Service with a grimace - Italian style

It was always likely to be one of those days.

Sunday, the end of one of those many weekends in May this year made longer by a public holiday falling on a Thursday.

A time when the the world and its mother (or at least those who could afford it) decided enough was enough and that the typical two-day break should be stretched to make four.

Most definitely a period when anyone with a  shred of sanity would think twice before taking to the road, rail or air.

So mea flippin' culpa for suggesting a weekend away, and one (as someone with Fearless Flyer courses from two major airlines under his belt to help conquer his phobia) requiring a 'plane trip to boot.

Naturally the airport was heaving with those making their way back home.

There were the interminable (ouch) queues at the check-in, inescapably followed up by the snail pace procession at security where shoeless and beltless with trousers heading dangerously south (I really must try to grow a pair of hips, but it's probably too late now) I invevitably set alarm bells ringing. .

Signs to the departure gate seemed to lead in all different directions simultaneously and I switched off my internal GPS as I followed the flock, my friends trailing behind me.

Baa!

We had plenty of time to kill (perhaps not the most apposite turn of phrase) and I had a grumbling tummy, so it was little surprise that my attention was drawn to what seemed to be the only feeding station en route.

Once again there was a queue, well more a semi-organised throng really. But that, as was explained to me by the less than helpful member of staff behind the counter, was only for those waiting to grab a sandwich and a soft drink.

My stomach was calling out for something more substantial.  I had turned into a man with a mission - to eat.

Looking around for a free table, there appeared to be only one available. But there was also a sign which read ominously "Our apologies but due to technical reasons (???) we cannot ensure prompt service."

"What does that mean?" I asked a passing waitress in my most courteous manner.

"It means we're short staffed and you might have to wait a long time before we can get around to you," she growled in response.

I murmured a sound intended to express that I both understood and sympathised before asking whether it would be all right for us to take the table I had spotted.

She grunted a nod (it's possible you know), shrugged and turned her attention elsewhere.

A pause for thought.

We took our places. We sat. We waited.

I smiled (well grinned inanely probably) frequently raising my eyebrows (and my hand) in that (surely) internationally recognisable effort to gain the attention of any member of staff.

My patience and unassailable good humour (written all over my face) eventually paid off as one of them, perhaps tired of the beaming buffoon seated in her line of vision, brought me a menu.

A thank you - measured but sincere - I can do both quite easily - and eventually the same waitress, who was clearly having more than just a bad hair day, returned to take our order.

Around us, others appeared to be less fortunate.

Some had their food slammed down on the table in front them. Others were treated to a growling "cash or card?" response when they asked to pay.

But with me...well "my" waitress seemed to have warmed to my "please" and "thank you", my...well, manners, I suppose and, later on, my firm but polite request to return the mineral water when she prematurely whisked it away, was met with a flicker of a smile.

I was speaking her language - in all senses it seemed. I understood what was making her tick (and ready to explode) and I wasn't at all surprised when she announced out of the blue to those still waiting in line for a table that "the restaurant was now closed" and "no more orders would be taken".

"Say what?" said one of my friends. "What the heck is she doing?

"Oh she's probably just had enough," I replied. "And let's face it, she's under a lot of pressure here."

"That's as maybe, but how come you're so relaxed and good humoured," he persisted.

"Even you've got to admit this is pretty crap service."

"Well yes," I replied. "It's not exactly what you might call professional.

"But frankly, I prefer the disarmingly charming (yes I really sometimes pompously assonate when I talk) approach because being equally unpleasant in return just...well, it takes too much effort.

"Besides 'when in Rome' - well Naples actually...."

Because dear reader, this admittedly appalling service - well chronicled by others on TripAdvisor - wasn't in France, but at l'aeroporto internazionale di Napoli.

Ah Italy.

A post office without stamps

I've been travelling a fair bit recently and, along the way, have spent some time in one of my old stomping grounds.

Er...perhaps for the purposes of this piece, I should write "stamping" grounds. But that would be a little too clumsy a play on words.

And let's face it, I don't really want to push the "ouch" factor too far.

I was staying with friends in one of those picture postcard villages with to-die-for scenery and the proverbial steep history.

You're probably familiar with the kind of place.

Being the pure romantic that I am, I wanted to share the moment with some friends and family by penning my impressions and sending a few postcards.

Yes it's something I still do, although, given the paucity of cards I receive, perhaps I belong to a dying breed.

I know, I know. There's Facebook and Twitter to keep all and sundry up-to-date with what I'm eating, where and with whom.  And I'm most definitely socially connected if not necessarily adept.

Somehow though I enjoy the exercise of sending out a big personalised and individual "hello" to those I care for.

There again maybe friends and family don't quite see things the same way, as I have handwriting which looks as though I've been at the bottle from the early hours of the morning and is as legible to most (even myself on occasions, I hasten to add) as hieroglyphs.

Anyway, I had bought four postcards. Having written them, I of course wanted to send them.

What I needed, and didn't have though, were stamps.

Now, while the village didn't have much in the way of commerce, there was still a post office.

The only problem was, it opened on alternate days and didn't actually sell stamps. Or so my friends informed me.

A bank without money, I had heard of. But a post office without stamps?

Whatever.

My best bet apparently would be to try at the neighbouring village, 10 minutes drive away.

And that's what I did, arriving to see that there were just a handful of people waiting in front of me to be served.

Of course, I hadn't reckoned on the lone clerk behind the counter entering into animated and lengthy conversation with each and every customer about Mrs Whatsername's  latest "ailments", Mr Wotsit's problems with his car or Ms Thingamabob's exam results ("Didn't she do well? So bright.")

Each transaction seemed to last an eternity but finally, after more than 30 minutes and a hooray of hellos and goodbyes, it was my turn.

"Good morning," I said cheerily. "I would like four stamps please for postcards to Germany and Britain."

I received one of those disconcerting looks accompanied by a definite intake of breath, which made me wonder whether I had made some sort of unreasonable request.

"Er...you do sell stamps, don't you?" I asked.

"Of course, of course," came the reply as the clerk reached beneath the counter to pull out an enormous folder with separate sections for stamps of different values.

"It's just that I'm not sure we have the right ones available for Germany and Britain," he said as he slowly thumbed  his way through the binder.

"Let's see. You'll need 85 centimes for each postcard and...no....no we don't have any 85 centimes stamps. We only have ones for 70 centimes and others for 20 centimes. So sorry. I can't sell you stamps for your postcards."

"Oh that's all right," I replied. "I don't mind paying an extra five centimes to send each card. Could I have four of each please." I was still in my cheerful customer mode.

There was a shaking of head, a sighing and a puzzled look followed by, "I'm not sure I can do that. You see, if I sell you stamps for 90 centimes and you only need ones worth 85...well it won't tally with the records I keep and I'll have to fill in the wrong amount."

Every purchase, deposit and withdrawal, it appeared, had to be laboriously entered into a ledger.

Computers didn't seem to have reached this part of the world yet.

"But you won't be filling in the wrong amount," I persisted.

"I'll be buying and using stamps for 90 centimes each, whatever the cost of sending each postcard really is. And that'll surely be reflected in the records you keep of your sales, won't it?"

There was silence, a pause for reflection as he processed the idea and finally a light bulb moment as he seemed to realise that what I had said made some sort of sense.

And although still not certain he was doing the "right thing", he handed over the stamps, entered the amount paid into his account book and wished me a pleasant day as I thanked him and made my way outside.

So I had my stamps and could send my postcards.

But had I just entered and left the parallel universe that is sometimes French village life?

No dear reader.

Before you jump to conclusions and think typically second-rate service so characteristic of many parts of France,  benvenuti in Italia!

You see. It happens elsewhere too. And somehow it simply adds to the charm of the place...er...doesn't it?