These last few weeks have been a bit crazy, even by last term’s standards. I don’t think I got more than 3-4 hours of sleep a night while working on the Applied Dream for Hitachi. Three weeks into term we began our project on Service Design, and fortunately the first week wasn’t too intense. I think most of us were too burnt from the previous project to be very productive.
There are a lot of interesting tidbits to catch up on. Christmas vacation was nice. I think I finally relaxed and started enjoying my vacation after the second week, which was a bit of a shame. After running at full steam for about two months straight, it was very hard to just, well, calm down. And of course wandering around New York City was a complete change from Ivrea.
Because I flew back on a return ticket, I had to buy a ticket back to Italy once I landed in NJ. I wasn’t looking forward to this quest, as three weeks advance-purchase during the busy holiday season isn’t much fun any way you slice it. After a lot of searching, I eventually found a flight through STA Travel (and I managed to pick up a student ID, which should come in handy).
The good news was that the ticket wasn’t too expensive (relatively speaking). The other good news was that it’s a very flexible ticket and cheap for me to change. However, the bad news was that I’m flying on Alitalia. I’d heard some pretty bad things about the airline, but given the circumstances I had no choice but to buy the ticket.
To make things interesting, I decided to bring my new bike back with me on the airplane. I’ve been suffering from the lack of exercise in Ivrea, and I figured a bike would give me some freedom and the opportunity to explore the Alps. Of course, this meant I had three bags…but that’s another story.
Anticipating that I would have a bicycle with me, I asked STA Travel to find out what the requirements were for bringing it with me. The travel agent called Alitalia and was told that the bike had to be packed in a box of certain dimensions with a certain weight and that I’d have to call ahead to reserve a spot for the bike on the plane. I’d have to pay a certain amount for the bike, and any deviation from the dimensions or weight would result in additional fees.
With this in mind, I called Alitalia the day before I was to fly and reserved a space on the plane. After some initial trouble working the phone tree, I had a reservation number for the bike, it was going to Linate (Milano) via Roma, and life was good. I then asked to confirm the amount of the fee.
If there’s one lesson I’ve learned from this experience, it’s to keep my mouth shut in certain circumstances. And wouldn’t you know it: this was one of those circumstances.
The fee the phone rep quoted me was different from the one originally quoted to the travel agent. This didn’t seem right. So I asked about the weight limit and box dimensions. The weight limit was the same, but then the phone rep told me that there weren’t dimensions because the bike had to be in a bag. Yes, A BAG.
Now, I haven’t flown with a bike before, but I know what the drill usually is. You partially disassemble your bike, put it into a bike shipping box (which you can get at any bike store—they’re the boxes the manufacturers use to ship the bikes to the stores), and you pay a fee to the airline for the privilege of having done all this work. This is pretty standard stuff. The only thing that differs is the amount each carrier charges.
Armed with this knowledge, I decided to wade into a conversation that in hindsight would have been better avoided. (Note that the phone reps were all Italian, but the conversations were in English.)
“What do you mean a bag?”
“That’s what the screen says.”
“Why can’t I use a box?”
“Because we have to be able to see what’s inside. We can’t see what’s inside the box.”
(The absurdity of the above statement occurred to me only later.)
“So what if I seal the box in front of someone at check-in?”
“Because you can’t use a box.”
“Why not?”
“No boxes are allowed on Alitalia.”
“What are you talking about? All airlines accept bike boxes!”
“Alitalia does not accept boxes.”
At this point, I decided to hang up and call back. Cue Round Two. The Abridged Version:
“Yes, I’ve verified that you’ve reserved a space for your bike. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Can you verify the size and weight of my bike box?”
“Alitalia doesn’t accept boxes.”
“So what am I supposed to do with my bike box?”
“It says here on the screen that bikes must be packed in a bag.”
“Really. So where do I get one of these bags?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t say on the screen. [pause] How about a sports store?”
“The only bags I can think of that are for bikes are somewhere around 300-400 dollars.”
(There are some kinds of soft-shelled bike carriers made for repeated use—bike boxes are usually good for only one way)
“Oh, that’s much too expensive. Maybe you can find one at a bike store?”
“No, there are only bike boxes at bike stores. What kind of bag is it?”
“I don’t know.”
(At this point the fruitlessness of the situation caught up to me and I decided that perhaps the language barrier was causing some confusion. So I asked for the number to JFK’s Alitalia reservations desk.)
After talking with the phone rep at JFK, it turns out that Alitalia doesn’t accept boxes. UNLESS THE BOX CONTAINS A BIKE. And they accept bikes ONLY IN BOXES. And it turns out that ALL of the previously quoted fees were wrong. So after clearing everything up, I thought it would be smooth sailing.
Yeah, right.
As I mentioned earlier, I now had three bags. And I was showing up at Alitalia’s check-in desk. And Alitalia had already displayed its penchant for flakiness.
I intended to carry one bag onto the airplane because of my experience flying back to the states before Christmas. It’s a small roller-bag. So my dad stood with the bag off to the side, while my bike box was deposited by the skycap at the front of the line. When the ticket agents spotted my box, there was an immediate commotion behind the counter. But as nobody was attached to the box, they had no idea whose it was. Their collective gaze eagerly flicked from one person to the next in this line of middle aged ladies, me, and some italian dude, and I knew how the lion feels with a fresh kill as the hyenas start closing in.
I’m next in line, and as I walked up to the counter, I could see from the way the lady kept switching back and forth and back and forth from me to the box to me to the box that I was in for trouble.
“Sir, we do not accept boxes.”
There, she said it. And with such smugness, too.
It was with some satisfaction that I replied, “Yes. I know. This is a bike. You accept bikes only in boxes.”
Not to be outdone: “No, we do not accept any boxes at all.”
“Well, I have a reservation for this bike box, if you would check your system.”
Man, that felt good to say.
Long story made somewhat shorter, I ended up with my bike and suitcase checked and me standing by the gate in a line that mysteriously formed upon some hidden signal thirty minutes before the scheduled boarding time. (This seems to be common practice with Italians and airports—it also happened last year when flying back to London from Treviso.) At the gate I was asked to check my little roller bag, which was tagged for Linate (I made sure of this) and sent on its way to Italy in the belly of the plane, along with my other suitcase and the infamous bike box. So, three checked bags and no extra fees. Nice. Even nicer was that I swung an exit-row seat.
Jump several hours ahead, and I’m standing by the luggage carousel waiting for my bags to arrive. The large suitcase comes out first. As this was the one lost on the way to NJ, so far so good. Then I see my bike box deposited by the oversized luggage area. The handlers seem amazed that a box has traveled on the airplane, because they are clearly having a conversation about it as they carry it out, and as they walk back inside they keep looking back and pointing at it. Their conversation (argument?) is pretty heated. I collect the bike and head back to the carousel.
And there I wait in vain, for my little roller bag has failed to materialize. Yes, another bag lost, and I’m two for two on this particular trip. After a visit to the lost luggage counter, I clutch the slip of paper that’s replaced my lost bag as I drag my remaining suitcase and bike box out to meet the taxi.
Because it’s Sunday afternoon, I’m informed, there are no police on the highway, which is why (as logical minds can easily grasp) it follows that it’s OK to drive 180 in an 80 zone. We eventually slowed down to 160, but that was only because a construction zone dictated 60. Along the way, I had a nice conversation with the driver about my bike, which was taking up the entire back seat. I don’t think this impacted his driving in any way, however, as I got the sense that the rear-view mirror was used about as often as the numbers on the speedometer. The driver was very nice, though, and aside from having missed his calling as a Formula One driver, he was patient and forgiving as I attempted to exercise the language centers of my brain and have something resembling a conversation in Italian. It’s amazing how much you lose in a couple of weeks if you’re not hearing or speaking the language…
The happy ending to this story: Two days later my little bag was delivered to the school, intact, and with everything inside still in one piece.
Here’s hoping the return flight with Alitalia is less exciting.
