So, I’m sure you’d like to know how our wonderful trip to Italy is going. After all, it’s been 48 hours, right? Well, I can sum it up like this: After 48 hours and 12,000 miles of travel through multiple time zones, I can honestly say that Philadelphia is friggin’ awesome! Nope, this is not a misprint. The missus and I are back in Philadelphia! I’m typing this next entry from the comfort of my very own home. I mean, come on! You only see this sort of thing in the movies, right? (Which reminds me; “honey, cancel the cable subscription!”)
Believe me when I tell you, this entry is going to test the limits of the blogosphere, because I’m too tired to tell this story over and over. So, if you want to know the details, grab a cold one and strap in.
Okay, so here’s the deal: We get to Philadelphia International Airport to complete our pre-flight check-in and to get our bags checked through to Rome. Everything is peachy. The British Airways attendant handling our check-in is also from Rome, and lives in one of the towns we’d scheduled to stay in during our time there. She’s going on and on about how beautiful it is, how much of a great time we’re going to have there and tips on how not to get robbed (seriously). She’s bubbling with uninhibited enthusiasm—the kind that’s either aided by fond experiences or illegal substances. After her third cartwheel, the belly-area button on her polyester uniform blouse pops open. Eek! That visual aside, we’re really stoked now—as you can well imagine. I mean this has to be a great sign, right!
So, after seven hours in the air (part of which was a bit rough for me, but I got through it), another three waiting for our connection from—what I now term— "the city of" Heathrow to Rome, and another three hours from the UK to Italy, we land in Rome on time, none the worst for wear and ready to collect our bags and hit the bricks. So, I go through the airport’s immigration station with no problem. Passport stamped, I get to practice my Italian right away. “Grazie,” I said, and proceeded to the other side. The missus, on the other hand, is getting the double and triple take from the officer at the booth. Now, don’t get the wrong impression. He was not hitting on her. Keisha, though a resident of the US, is a citizen of Antigua. As a result, her passport was issued in Antigua.
Because of this, it’s not too uncommon for the customs and immigration folks to double check things before passing her along. So, of course, I’m not worried. But, after the fourth and fifth look, a tap or two at the keyboard, then summoning a more senior officer, the little hairs on the back of my neck start to stand up. The next thing I know, three officers are escorting my wife to a separate office. Of course, I run behind them, explaining to one of a few that could manage a few phases in English that she's with me (no disrespect on the language barrier, I was trying the few Italian words I knew were appropriate for the situation, hoping to establish a congenial connection).
So, the officer explains to me that the Antigua-issued passport and US resident card were not enough; she needed a certain visa to enter Italy! What the…!!? We’re dumbfounded. None of British Airways’ online booking information made any mention of this. Part of the requirement of booking online is providing detailed passport information, along with other documentation regarding citizenship and/or country of residence. So, when we booked online, everything was cool. When we completed our online check-in 24 hours before the day of travel, still no warnings. When we were checked in by the belly exposing, high-as-a-kite Italian woman on the British Airways staff at the Philly airport, no bells went off there. (Now, that last part is important, so keep it close to the front of the brain. I’ll tell you why in a few.)
Of course, the officer proceeds to tell me that “You can-a stay here in Italy. You’re wife, she-a has to go a-back. Do you-a want to a-stay in Italy?” I don’t know if the “are you ‘bleeping’ serious” look translates from American to Italian, but I know I had that look plastered on my mug!
“No,” I said. “If she has to leave, I’m leaving with her.”
I could not believe the question. I guess Italian men don’t mind leaving their wives stranded. Now, up until this point, our biggest concern was if our baggage would make it through to Italy. You read enough of those travel blogs, you start believing that you can be on a flight from Philly to Indianapolis, and your bags can get routed to Istanbul. In this day and age, with the rapid decline in customer service common sense, I can almost believe it. But the last thing we thought of was that we might not make it through!
So, there we sit in the waiting area; the two of us and a few other people who were a few meters short of tasting an authentic cannoli. Then it dawned us: “shit! Our luggage.” So, I race out of the waiting area and down the hall to baggage claim. Bags made it! So, the optimism starts to bubble in me. I think to myself, “Well, if the bags made it, then maybe we can get to the right people and get this sorted out.” So, I roll our two large bags back to the holding area. When I get back, we learned that Keisha would be processed in the office where she was held, then taken to see the Chief (not mafia) upstairs in the main police office. But, all and all, it was likely that we would have to "go a-back." I was instructed to locate the British Airways office on the upper level, in order to explain the situation, and then find Keisha in the police office on that same level.
So, while the Italian police were detaining my wife, I trek with bags in tow, looking for the way out. To get out, I actually had to exit to the street level, then return through the departure section of the airport. So, I actually got to touch Italian soil! But it was that good-bad experience all in one. Remember the scene in the third Matrix movie, when Trinity and Neo had to climb up through the black sky to get the sentinels off their asses. Trinity breaks through the clouds into a burst of sunlight and blue sky. It’s just enough for her to start to hope that things were going to work out, before plummeting back into the darkness. Well, that’s exactly how I felt. I was out in the open for about four minutes, and then went back into the airport to find help.
Of course, when I get there, most of the signs are either in Italian, or not there at all. At least, not the signs I needed. I needed the “American With Wife Being Held By Police For Not Having Visa, This Way!” sign. No luck. And after nearly 90 minutes searching for the British Airways desk, searching for the airport help desk, searching for the police office, then waiting for the British Airways attendants to return from lunch (I can smell the cannoli on guy’s breath), laid it out for them.
The British Airways attendant—a woman that spoke great Italian and English—was utterly surprised by the news.
“Does she have her residency card?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said.
She grabbed her walkie-talkie and told me to follow her. I must have looked like one of those people you see in the airport armed with aloofness and kilograms of Lord knows what in their bags, turning in circles as the rest of us try to avoid getting blasted in the shins. But, I did not care; I had a champion who meant business and could translate for me, if I started cursing and talking in Ebonics.
But, after a few minutes in the office chatting with the police, she came out and told me that there was no way they were going to let the missus in the country, and that she can book us on the next flight back to Heathrow. (Balloon popped!)
Of course, she asked “are you sure you do not want to stay, since you were able to get in?”
“No,” I said. “I’m going back as well.”
Apparently, Italian wives don’t think twice about leaving their husbands behind either. Now, remember when I said to remember about the Pilates instructor in Philly who moonlights as a British Airways attendant? Well, here’s why: As she’s booking flights for us, the attendant in Rome told me that the folks in Philadelphia would receive a significant fine. There is no way that Keisha should have been allowed to get on the plane in Philly without the proper documentation to get into Italy, let alone all the way to Italy. Now, I’m passed dumbfounded and am on the express train to losing my mind. To add insult to injury, the plane to Heathrow was leaving in a couple of hours…but the connecting flight to Philadelphia was leaving at noon the next day.
So, we’re looking at spending the night in the airport, as the attendant was not sure if Keisha would be allowed to leave the airport in the UK. This part was strange because citizens of Antigua and Barbuda (which were formerly governed by the UK, but are now independent countries of the UK Commonwealth, or something or other, yadda, yadda) don’t have to be issued a visa to gain entry. Of course, there was the long shot of contacting/visiting the US Embassy in Italy to plead my case (again, something out of the movies). But, I would not have reached someone who could have helped me before the next day, and Keisha would have to spend hours, if not days in the airport with no real assurance that the issue would be rectified in our favor. Not an option, obviously.
So, on the plane we go. Three hours later, we’re back at the UK and looking for a place to stay. After hearing that we would be confined to one terminal, if we were to stay overnight, we decided that the gold nugget of a hot meal and good night’s rest was worth the risk of more confusingly bad news from immigration station. Before doing so, we checked with the folks at the British Airways counter in Heathrow about the status of Keisha’s documentation. The kind chap confirmed that Keisha needed nothing more to leave the airport and return the next day for our flight to Philly.
Of course, when we get to the immigration line, they cannot verify if Keisha can enter on her passport alone. After a few minutes of polite conversation, and four immigration people shrugging their shoulders and tilting their heads like they were synchronize swimming, they decided to issue a temporary visa to let her leave the airport. Those folks were just what we needed. I, of course, did not have any problems.
So, we exit the airport and hop a train to Hounslow in West London (good tips provided by some nice chaps who worked in the city of Heathrow). We stumbled onto the Continental Hotel in the center of Hounslow (great place just two blocks from the Hounslow Central station on the Piccadilly underground train line). By grabbing one of the few remaining open rooms, and getting into the hotel restaurant right before the kitchen closed, we were saved. I was exhausted, and Keisha was obviously exhausted, frustrated, and apologetic about the whole ordeal.
But, as we ate, drank (I did, anyway) and found our way to our hotel room, the pressure of the day seemed to lift a bit. Sure, we were tired and ragged, so it could have been the nice, hot shower and accommodations talking. But, I think it was something more. We began to look at the situation and laugh. Sure, we were still disappointed. But, somehow, because we were riding “shotgun” for each other throughout the day, we were at peace with the fact that, at the end of the day, we were fed, a little buzzed on French wine (at least I was), clean and together. I guess these are the cornerstones of a good vacation, even if only for one day.
In the morning, we hopped back on the Piccadilly line like seasoned vets and ventured back to the airport for an early check-in and some breakfast before the seven-hour haul back to America. The British Airways attendant checked our ID and asked if Keisha had her visa or residency card for entry into the United States. Flag!!
It’s true, when traveling back to the US, the check-in staff always checks to make sure that non-nationals have the appropriate documentation for entry. Though we talked to some people who thought that the airline might give us a difficult time, this fact was in line with what the British Airways attendant in Rome told us. They are supposed to check that stuff going both ways. So why were we allowed to pass through to Italy?
So, we’re on the high-noon BA airbus back to Philadelphia. After a few hours on the train, the senior attendant with the flight crew comes down the isle to pass out some customer surveys at random (with BA CEO Willie Walsh on the front).
So, who do you think gets one of these shiny surveys?
Oh, baby! It was like holding the sun in my hand. Now, we planned on alerting BA of the whole fiasco when we got home, but the survey was such Devine intervention, it was unreal. I intended to answer all of the questions honestly, but when the door opened, I was going to walk through it and punch BA right in the mouth!
I’m working through the survey, thinking in my head which way is up?; is it our fault? Is it BA’s fault? Shared responsibility?
Don’t get me wrong. Keisha was convinced that there was something she could have done to prevent this. That might be true, but the assembly line at Philadelphia International broke down somewhere—that’s for sure. And that’s when I saw it: Section 14 of the customer survey. The title of the section was “Preparing for your journey before the airport.” The second or third question down asked us to rate BA's level of service in providing information with regards to our travel. In parenthesis were examples of such information, like baggage allowances and, you guessed it, visas! Flag!!!
I talked to the senior member of the crew who, though fuzzy on the exact process herself, definitely felt that the questionnaire suggested that such information should have been provided in some form—especially considering the detail needed for online booking and the practices of the UK staff with regards to passengers booking flights to the USA.
So, after seven hours (and great service by the flight crew, I might add), we landed back in Philly. As I write this, Keisha is preparing the draft of a “sincerely” written note to the customer relations team at British Airways. Of course, we are not ruling out trying to get to Italy. We don't like giving up on a dream vacation. But I don't like Italian officers detaining my wife either. I'm from Brooklyn. We don't play that....!
We’ll see. I’m going to bed!
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