The Easyjet Experience, Naples-Style

My absence from the blogging world this week was due to my first trip outside of Italy since our arrival in November. After about two and a half years, I finally got to return to my beloved France! More importantly, I enjoyed a happy reunion with several family members. It goes without saying that my stomach also enjoyed a reunion with Alsatian fare of all kinds, for which my bathroom scale will probably not thank me…

My trip started with what I’ll call “the Easyjet experience.” Don’t let the name of this low-budget airline fool you; it is anything but easy. Add to the mix a departure from hectic Naples, and you’ve got enough pushing and shoving to last you a lifetime.

One look at the makeshift line at Security had me breathing a sigh of relief for my impending escape into calmer territory. (Neapolitans are, for all practical purposes, incapable of forming a line and instead prefer to crowd each other as if sardines in a can.) Once through the metal detectors, I geared up for round two of queuing, which promised even more elbow jabs and espresso-breath down my neck.

The reason for such chaos is Easyjet’s lack of assigned seating. Everyone gets a seat on the plane, but if you’re not one of the first ones aboard, you risk: (a) separation from your travel partners; (b) scarcity of overhead compartments for your luggage, and the consequential stares as you heave your bag up and try to cram it in too-tight spaces; and (c) the dreaded middle seat at the center of the plane, which leaves you one of the last to debark (Easyjet opens doors at both the front and the back of the plane)—not to mention your lap is all the more vulnerable to Coke spills from your neighbors on either side.

A word about luggage: each passenger is allowed exactly one piece, of laughable dimensions. Female passengers are kindly asked to find a place for their purse in their carry-on, which, given the size and fragility of some bags, will inevitably lead to checked baggage. (Read: astronomical fees.) Fortunately, I had done my research—you have to dig a little to find the information—and had packed in such a way that I could easily stow my purse. I figured the Neapolitans, of all people, would not be such sticklers for the rules, but sure enough, I was asked to consolidate my belongings at the gate…while all the people I had managed to precede in the “line” happily trickled through.

Luckily, Easyjet has another bizarre stipulation: no matter how close the airplane is to the gate, passengers will be herded into a bus to wait even longer, only to be driven a few meters to the plane itself. This leaves the suckers who paid extra for “Speedy Boarding” first on the bus, but often last on the plane. I have gone through this rigmarole enough times to know that the best spot is standing—definitely not seated—at the door opposite the one you entered.

Once the bus doors open, the passengers run like Michael Johnson in the 100-meter dash. I like to go through the back door, as inevitably, fewer people are in the loop about this entrance. If you’re in Naples, as you’re racing a middle-aged man up the stairs he will usher you ahead with a breathless “Prego”...yet continue shoving to get there first.

As I mentioned in one of my earlier posts: in this sort of milieu, I prefer to step on others’ proverbial toes than to have my own crushed (but I don’t sleep as well at night). On both flights, I proudly staked a claim to aisle seats near the back door, as well as a nice space for my bag directly overhead. If you’re one of the lucky ones, you have time to get a head-start on your crossword as latecomers mill about the aisles, mumbling: “there’s got to be a mistake; where on earth is the seat number on this ticket?” Occasionally I reach into my little bag of languages and offer an explanation in their native tongue, but more often than not people are too consumed in their chaos to listen.

The running theme of this blog—that is, the rampant egotism of the southern Italian culture—is just plain sad. Happily, just five minutes back in France were enough to remind me that this mentality is not ubiquitous. (More on my stay in another post.) I just had to prepare myself against reverse culture-shock at my return! Turns out the reminder started back at the Franco-Swiss airport itself: I didn’t even need a gate number; I just needed to locate the army of loud, purple-clad Neapolitans crowding the ticket-scanner one hour before boarding.