Pbenjay's Blog

We checked out of the hotel, asking the housekeeper to call a taxi.  She tried and tried and the call just rang and rang. She called a second company who arrived almost immediately.  The elevator which I never previously described holds only 2 people and no luggage.  Peter went down with a suitcase, she ran down the stairs carrying a suitcase, I went down the elevator  and the cab was a ways down the block – did he miss the address?  The suitcases are loaded into the cab, we drive less than 1/2 mile down the street, turn the corner  and pull into the train station.  The cost €13.20!  I said, “what! How can it be €13.20 we went down the street.”  Of course he was offended, BUT I was more offended.  His answer was that it was Sunday and we had 4 suitcases! Are you freaking kidding me? I’m pretty sure Peter put the bags into the cab.  OMG and this was just the beginning of my day.  He mutters “we’re not trying to steal your money”, really what would you call this rip off? I slammed the door, it felt so good.

The train station at Santa Maria Novella is thankfully not as big as the colossal Rome Termini so finding our platform and carriage was easy peasey.  Still, getting the bags on not quite so easy! I was praying we would leave on time because we had to get into the Rome Termini and to the car rental places before 1pm. THEY CLOSE AT 1pm! St. Christopher must have been on board (after all we are in Italy) the train arrived early.

I remembered that the car rental desks were someplace far,far into the bowels of this ginormous terminal.  We could never get there  before  1:00 if we were going to push and pull suitcases, so I told Peter to wait with the cases while I went looking for Budget’s desk.  Now where would you think it would be?  I walk towards the wing of the terminal where the signage indicates but that leads me to a place where a uniform stops me because it is to get on a train only.  I point to the sign that lists all of the car rental agencies and he points to the retail mall.   Really? Really?  It’s Sunday, (yes I know I already told you) so many, many people are meandering through the stores that run in a continuous interior strip, stopping here and there, pushing strollers, and I like a mad woman am trying to speed walk with a cane through the bustling crowd.

Finally there’s the Budget/Avis car rental desk.  I wait my turn, I look at the clock, it is about 12:45pm.  I hand Andreas my paperwork and license and he asks for my passport. Uh oh😱.  I tell him I don’t have it with me,  it is in my luggage in the middle of the the terminal. I look at the clock. He says, “I must see your passport “ I suggest he call Kemwell, the company through which we rented the car  they must have the passport number. “No”.  I remind him I couldn’t have gotten into the country without a passport and I have all the other paperwork. “No I must see your passport, madam”. I know my voice is raising into that octave that nears hysteria as I point out I have a broken foot and the passport is way back in ther terminal. He says, “Madam you must get your passport or you cannot rent the car”.  I say, “ I cannot possibly walk there and back before 1:00”.  He says, “ You are wasting precious time then, I leave at 1:00”.  “OK, I will go and you wait for me to return”. “No, madam I leave at 1:00”. I said, “This is absolutely crazy and ridiculous. Look, I will leave you my credit card and my license and go to get the passport”.  He pushes them back.  “No, I will be gone at 1:00”. At this point I was really losing it. I said, “Are you nuts? I have a broken foot and you want me to race back through all the people in the stores and back again before 1:00!”  He says “ you come back tomorrow”. I am just one octave lower than screaming, “I can’t come back tomorrow”.  He actually said ”You can”. I swear he must have felt protected from the maniacal woman by the high counter. I grabbed my license, credit card and cane and headed back into the sea of shoppers. By the the time I reached Peter I couldn’ t breathe let alone talk.  Thank God I knew exactly where the passport was.  I just looked at Peter like a wild woman and said “Don’t ask”!

Now like the caricature of a typical New Yorker, cane in my left hand, passport and hand bag in my right I literally am jamming, pushing, shoving, and since I’m in Italy muttering, “permission, excussi” all the way back to the fucking (yes I can, it’s my blog) Budget rental desk, where I practically collapse on my cane. There is a man in front of me and it is now about 2 minutes to 1:00.  He leaves, I slam the passport down, the credit card, the license and give Andreas a twisted smile.  He takes everything calmly and proceeds to process enough paperwork, typing, stamping, shuffling, like I was just obtaining citizenship.  “Ah the car 🚗 you requested Madam is not available, so we re going to upgrade you at no cost”.  I nod, surely he didn’t expect me to say thank you.  However it is a diesel and must be returned full tank or pay €64!  Days later I find out that gasoline is almost a $1 less per liter than diesel fuel and why am I not surprised?

OK – the car is on the 5th floor of a parking garage about 300 meters down the street.   I remember the garage from last year but last year we drove to the garage to return a car and it wasn’t a SUNDAY!  Slowly and I mean slowly I walk back AGAIN through the maddening crowd to find Peter.  We are tired and hangry (a millennial word for that aggravation that comes from being hungry).  And now we set off for the garage.