense of preparation, quality and style. It's true. The food is wonderful, and I see even the lamentuous Dutch woman looking happier.
The boys round up the culinary experience by ordering some French cognac from 1938, paying 9 euro for each glass, and staying to enjoy all their money is worth for as long as the wide glass allowes them to. To Alitalia! To a good night's sleep! To Alitalia! To Le Corbusier, 1938! To Alitalia!The flight goes on
We take the bus to the airport at 5 in the morning. Yawning, we check in, nap until the boarding time and find the flight delayed by half an hour. This cuts our time for changing flights in Malpensa fine indeed. But the airport is still foggy. We're delayed for another 10 minutes. Is that how long it takes for the fog to blow off? Apparently it does – we finally take off from Venice. I'm sure to miss our second flight, as we run a record-breaking 5 minutes across the terminal from arrivals to the gate. The second flight is delayed by half an hour, and our queue mixes with people hoping to fly to Delhi – old men in turbans, forever-young hippies in flip-flops, huddles of brown-eyed children. But even this flight takes off eventually. We're amazed.
The time spent in Czech Republic moved by fast enough. It was a great chance to enjoy some snow, ski, sleigh, drink beer and do other things people generally do for relaxing in the winter. By the 5th of January we were quite tired from it all and the thoughts of our own beds seemed more and more appealing. Until the check-in desk tells us that our flight to Milano Malpensa is delayed by two hours. As it's hopeless to catch our connection flight to Venice this way, it means a night in Milano, and probably not 5 stars either. The information desk says they can put us on another flight to Rome. Yes, please, this way we could at least arrive by midnight.
But Rome is notorious for it's transfer flights. As the trip itself hardly takes any time at all (though the noisy Napoletan family right behind us makes it feel much longer), we arrive in good spirits, happily looking forward to arriving home. We finally leave an hour later, after Daniele has reported his missing backpack. It was to be expected, and we were lucky to retrieve the other bags – after all, Rome is a mess in the best case, a black hole in the worst. But the luggage is found in a few days and despite having flown 4 flights, not even one of them without a delay or some other problem, we are left excitedly telling anyone who would listen about villa Condulmer.
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