Porco Miseria...
May 27, 2019, 1:01 pm
#31
Moderator, Trip Reports
Original Poster
Join Date: Jul 2009
Location: Denver, CO
Programs: UA GS-2MM, Marriott Ambassador
Posts: 3,715
Sorry about the slightly extended intermission. Minor medical emergency. Well at least that’s what I call it.
My unsympathetic wife called it having a tooth pulled.
Wait until you hear this.
Many years ago, when I was a relatively fit young Jedi, I used to do karate. A buddy of mine who I used to work with at the time told me it was a good way to pick up women. So off I go. After a while you sort of get the hang of it and once the sensei person thinks you have half a clue, they start to teach you how to kick. Forward. Reverse. And a wonderful maneuver called a “roundhouse”.
If I tried to do one now, I would either knock myself out or pull every muscle in my worn out, tired old chassis.
So there we all were. Punching away. Screaming at each other violently. And having a splendid old time.
Then we got to the kicking part. I was, on this fateful day, paired up with a rather buxom wee lass called Caroline. Or Heather. I forget. Except for one thing. She wasn’t that “Wee”. She was more like “Wow!”
My own wife sometimes refers to her sister as “big boned”. That’s the female definition of “she’s eaten way too much pizza for the last 5-years”
Now it was plainly clear that Caroline or Heather didn’t like men very much. As in she hated them. With a passion.
Sadly she went first. As in it was my turn to hold this big padded bag and then cajole Caroline or Heather to gently tap the bag with her foot.
You know your day is going to end badly when there is a 300 pound female standing less than 6 feet from you, in a karate suit, who then proceeds to spit on the floor, clench her teeth and then her fists and say something like…
“I’m gonna squash you like a bug and kick you into next week”
“Really, I’d like to see that”
Some of you might find this hard to believe but I was somewhat of a smart alec (I prefer the word cheeky) when I was younger.
More cajoling by me…
“Come on then, give it your best shot…”
And with that, she let out a blood-curdling war cry and picked up speed towards me at an alarming rate of knots. I thought someone was sacrificing a rather large goat. The noise was horrific.
You know, and I’ve only heard this mind you, and not personally experienced it – but the experts say that when you either get punched or kicked by a professional and you get knocked out, you actually don’t feel a thing.
Which is true. It’s actually quite pleasant.
The last thing I remember was Caroline or Heathers rather large right foot come out of nowhere and then the whole world went dark.
I was out cold. I told everyone I must have feinted but when the entire dojo and them some innocent bystanders who heard Caroline or Heathers guttural screams from the street, were all standing around my now rather limp body, proclaiming…
“Is he dead?”
“No he’s just knocked out”
“What happened to him?”
“He was kicking with Athena”
Much nodding of the heads by everyone in the room…
“Ah I see, I’m amazed his head is still connected to his body. Look at this pathetic excuse of a male”
“I heard he was baiting her. What a moron”
“Where did she kick him?”
“In the mouth”
“That’s probably why his tooth is on the mat, way up the other end of the dojo”
That incident was thankfully many, many years ago, but recently a tooth that survived the violent encounter with Athena was giving me trouble and no amount of Irish whiskey was making the dull ache go away.
So it was off to the dentist. I wanted to get it taken care of before we headed out to Italy because the only thing worse than an American dentist pulling out a tooth, is a completely insane Italian dentist doing the same thing.
Remind me to talk about dentists later because one of my best mates is a dentist in Melbourne and he is in all honesty, a stark raving mad lunatic. He is also a rather responsible alcoholic and as long as you don’t see him first thing in the morning, when he is still badly hung over, or immediately after lunch when he has had a bottle of very cheeky chardonnay, you are quite fine. As in dandy.
You know how I said I had the all the itineraries sorted out. As in booked and confirmed.
Well, scratch that.
My wife all of sudden was overcome with a sense of avoiding all things Canadian and her perfectly adequate flight itinerary that I had painstakingly put together with a kind woman from Aeroplan got nixed. As in put down the insinkerator.
“But I got you 2 business class seats on Air Canadas new 787?”
“A what?”
“A 787. It’s the ducks guts”
“I don’t want to fly via Toronto. Or Montreal. And besides, why is the airport code YUL. It sounds weird. It reminds me of Yul Brynner and that man gave me the creeps. I once had a bad dream about him and a cheese grater…”
So it was back to the drawing board. My now good friend, Jasper2009 was not answering my emails – so fed up was he with the constant see-saw nature of my unhinged families travel requirements. He was up and down like a brides nightie – as in up and down from his laptop. All manner of hours, the man worked his fingers to the bone, only to have his immaculately laid plans blown to smithereens.
I was Han Solo.
But you’ll be pleased to know I managed to squeeze 2 J class tickets for The Boss and The Small One on LH – direct from Denver to Frankurt, with an anorexic connection to Milan. I paid the Aeroplan change fees with only a whimper of a protest and chuckled to myself, while draining a triple Tullamore Dew, that J class on LH’s old 747’s was nothing to write home about.
My wife decided that she wanted my itinerary as well. This was not good.
“Honey, I am sorting out the travel insurance for all of us…”
“You are” I exclaimed
“Yes”
“I suppose that’s a good idea”
“Can you send me your itinerary?”
“No”
“Why not?”
“Because I haven’t quite yet finished with it”
“How hard can it be?”
(Visions of a heavy piano falling on her head went swirling through my Irish whiskey infused brain…)
As my good friend Prospero would often say, I was running the feather duster over the final details. Well not really. But you know the drill.
“Why can’t you send me your details?”
“Because it’s not easy”
“I might even have to fly coach”, hoping this would elicit a plethora of sex credits
“Well make sure you send it to me…”
I was praying that she would forget about this and then tried to change directions by insisting that for once, our family needed to go on an organized holiday. One where we knew ahead of time what was going to happen to us.
Without trying to boast, I thought I had done a rather superb job of arranging the first Airbnb. My job was done then. I could do no more.
The new itineraries looked like this.
Wife and The Small One departing on LH in the next 24 hours. Final destination – MXP. And apparently one night there and then a rather scenic train ride to Lake Como.
Simple enough.
Son and his best mate departing in the next 48 hours. DEN to SJC on WN. Then they have to get themselves to SFO because Dad, being the softie he is, threw away the coach seats on AA and found J class seats on LX to Zurich and then onwards to MXP.
Boys have to get themselves from SJC to SFO. And then from MXP to the Airbnb in Milan. Stay one night and then the same, scenic train to Lake Como.
The boys are going to Lake Como because my moron son and I are great fans of Top Gear and now The Grand Tour and there is one particular episode where the irrepressible Jeremy Clarkson is screaming across the lake in a quad/aqua bike contraption. More important is that the episode features a rather magnificent hotel right on the water.
A quick search of the Google will tell you that this particular Italian pub belongs to the Mandarin Oriental.
“Dad can we stay at that hotel that Jeremy Clarkson met the Hamster at – at the of that episode?”
“No”
“Why not?”
“Because its probably 800 Euros a night”
“How much is that in American money?”
“More than I would get for either your kidney or your liver”
“But it would be cool. Stop being a cheap old b…”
So there you have it.
Number One Son plus his slightly bewildered mate are heading to Italy on their own and decided on Lake Como. Mother and sister didn’t want to be left out and decided that they would join the boys, much to the boys disappointment.
We all then meet in Florence in a week or so. Many trains and cars and plane rides later. And I have 8hrs to kill in the FCT in Frankfurt.
Shouldn’t be too hard then.
Departure is imminent. Much to discuss. Standby.
My unsympathetic wife called it having a tooth pulled.
Wait until you hear this.
Many years ago, when I was a relatively fit young Jedi, I used to do karate. A buddy of mine who I used to work with at the time told me it was a good way to pick up women. So off I go. After a while you sort of get the hang of it and once the sensei person thinks you have half a clue, they start to teach you how to kick. Forward. Reverse. And a wonderful maneuver called a “roundhouse”.
If I tried to do one now, I would either knock myself out or pull every muscle in my worn out, tired old chassis.
So there we all were. Punching away. Screaming at each other violently. And having a splendid old time.
Then we got to the kicking part. I was, on this fateful day, paired up with a rather buxom wee lass called Caroline. Or Heather. I forget. Except for one thing. She wasn’t that “Wee”. She was more like “Wow!”
My own wife sometimes refers to her sister as “big boned”. That’s the female definition of “she’s eaten way too much pizza for the last 5-years”
Now it was plainly clear that Caroline or Heather didn’t like men very much. As in she hated them. With a passion.
Sadly she went first. As in it was my turn to hold this big padded bag and then cajole Caroline or Heather to gently tap the bag with her foot.
You know your day is going to end badly when there is a 300 pound female standing less than 6 feet from you, in a karate suit, who then proceeds to spit on the floor, clench her teeth and then her fists and say something like…
“I’m gonna squash you like a bug and kick you into next week”
“Really, I’d like to see that”
Some of you might find this hard to believe but I was somewhat of a smart alec (I prefer the word cheeky) when I was younger.
More cajoling by me…
“Come on then, give it your best shot…”
And with that, she let out a blood-curdling war cry and picked up speed towards me at an alarming rate of knots. I thought someone was sacrificing a rather large goat. The noise was horrific.
You know, and I’ve only heard this mind you, and not personally experienced it – but the experts say that when you either get punched or kicked by a professional and you get knocked out, you actually don’t feel a thing.
Which is true. It’s actually quite pleasant.
The last thing I remember was Caroline or Heathers rather large right foot come out of nowhere and then the whole world went dark.
I was out cold. I told everyone I must have feinted but when the entire dojo and them some innocent bystanders who heard Caroline or Heathers guttural screams from the street, were all standing around my now rather limp body, proclaiming…
“Is he dead?”
“No he’s just knocked out”
“What happened to him?”
“He was kicking with Athena”
Much nodding of the heads by everyone in the room…
“Ah I see, I’m amazed his head is still connected to his body. Look at this pathetic excuse of a male”
“I heard he was baiting her. What a moron”
“Where did she kick him?”
“In the mouth”
“That’s probably why his tooth is on the mat, way up the other end of the dojo”
That incident was thankfully many, many years ago, but recently a tooth that survived the violent encounter with Athena was giving me trouble and no amount of Irish whiskey was making the dull ache go away.
So it was off to the dentist. I wanted to get it taken care of before we headed out to Italy because the only thing worse than an American dentist pulling out a tooth, is a completely insane Italian dentist doing the same thing.
Remind me to talk about dentists later because one of my best mates is a dentist in Melbourne and he is in all honesty, a stark raving mad lunatic. He is also a rather responsible alcoholic and as long as you don’t see him first thing in the morning, when he is still badly hung over, or immediately after lunch when he has had a bottle of very cheeky chardonnay, you are quite fine. As in dandy.
You know how I said I had the all the itineraries sorted out. As in booked and confirmed.
Well, scratch that.
My wife all of sudden was overcome with a sense of avoiding all things Canadian and her perfectly adequate flight itinerary that I had painstakingly put together with a kind woman from Aeroplan got nixed. As in put down the insinkerator.
“But I got you 2 business class seats on Air Canadas new 787?”
“A what?”
“A 787. It’s the ducks guts”
“I don’t want to fly via Toronto. Or Montreal. And besides, why is the airport code YUL. It sounds weird. It reminds me of Yul Brynner and that man gave me the creeps. I once had a bad dream about him and a cheese grater…”
So it was back to the drawing board. My now good friend, Jasper2009 was not answering my emails – so fed up was he with the constant see-saw nature of my unhinged families travel requirements. He was up and down like a brides nightie – as in up and down from his laptop. All manner of hours, the man worked his fingers to the bone, only to have his immaculately laid plans blown to smithereens.
I was Han Solo.
But you’ll be pleased to know I managed to squeeze 2 J class tickets for The Boss and The Small One on LH – direct from Denver to Frankurt, with an anorexic connection to Milan. I paid the Aeroplan change fees with only a whimper of a protest and chuckled to myself, while draining a triple Tullamore Dew, that J class on LH’s old 747’s was nothing to write home about.
My wife decided that she wanted my itinerary as well. This was not good.
“Honey, I am sorting out the travel insurance for all of us…”
“You are” I exclaimed
“Yes”
“I suppose that’s a good idea”
“Can you send me your itinerary?”
“No”
“Why not?”
“Because I haven’t quite yet finished with it”
“How hard can it be?”
(Visions of a heavy piano falling on her head went swirling through my Irish whiskey infused brain…)
As my good friend Prospero would often say, I was running the feather duster over the final details. Well not really. But you know the drill.
“Why can’t you send me your details?”
“Because it’s not easy”
“I might even have to fly coach”, hoping this would elicit a plethora of sex credits
“Well make sure you send it to me…”
I was praying that she would forget about this and then tried to change directions by insisting that for once, our family needed to go on an organized holiday. One where we knew ahead of time what was going to happen to us.
Without trying to boast, I thought I had done a rather superb job of arranging the first Airbnb. My job was done then. I could do no more.
The new itineraries looked like this.
Wife and The Small One departing on LH in the next 24 hours. Final destination – MXP. And apparently one night there and then a rather scenic train ride to Lake Como.
Simple enough.
Son and his best mate departing in the next 48 hours. DEN to SJC on WN. Then they have to get themselves to SFO because Dad, being the softie he is, threw away the coach seats on AA and found J class seats on LX to Zurich and then onwards to MXP.
Boys have to get themselves from SJC to SFO. And then from MXP to the Airbnb in Milan. Stay one night and then the same, scenic train to Lake Como.
The boys are going to Lake Como because my moron son and I are great fans of Top Gear and now The Grand Tour and there is one particular episode where the irrepressible Jeremy Clarkson is screaming across the lake in a quad/aqua bike contraption. More important is that the episode features a rather magnificent hotel right on the water.
A quick search of the Google will tell you that this particular Italian pub belongs to the Mandarin Oriental.
“Dad can we stay at that hotel that Jeremy Clarkson met the Hamster at – at the of that episode?”
“No”
“Why not?”
“Because its probably 800 Euros a night”
“How much is that in American money?”
“More than I would get for either your kidney or your liver”
“But it would be cool. Stop being a cheap old b…”
So there you have it.
Number One Son plus his slightly bewildered mate are heading to Italy on their own and decided on Lake Como. Mother and sister didn’t want to be left out and decided that they would join the boys, much to the boys disappointment.
We all then meet in Florence in a week or so. Many trains and cars and plane rides later. And I have 8hrs to kill in the FCT in Frankfurt.
Shouldn’t be too hard then.
Departure is imminent. Much to discuss. Standby.
May 28, 2019, 4:49 am
#32
Moderator, Trip Reports
Original Poster
Join Date: Jul 2009
Location: Denver, CO
Programs: UA GS-2MM, Marriott Ambassador
Posts: 3,715
You assume way too much but I appreciate the nice remark...
Then you have the same genes as my daughter. You can borrow her for the weekend - lets see how long you last.
Thank you indeed...
She Who Must Be Obeyed, I appreciate the comment and miss you!
Very bad title for a new thread, in Italian is a strong vulgar blaspheme oath, definitely against the forum rules. I do not know how you get the impression that this sentence can be used colloquially in a daily life, it is not. Could be maximum tolerated during a verbal altercation went emotional, not in any other context, even more in a script.
Yes indeed, I realized the errors of my ways and sent a quick post it note to the overworked Mods - who gently tidied up the title. I appreciate you pointing this out that the original title was not quite kosher...
If I knew who or what Endgame was or is, I would be even more flattered. So thank you.
You need to get out more.
Thats nice to know and I appreciate the good wishes...
Thats the whole point of FT - you have to read it at work!
Yes, I promise. Maybe a few splutters along the way, but we will fineto, Even if it kills me!
Your father sounded like a very wise man...
roadwarrier, nice to see you as well...
NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I know I haven't had a drink in 8 hours. I'm nearly dying...
That's the only pain you should laugh at - someone elses!
Ummm. Maybe I'll just stay quiet. And yes, Aussies have a different view on swearing than we do here in the US. Even after 20 years of being here, people still look at me funny...
Yes it is. Until she breaks the gearbox or does a clutch. Both are imminent...
And I am very glad to be back. Thank you for your good wishes...
Then you have the same genes as my daughter. You can borrow her for the weekend - lets see how long you last.
Thank you indeed...
She Who Must Be Obeyed, I appreciate the comment and miss you!
If I knew who or what Endgame was or is, I would be even more flattered. So thank you.
You need to get out more.
Thats nice to know and I appreciate the good wishes...
Yes, I promise. Maybe a few splutters along the way, but we will fineto, Even if it kills me!
Your father sounded like a very wise man...
NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I know I haven't had a drink in 8 hours. I'm nearly dying...
For those curious about the relative merits of this profanity, it depends on how religious you are and what area of Italy you're from. Since it translates to "God is a swine", most religious folks obviously consider it an unacceptable swear in casual conversation. Some areas in Northern Italy (like around Tuscany) are more relaxed about its use, but it's still a curse word so it wouldn't be dropped on the regular. And, of course, it's definitely a "don't say it on TV" type of thing—still an expression of a lot of frustration or anger.
Since f**k is more and more accepted in public life in the US, I'd rate the strength of "porco dio" somewhere above there, but perhaps below c**t. (Unless, of course, you're in Australia.)
Since f**k is more and more accepted in public life in the US, I'd rate the strength of "porco dio" somewhere above there, but perhaps below c**t. (Unless, of course, you're in Australia.)
Yes it is. Until she breaks the gearbox or does a clutch. Both are imminent...
And I am very glad to be back. Thank you for your good wishes...
May 29, 2019, 6:40 am
#34
Moderator, Trip Reports
Original Poster
Join Date: Jul 2009
Location: Denver, CO
Programs: UA GS-2MM, Marriott Ambassador
Posts: 3,715
I don’t know about you, but I’m not a huge fan of holidays if I’m honest. They’re hard to arrange, too many people to please, you have no idea of what’s ahead of you and the uncertainty of what lies ahead is sometimes just too daunting for people like me, with a certain dose of too much OCD.
But Italy is another matter altogether.
I simply love the place. So much history. So much culture. And the food. And then the wine.
Porco (insert whatever you want here) indeed!
More importantly, it would be fair to say that most Italians are crazy. They drive like madmen, the roads and traffic are nothing but controlled chaos, and they like to make fun of the Germans. And the English. In fact, lets just include the rest of Europe on that list.
You just have to love a country that elected someone like Silvio Berlusconi as their PM. I mean he’s a real billionaire. A real playboy. And a real character.
Not long after he took office, it was suggested that he use a car made by Lancia or Alfa Romeo, or even Fiat as his official automobile. He promptly dismissed that idea, fired the flunky who suggested it and went out and bought a fleet of Maserati Quattroportes. Apparently he thought that if he was going to be caught having sex in the back of a car with one of his girlfriends, far better to be a in a Maserati than a Fiat Punto. Apparently (and according to the equivalent of the Italian Gallup poll), an Italian Prime Minister having sex in a Maserati is acceptable. In the back of a Fiat Punto – it is not.
Ok I might have made that last part up – but you know it could easily be true.
I was a little jealous that the rest of the clan were heading out ahead of me. The girls were going first and they were bunking down for 2 nights in Milan, then the boys would join them 1 day later and then they would all do god knows what for the rest of the week at (or in) Lake Como.
Secretly I wanted to visit that same hotel that Clarkson and co had a drink at and I did in fact pull my clueless older child aside and let him know that while he is under no circumstances to stay at that particular establishment, he can and should have a drink at the bar and send his old man a photo.
Unlike most of the holidays we go on, where we simply wake up and see where the day takes us, we have in fact planned out something that resembles an itinerary. Of sorts.
I told everyone that I am going to find the best cooking classes in Tuscany and go and do that. My current wife is apparently joining me.
My son and the plus one decided that cooking class sounded way too cultured and asked if they could go to a pizza making class instead. The read something on the internet that pizza class in Florence was a good way to meet stunningly beautiful Tuscan women. A sort of G rated tinder for teens.
They have no clue.
Going to cooking class would simply not be the same unless I paired it with a perfectly balanced wine tasting tour. I wanted to find the one that was in fact, dangerous for your liver. I wanted it to come with a warning in stern Italian that said something like…
“Participants of this wine tour/tasting extravaganza beware. This event is not for the feint of heart. It is for professionals. Liver failure for those untrained is highly likely”
Or something close to that.
So I spent hours upon hours trawling the Google and I finally found some tours that sounded perfect.
My son is also insisting that we find the same deranged Segway rental place that we visited when we were last here and go do that. And also visit this quaint old restaurant called Brigantis, which according to Larry and Sergey, is still around.
But then again, he was 11 years old when he last ate there, so it may be an entirely different experience.
The boys are T minus 5hrs from departure and I decided late last night that I could in fact bug out early as well, so after a few frustrating calls to the Miles and More desk (in Canada of all places) I was quickly and if I’m honest, quite easily able to change my departure date.
This week, there seems to be award space up the wazoo.
Off we go then…
But Italy is another matter altogether.
I simply love the place. So much history. So much culture. And the food. And then the wine.
Porco (insert whatever you want here) indeed!
More importantly, it would be fair to say that most Italians are crazy. They drive like madmen, the roads and traffic are nothing but controlled chaos, and they like to make fun of the Germans. And the English. In fact, lets just include the rest of Europe on that list.
You just have to love a country that elected someone like Silvio Berlusconi as their PM. I mean he’s a real billionaire. A real playboy. And a real character.
Not long after he took office, it was suggested that he use a car made by Lancia or Alfa Romeo, or even Fiat as his official automobile. He promptly dismissed that idea, fired the flunky who suggested it and went out and bought a fleet of Maserati Quattroportes. Apparently he thought that if he was going to be caught having sex in the back of a car with one of his girlfriends, far better to be a in a Maserati than a Fiat Punto. Apparently (and according to the equivalent of the Italian Gallup poll), an Italian Prime Minister having sex in a Maserati is acceptable. In the back of a Fiat Punto – it is not.
Ok I might have made that last part up – but you know it could easily be true.
I was a little jealous that the rest of the clan were heading out ahead of me. The girls were going first and they were bunking down for 2 nights in Milan, then the boys would join them 1 day later and then they would all do god knows what for the rest of the week at (or in) Lake Como.
Secretly I wanted to visit that same hotel that Clarkson and co had a drink at and I did in fact pull my clueless older child aside and let him know that while he is under no circumstances to stay at that particular establishment, he can and should have a drink at the bar and send his old man a photo.
Unlike most of the holidays we go on, where we simply wake up and see where the day takes us, we have in fact planned out something that resembles an itinerary. Of sorts.
I told everyone that I am going to find the best cooking classes in Tuscany and go and do that. My current wife is apparently joining me.
My son and the plus one decided that cooking class sounded way too cultured and asked if they could go to a pizza making class instead. The read something on the internet that pizza class in Florence was a good way to meet stunningly beautiful Tuscan women. A sort of G rated tinder for teens.
They have no clue.
Going to cooking class would simply not be the same unless I paired it with a perfectly balanced wine tasting tour. I wanted to find the one that was in fact, dangerous for your liver. I wanted it to come with a warning in stern Italian that said something like…
“Participants of this wine tour/tasting extravaganza beware. This event is not for the feint of heart. It is for professionals. Liver failure for those untrained is highly likely”
Or something close to that.
So I spent hours upon hours trawling the Google and I finally found some tours that sounded perfect.
My son is also insisting that we find the same deranged Segway rental place that we visited when we were last here and go do that. And also visit this quaint old restaurant called Brigantis, which according to Larry and Sergey, is still around.
But then again, he was 11 years old when he last ate there, so it may be an entirely different experience.
The boys are T minus 5hrs from departure and I decided late last night that I could in fact bug out early as well, so after a few frustrating calls to the Miles and More desk (in Canada of all places) I was quickly and if I’m honest, quite easily able to change my departure date.
This week, there seems to be award space up the wazoo.
Off we go then…
May 30, 2019, 2:37 am
#35
Join Date: Mar 2006
Location: FLR
Programs: M&M
Posts: 106
Are you referring to Fratelli Briganti in Firenze? Wonderful, off-the-beaten-track address in the neighbourhood where I grew up. Can't believe the world is such a small place. It must be said that after Guy Fieri's visit Fratelli Briganti became more well known (at least among Americans).
May 31, 2019, 4:15 pm
#37
Moderator, Trip Reports
Original Poster
Join Date: Jul 2009
Location: Denver, CO
Programs: UA GS-2MM, Marriott Ambassador
Posts: 3,715
See this is why I don’t travel with family.
Not 5 minutes after I dropped Number One Son and his faithful sidekick off at DIA, my phone rang. I wasn’t even 500 yards from the terminal.
“Dad, where do we go to check in?”
“You’re not serious”
“Yes we don’t know where to go”
Then a bunch of expletives from both of us.
He was frustrated because the airport was a zoo and he didn’t know where Southwest’s check in counter was and I was frustrated because the child is 18 and should know better.
To cut him some slack, Denver Airport, for those of you who don’t know is presently undergoing a major renovation. The place is an armpit. The terminal with all the tents on top of it is actually called The Great Hall. That whole thing is being overhauled, security is being moved upstairs and a whole new bunch of restaurants, bars and concessions stands are being accommodated – as well as 34 new gates.
Like all government infrastructure projects, the PR machine that spews out all the information to the witless public has been working overtime because instead of the remodeling taking 18 months and a couple billion dollars, it is now according to those in the know, going to be finished somewhere closer to my 75th birthday and cost the GDP of New Zealand in a good sheep year.
Apparently – once the general contractor started ripping up the place – someone who drove a Prius and who wore a health and safety vest to bed each night, discovered that the main terminal building had something they liked to call “weak concrete”. Whatever the hell that is.
Weak concrete is contractor speak for “watch how we add another $500 million to the project budget. To strengthen their case, the contractor found an angry woman in Boulder to say that the weak concrete was most likely caused from the urine of 3 stressed African Tree Frogs that were found in the building and that it was now tantamount to murder if the City Of Denver proceeded with any further construction work.
So everything ground to a halt. A lot of arm waving started. And city officials and the general contractor flung themselves with gay abandon into the mother of all pissing matches. The woman from Boulder flung herself at anyone who would listen but thankfully some bored TSA people made a little barricade around the slightly unhinged woman and just put a sign up which said “Woman From Boulder”
Everyone then gave her a wide berth.
Apparently Denver Airport made some list recently which rated it number one at something. Obviously the judging panel all were given free lift tickets to Vail or Aspen or had smoked a lot of weed and drank way too much Breckenridge Bourbon.
While I might live in Colorado and tell people I root for the Broncos, its safe to say that I am not a real Coloradan. If serious travelers had to rate DIA out of 10, then I personally don’t think its worth more than a solid 5. And that’s being generous.
The boys did eventually make it to SJC. They then made it to SFO, jumped aboard the Swiss jetliner and hoofed it to Zurich.
I told my son that he had to send me a picture when they were both onboard their LX bird.
He sends me a fairly crappy picture but I see that he is clearly my son because they are both drinking champagne.
I decide to call him before he takes off…
“What are you doing?”
“Getting comfortable”
“And what are you drinking?”
“Champagne”
“Why?”
“Because the lady gave it to us”
“Have you actually had champagne before?”
“No”
“How much of this do you need to drink before you get drunk?”
“No idea”
Much scoffing from him…
They then make it to Zurich in one piece and end up in Milan relatively unscathed.
Not that I needed to know – because with our son, it is very easy to chart his progress. I just wait for the Capital One emails to start pouring in, telling me another international transaction has posted to his credit card account.
I got a text from my better half saying that all was well – they had made it to Lake Como. The only real drama was that my sons friend had apparently lost his passport. Already. That plus the 3 kids went “clubbing” last night in Milan (whatever the hell clubbing is) and didn’t get home until god knows when.
But I won't be deterred. I am going to enjoy the day. I am traveling solo. I have an exit row on the quick UA flight across to Houston and then all things being equal, have a relatively short layover before I jump on LH’s big bird to Frankfurt. And that is hard to beat.
My layover at the FCT is now an anorexic 3hrs and then a quick flight to FLR. Apparently I have to find my own way via train from FLR to Lake Como. I’ll work that bit out later.
I'm looking forward to my LH First sector more than I admit. There's just something about the German carriers product that resonates with me. And as I write this, I'm comfortably cocooned in seat 2A helping the rather officious German crew consume as much of their 2004 Pommery as I can muster. More in bit. I hope.
Not 5 minutes after I dropped Number One Son and his faithful sidekick off at DIA, my phone rang. I wasn’t even 500 yards from the terminal.
“Dad, where do we go to check in?”
“You’re not serious”
“Yes we don’t know where to go”
Then a bunch of expletives from both of us.
He was frustrated because the airport was a zoo and he didn’t know where Southwest’s check in counter was and I was frustrated because the child is 18 and should know better.
To cut him some slack, Denver Airport, for those of you who don’t know is presently undergoing a major renovation. The place is an armpit. The terminal with all the tents on top of it is actually called The Great Hall. That whole thing is being overhauled, security is being moved upstairs and a whole new bunch of restaurants, bars and concessions stands are being accommodated – as well as 34 new gates.
Like all government infrastructure projects, the PR machine that spews out all the information to the witless public has been working overtime because instead of the remodeling taking 18 months and a couple billion dollars, it is now according to those in the know, going to be finished somewhere closer to my 75th birthday and cost the GDP of New Zealand in a good sheep year.
Apparently – once the general contractor started ripping up the place – someone who drove a Prius and who wore a health and safety vest to bed each night, discovered that the main terminal building had something they liked to call “weak concrete”. Whatever the hell that is.
Weak concrete is contractor speak for “watch how we add another $500 million to the project budget. To strengthen their case, the contractor found an angry woman in Boulder to say that the weak concrete was most likely caused from the urine of 3 stressed African Tree Frogs that were found in the building and that it was now tantamount to murder if the City Of Denver proceeded with any further construction work.
So everything ground to a halt. A lot of arm waving started. And city officials and the general contractor flung themselves with gay abandon into the mother of all pissing matches. The woman from Boulder flung herself at anyone who would listen but thankfully some bored TSA people made a little barricade around the slightly unhinged woman and just put a sign up which said “Woman From Boulder”
Everyone then gave her a wide berth.
Apparently Denver Airport made some list recently which rated it number one at something. Obviously the judging panel all were given free lift tickets to Vail or Aspen or had smoked a lot of weed and drank way too much Breckenridge Bourbon.
While I might live in Colorado and tell people I root for the Broncos, its safe to say that I am not a real Coloradan. If serious travelers had to rate DIA out of 10, then I personally don’t think its worth more than a solid 5. And that’s being generous.
The boys did eventually make it to SJC. They then made it to SFO, jumped aboard the Swiss jetliner and hoofed it to Zurich.
I told my son that he had to send me a picture when they were both onboard their LX bird.
He sends me a fairly crappy picture but I see that he is clearly my son because they are both drinking champagne.
I decide to call him before he takes off…
“What are you doing?”
“Getting comfortable”
“And what are you drinking?”
“Champagne”
“Why?”
“Because the lady gave it to us”
“Have you actually had champagne before?”
“No”
“How much of this do you need to drink before you get drunk?”
“No idea”
Much scoffing from him…
They then make it to Zurich in one piece and end up in Milan relatively unscathed.
Not that I needed to know – because with our son, it is very easy to chart his progress. I just wait for the Capital One emails to start pouring in, telling me another international transaction has posted to his credit card account.
I got a text from my better half saying that all was well – they had made it to Lake Como. The only real drama was that my sons friend had apparently lost his passport. Already. That plus the 3 kids went “clubbing” last night in Milan (whatever the hell clubbing is) and didn’t get home until god knows when.
But I won't be deterred. I am going to enjoy the day. I am traveling solo. I have an exit row on the quick UA flight across to Houston and then all things being equal, have a relatively short layover before I jump on LH’s big bird to Frankfurt. And that is hard to beat.
My layover at the FCT is now an anorexic 3hrs and then a quick flight to FLR. Apparently I have to find my own way via train from FLR to Lake Como. I’ll work that bit out later.
I'm looking forward to my LH First sector more than I admit. There's just something about the German carriers product that resonates with me. And as I write this, I'm comfortably cocooned in seat 2A helping the rather officious German crew consume as much of their 2004 Pommery as I can muster. More in bit. I hope.
Last edited by eightblack; May 31, 2019 at 4:28 pm
Jun 3, 2019, 4:19 am
#39
Moderator, Trip Reports
Original Poster
Join Date: Jul 2009
Location: Denver, CO
Programs: UA GS-2MM, Marriott Ambassador
Posts: 3,715
While were still talking about DIA, let me tell you about another idiotic thing.
Some bright spark decided that the airport needed to make a statement and that the road leading to the terminal was all rather boring.
So they commission a report, pay a bunch of money to some quirky consulting firm with 3 names and finally come up with a solution.
Brace yourself now because this is riveting, edge of your seat stuff.
Here’s what a lot of pontificating came up with. A light display with a couple of large electronic billboards. Placed conveniently at the intersection of the tollway and Pena Boulevard, but along the middle of Pena. The light display was all these “sticks” inserted into the ground and they could change color depending on the mood of the person operating them.
However, like all well laid plans involving an airport, things didn’t quite work out as expected.
The electrical engineer who designed this rather impressive lighting display must have previously worked in Nascar racing. Or hung around a lot of Jet A or Avgas. This was clearly not the work of a sane man.
When they turned the thing on, people from NASA started calling telling them that the astronauts from the International Space Station had called to complain about the glare coming from the airport and they were having trouble sleeping.
I kid you not. It was so bright that when hopelessly lost Uber drivers finally found the exit off the tollway to Pena boulevard, they would be momentarily blinded by a million watts of illumination and promptly careen off into the ditch.
The thing was a safety hazard. Someone finally found the volume switch on the display and backed it off a whisker. But one by one – the rods or sticks that made up this rather impressive display, started to fail, so now when you drive past the thing, it looks like the Airport forgot to pay its electric bill because only half of the lights work.
Completely useless.
And would you like to know how much this rather impressive failure cost? A cool $14 million dollars.
That’s the equivalent to 280,000 bottles of Moet. I know what I’d rather have...
Some bright spark decided that the airport needed to make a statement and that the road leading to the terminal was all rather boring.
So they commission a report, pay a bunch of money to some quirky consulting firm with 3 names and finally come up with a solution.
Brace yourself now because this is riveting, edge of your seat stuff.
Here’s what a lot of pontificating came up with. A light display with a couple of large electronic billboards. Placed conveniently at the intersection of the tollway and Pena Boulevard, but along the middle of Pena. The light display was all these “sticks” inserted into the ground and they could change color depending on the mood of the person operating them.
However, like all well laid plans involving an airport, things didn’t quite work out as expected.
The electrical engineer who designed this rather impressive lighting display must have previously worked in Nascar racing. Or hung around a lot of Jet A or Avgas. This was clearly not the work of a sane man.
When they turned the thing on, people from NASA started calling telling them that the astronauts from the International Space Station had called to complain about the glare coming from the airport and they were having trouble sleeping.
I kid you not. It was so bright that when hopelessly lost Uber drivers finally found the exit off the tollway to Pena boulevard, they would be momentarily blinded by a million watts of illumination and promptly careen off into the ditch.
The thing was a safety hazard. Someone finally found the volume switch on the display and backed it off a whisker. But one by one – the rods or sticks that made up this rather impressive display, started to fail, so now when you drive past the thing, it looks like the Airport forgot to pay its electric bill because only half of the lights work.
Completely useless.
And would you like to know how much this rather impressive failure cost? A cool $14 million dollars.
That’s the equivalent to 280,000 bottles of Moet. I know what I’d rather have...
Jun 3, 2019, 3:56 pm
#40
Join Date: Jun 2003
Location: Denver CO
Programs: HHonors Gold, National Emerald Club, no airline affinity status
Posts: 3,349
Im a regular at DIA. Your critique of the airport construction is spot on. I just wish they would be done already.
As for the light bar display, it was doomed from the start. I think they got Panasonic to start the project with visions of DIA dollars to pay for it (who would in turn charge advertisers to pay for screen time on the 2-4 large LED screens as part of the display. As it turns out, there is some obscure law that says they couldn't use state or city money on the project. So Panasonic had to pay for the entire cost. Im guessing that Panasonic is not a happy camper right about now.
I too would rather have 280,000 bottles of Moet. Or even a mix of Vueve Clicquot.
As for the light bar display, it was doomed from the start. I think they got Panasonic to start the project with visions of DIA dollars to pay for it (who would in turn charge advertisers to pay for screen time on the 2-4 large LED screens as part of the display. As it turns out, there is some obscure law that says they couldn't use state or city money on the project. So Panasonic had to pay for the entire cost. Im guessing that Panasonic is not a happy camper right about now.
I too would rather have 280,000 bottles of Moet. Or even a mix of Vueve Clicquot.
Jun 14, 2019, 3:37 pm
#41
Join Date: Aug 2008
Location: Helsinki
Programs: AY Platinum, IHG Gold, Diners
Posts: 1,276
Dear @eightblack,
I admire your style of writing, you are a legend. As so many others, I would buy your book in a heartbeat.
Reading your stories, I am happy that I have two sons. Both tend to wonder, at the age of 6 and 4, whenever we walk past row 1 on a plane. Luckily, they have never been on a plane with First Class.
Please, I hope you find the time to continue this trip report.
Best regards,
Often a silent lurker niksal
I admire your style of writing, you are a legend. As so many others, I would buy your book in a heartbeat.
Reading your stories, I am happy that I have two sons. Both tend to wonder, at the age of 6 and 4, whenever we walk past row 1 on a plane. Luckily, they have never been on a plane with First Class.
Please, I hope you find the time to continue this trip report.
Best regards,
Often a silent lurker niksal
Jun 15, 2019, 6:30 pm
#44
Moderator, Trip Reports
Original Poster
Join Date: Jul 2009
Location: Denver, CO
Programs: UA GS-2MM, Marriott Ambassador
Posts: 3,715
I don’t know when the last time it was that you caught a train in Italy or if you have anything to compare it to where you live, but in essence, if you haven’t experienced train travel in Italy on a busy day, then you just haven’t lived.
I hadn’t landed in FLR for a long, long time, and to be honest, I cant even remember if I had flown into the place at all. I might have been drinking heavily at the time.
If you blink, you’ll miss the airport.
And the laid back, “domani” approach of the majority of the Italian population must tip the buttoned up Germans right over their schnitzel.
“Florence Tower, zis is Lufthansa 435 requesting clearance to land”
“Ah Lufthansa Four Three A Five, this is a Florence. Land a anywhere a you want”
“Anyvhere?”
“Si”
Much German expletive from the German pilots.
Our little Embraer jet headed toward the terminal and it was clearly evident that the 3 ground crew working that day weren’t quite expecting us. Much running towards the jet with their wands and sticks, trying to put their cigarettes out and finishing their expressos.
I loved it. Controlled chaos at its best.
So we disembark and there are 2 buses waiting for us. Once the first bus is sort of full, someone yells at the driver and we drive for all of 100 feet and then get out.
I didn’t have to show my passport to anyone. And I only had to show it in Germany so I could technically leave the main Frankfurt terminal to go back to the FCT.
Maybe the Italians don’t care who visit or who stays.
When you look online on the train websites, it looks simple enough. It tells you to get a train from FLR to Milan, and from there, another train to Lake Como.
That might be what it says on the tin, but it is definitely not what happens in real life. First you have to get out of the little tin shed that is Florence Airport. From there you need to catch a rather modern tram – which to be fair is only a short walk from the terminal, and then you are supposed to stay on the tram to the main train station. But no one tells you what station that is. Everything on the wall maps says everything in Italian. You talk to people on the train and everyone does their best Japanese impression, and simply nod their head in agreement to everything you are saying. And then they move 5 feet away from you into the next cabin.
My current wife told me that the best way to book a train in Italy was to download an app called Omio. Apparently it was child’s play. Easy as pie.
Except that it wasn’t.
I don’t know about you but I hate booking stuff via my phone. The kids seem to have no problems and laugh at me constantly but it must be my tired eyes. Give me a laptop and an internet connection any day and I’m happy.
I finally figure it out but the stupid app says it has no clue where Lake Como is and it would only sell me a ticket to Milan – and from there I was SOL. Bollocks then. I decide to call a real human – and after rummaging around the app for 10 mins, finally find a number to call. In London of all places. Because that makes sense.
Some rather pleasant English lady apologizes for the app – but knowing full well that it was user error, and gladly refunded my money. They probably don’t have a refund policy at all but just decided to do it anyway, just to get me off the phone.
Logic and common sense tells me to stay on the tram out of Florence Airport until it gets to somewhere in the middle of the city. I vaguely remember the larger train station when the tram pulls up – but it was at least a 30 min ride, and not “just a 2 or 3 a minutee” as the lovely woman in the info booth told me at the airport.
Now Florence Train Station is what you would expect. A total madhouse. It’s a terminal station which means trains don’t go through the place (unless of course the driver just learned his wife was sleeping with a man called Eugennio)
Ticketing is a rather odd process. A lot of tourists like us work out via the Google and via 3rd party booking sites how to book and pay for what looks like a pretty formal set of tickets. Then there are ticket machines scattered thru the place which are the normal ticketing machines you see at train stations worldwide.
And then there are these little red booths scattered across the station with semi helpful people who tell you how to catch the train you thought you bought a ticket on.
Then, to make you feel more normal – there are display boards within the terminal showing your train, what type of train it is (eg fast or slow) what platform it leaves from and at what time. Then there is a lot of space for additional comments, such as…
“train is a 39 minute late” Reason “traffico”
“train is a 60 minute late” Reason “Eugennio. Again”
You go inside to the ticketing office and ask…
“ I need to catch a train to Lake Como”
“Go outside a..”
“But why I want to buy a ticket…”
“Ah zey will a help you outside”
And then they shoo you away like a pesky dog.
You go outside and approach a man in the little red tent.
Same thing happens
“I need to catch a train to Lake Como”
“Go indside a..”
“But why I want to buy a ticket”
“Ah zey will a help you inside”
In the end I gave up, jammed some euros in an ATM machine, think I find the destination which has Como on it and wait for something formal to eject from a slot. I wave my now famous piece of paper to the 2 men standing at the main entrance, who waved me in with about the same level of interest as they had when they found out that the same guy train driver, Eugennio, well his cousin, was sleeping with both their sisters.
My train wasn’t leaving, as far as I could tell for 30 mins, so I did what all Italians do at this point. Had an espresso and something to eat. And charged my laptop.
I find the platform, find the train and jump on. No assigned seating, just crap everywhere. Sadly I was in the cabin where 30 people from Wisconsin had decided to bunk down for the 32 min trip to Como. If you have never seen how a group of 30 from Wisconsin travel to an Italian destination wedding, then this was something to behold. Both doorways had large suitcases piled high to the ceiling, and the noise was deafening. Holy cow.
I squeezed into the last remaining seat and had a rather lovely chat to one of the Grandfathers on the trip
His own daughter who was across the isle from me kept telling her old man to keep quiet and stop talking so much. I politely told the rather petulant woman that if we wanted her opinion, we would give it to her. The Grandfather was delighted that at last, someone was in his corner. We roared laughing when he started showing me photos from the wedding but it got a bit weird when he started telling me that hadn’t used half the Viagra prescription his Doctor had given him for the trip.
Como station is no bigger than a cowshed. Being a modern day citizen I thought I would simply catch an Uber to the Airbnb my family had no doubt trashed by this point. Except for one thing.
Uber and the Italian government didn’t really see eye to eye. And apparently Uber only works in larger cities like Rome. I wont bore you with the details about why Uber doesn’t exist in more Italian cities but suffice to say that when the Uber arrogant folks visited Italy many years ago to set up shop, they were told a very big, blunt Sicilian no. Like a frazzled teenager they persisted. The Italians kept telling them no. And to go away. The Uber teenagers were like a dog with a bone.
Apparently they only got the message when the Italians pulled their best Godfather routine and put a frozen chicken in the bed (they were all out of dead horses at the time) of the Uber folks hotel room.
So don’t bother opening the Uber app in Como. It’s about as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike.
I don’t think I have caught a cab in 20 years. But that was my only option. I had to ferret around on my phone to find the Airbnb address and the rather pleasant taxi driver was fluent in English and got me there without killing me or anyone else. Which is quite a miracle in Italy. He told me that there were only 45 taxis in Lake Como (which would mean something later on…)
If you haven’t been – Como is stunning. Apparently George Clooney has a joint there. As does Madonna. And some slightly unhinged woman called Donatella Versace. And even the rather odd Sir Richard Branson. I have time to kill. I may as well drop in and say hello...
I hadn’t landed in FLR for a long, long time, and to be honest, I cant even remember if I had flown into the place at all. I might have been drinking heavily at the time.
If you blink, you’ll miss the airport.
And the laid back, “domani” approach of the majority of the Italian population must tip the buttoned up Germans right over their schnitzel.
“Florence Tower, zis is Lufthansa 435 requesting clearance to land”
“Ah Lufthansa Four Three A Five, this is a Florence. Land a anywhere a you want”
“Anyvhere?”
“Si”
Much German expletive from the German pilots.
Our little Embraer jet headed toward the terminal and it was clearly evident that the 3 ground crew working that day weren’t quite expecting us. Much running towards the jet with their wands and sticks, trying to put their cigarettes out and finishing their expressos.
I loved it. Controlled chaos at its best.
So we disembark and there are 2 buses waiting for us. Once the first bus is sort of full, someone yells at the driver and we drive for all of 100 feet and then get out.
I didn’t have to show my passport to anyone. And I only had to show it in Germany so I could technically leave the main Frankfurt terminal to go back to the FCT.
Maybe the Italians don’t care who visit or who stays.
When you look online on the train websites, it looks simple enough. It tells you to get a train from FLR to Milan, and from there, another train to Lake Como.
That might be what it says on the tin, but it is definitely not what happens in real life. First you have to get out of the little tin shed that is Florence Airport. From there you need to catch a rather modern tram – which to be fair is only a short walk from the terminal, and then you are supposed to stay on the tram to the main train station. But no one tells you what station that is. Everything on the wall maps says everything in Italian. You talk to people on the train and everyone does their best Japanese impression, and simply nod their head in agreement to everything you are saying. And then they move 5 feet away from you into the next cabin.
My current wife told me that the best way to book a train in Italy was to download an app called Omio. Apparently it was child’s play. Easy as pie.
Except that it wasn’t.
I don’t know about you but I hate booking stuff via my phone. The kids seem to have no problems and laugh at me constantly but it must be my tired eyes. Give me a laptop and an internet connection any day and I’m happy.
I finally figure it out but the stupid app says it has no clue where Lake Como is and it would only sell me a ticket to Milan – and from there I was SOL. Bollocks then. I decide to call a real human – and after rummaging around the app for 10 mins, finally find a number to call. In London of all places. Because that makes sense.
Some rather pleasant English lady apologizes for the app – but knowing full well that it was user error, and gladly refunded my money. They probably don’t have a refund policy at all but just decided to do it anyway, just to get me off the phone.
Logic and common sense tells me to stay on the tram out of Florence Airport until it gets to somewhere in the middle of the city. I vaguely remember the larger train station when the tram pulls up – but it was at least a 30 min ride, and not “just a 2 or 3 a minutee” as the lovely woman in the info booth told me at the airport.
Now Florence Train Station is what you would expect. A total madhouse. It’s a terminal station which means trains don’t go through the place (unless of course the driver just learned his wife was sleeping with a man called Eugennio)
Ticketing is a rather odd process. A lot of tourists like us work out via the Google and via 3rd party booking sites how to book and pay for what looks like a pretty formal set of tickets. Then there are ticket machines scattered thru the place which are the normal ticketing machines you see at train stations worldwide.
And then there are these little red booths scattered across the station with semi helpful people who tell you how to catch the train you thought you bought a ticket on.
Then, to make you feel more normal – there are display boards within the terminal showing your train, what type of train it is (eg fast or slow) what platform it leaves from and at what time. Then there is a lot of space for additional comments, such as…
“train is a 39 minute late” Reason “traffico”
“train is a 60 minute late” Reason “Eugennio. Again”
You go inside to the ticketing office and ask…
“ I need to catch a train to Lake Como”
“Go outside a..”
“But why I want to buy a ticket…”
“Ah zey will a help you outside”
And then they shoo you away like a pesky dog.
You go outside and approach a man in the little red tent.
Same thing happens
“I need to catch a train to Lake Como”
“Go indside a..”
“But why I want to buy a ticket”
“Ah zey will a help you inside”
In the end I gave up, jammed some euros in an ATM machine, think I find the destination which has Como on it and wait for something formal to eject from a slot. I wave my now famous piece of paper to the 2 men standing at the main entrance, who waved me in with about the same level of interest as they had when they found out that the same guy train driver, Eugennio, well his cousin, was sleeping with both their sisters.
My train wasn’t leaving, as far as I could tell for 30 mins, so I did what all Italians do at this point. Had an espresso and something to eat. And charged my laptop.
I find the platform, find the train and jump on. No assigned seating, just crap everywhere. Sadly I was in the cabin where 30 people from Wisconsin had decided to bunk down for the 32 min trip to Como. If you have never seen how a group of 30 from Wisconsin travel to an Italian destination wedding, then this was something to behold. Both doorways had large suitcases piled high to the ceiling, and the noise was deafening. Holy cow.
I squeezed into the last remaining seat and had a rather lovely chat to one of the Grandfathers on the trip
His own daughter who was across the isle from me kept telling her old man to keep quiet and stop talking so much. I politely told the rather petulant woman that if we wanted her opinion, we would give it to her. The Grandfather was delighted that at last, someone was in his corner. We roared laughing when he started showing me photos from the wedding but it got a bit weird when he started telling me that hadn’t used half the Viagra prescription his Doctor had given him for the trip.
Como station is no bigger than a cowshed. Being a modern day citizen I thought I would simply catch an Uber to the Airbnb my family had no doubt trashed by this point. Except for one thing.
Uber and the Italian government didn’t really see eye to eye. And apparently Uber only works in larger cities like Rome. I wont bore you with the details about why Uber doesn’t exist in more Italian cities but suffice to say that when the Uber arrogant folks visited Italy many years ago to set up shop, they were told a very big, blunt Sicilian no. Like a frazzled teenager they persisted. The Italians kept telling them no. And to go away. The Uber teenagers were like a dog with a bone.
Apparently they only got the message when the Italians pulled their best Godfather routine and put a frozen chicken in the bed (they were all out of dead horses at the time) of the Uber folks hotel room.
So don’t bother opening the Uber app in Como. It’s about as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike.
I don’t think I have caught a cab in 20 years. But that was my only option. I had to ferret around on my phone to find the Airbnb address and the rather pleasant taxi driver was fluent in English and got me there without killing me or anyone else. Which is quite a miracle in Italy. He told me that there were only 45 taxis in Lake Como (which would mean something later on…)
If you haven’t been – Como is stunning. Apparently George Clooney has a joint there. As does Madonna. And some slightly unhinged woman called Donatella Versace. And even the rather odd Sir Richard Branson. I have time to kill. I may as well drop in and say hello...
Jun 22, 2019, 12:50 am
#45
Join Date: Oct 2003
Posts: 2,304
I can't help but wonder... Were you trying to see if he'd actually take it as an opportunity to find out like young adult eightblack probably did and see if you bested him, then lord it over him? "When I was your age, I could drink 5 bottles of champagne on a 10 hour flight! This is your mother's fault! My side doesn't get liver damage until their 50's. We drank until Asian Flush was the sound from the lav."