That one time with the suitcase

So, there are lots of things I should be doing, including packing, taking out the recycling (this would facilitate the packing because then I would be able to walk in our hallway without dying), and med school applications. But the applications are just so god-awfully boring that I'm resurrecting my mad procrastination skills instead. In honor of the (theoretical) packing, I shall tell you the fun not very interesting story of the time I lugged the world's largest suitcase around half of Italy.

(Actually it was just Bologna, but whatever.)

"Okay, so you're just about at the weight limit, there," proclaims the lady at the airport check-in desk. My mother and brother are going home after their salto in Italy (see Viareggio story), and we have devised a crafty plan for having them take some of my stuff back with them, thereby ensuring that I am physically able to lift everything that remains behind. Which will be useful for when I have to convey it all home by myself. It is an excellent plan. And we fit under the weight limit. Huzzah!

The check-in lady looks pointedly at the large red suitcase against which I am still comfortably leaning (that's how large it is).

"What are you planning to do with that one?"

Crap.

The over-the-limit fee is ridiculous, and she recommends that I have it shipped by the cargo office. This seems like a good suggestion. I assure my mother that I will be fine to carry it by myself. Ormai I am a strong and independent young woman, right? Sort of. It transpires that I have zero muscles and am somewhat overpowered by 20 kilos of suitcase. Sigh. Must remember to do some physical exercise every once in a while.

Anyway, I bring it to three different offices labeled "cargo/merce" or something of that nature. Finally I hit on the right one. It is on the fourth floor of a building with no elevator, which seems like poor planning to me.

"Ma, sei sicura? You definitely want to send it to Paris?" Yes. "But why?" I'm not sure it's any of his business, but I explain anyway. If nothing else, it's good practice for my Italian story-telling abilities. Either way, it turns out it's very expensive to ship it that way.

"Magari con la posta si spende meno...?" I inquire, using my best help-me-I'm-foreign voice. (Maybe it's cheaper by mail)

"Eh, si, certo, but how are you going to get it to the post office?" I am touched by his concern.
"Well, I'll take the bus back to Bologna and then find a post office..."

He raises his eyebrows doubtfully.

"Well, what time do the post offices close?" I ask, since I appear to still have his attention (perhaps he's bored).

"Beh, verso le quattro, ma... no, no, non ce la fai. E' troppo pesante and probably you won't even find a post office." I elect to be touched by this rather than offended... with difficulty, because what kind of moron can't even find the post office?

Anyway. Me and the suitcase make our way back to the main part of the airport. Back to the bus. Onto the bus. Back to the train station. And to tourist information.

Apparently there are many post offices in Bologna, but none of the people in tourist information seem to be sure where they are located or what the hours are. (I mean, they only live here, but whatever...) Finally, someone is almost positive that there is one that is open di sicuro all the way down via Oberdan to piazza something or other (I don't remember, but it was far).

The suitcase and I make our way there. It is a long and sweaty half hour of walking. I had never noticed how warm Bologna was in mid-July. Boo.

Yes! Post office! I haul Red up the stairs and put myself in the line. People look at me funny. I'm not sure if it is because I'm all gross-looking, or because I just rolled a suitcase into a post office.

"Ce l'hai, la tessera?" some old lady asks me. This is disconcerting. Usually they only ask me that in supermarkets. I shake my head no. She explains that this is "PostaBusiness" or something, and you can only come here if you are a business (?) and have the tessera (card). Regular people have to go around to the other side of the building. Ah. Indeed.

I dutifully go around, take a ticket, and try not to have a seizure with all the bleeping numbers and screens and flashing lights.

"Oh, pero'!" exclaims the post office employee after I have lifted the thing onto the scale in response to her request to weigh whatever my "package" is. (That, by the way, counts as my physical activity for the next month, at least.)

"But why do you want to send that to Paris? Are you sure?" asks the lady. Usually I find it charming that Italian people like to ask personal questions. Today it's getting old. I grit my teeth and respond.

"Ma, mica la puoi spedire cosi', sai," comments one of her colleagues, a middle aged lady at the next desk, "you have to wrap it up in brown paper."

Oh.

Also, they don't have any brown paper. They recommend a cartoleria where brown paper can be procured and grant me permission to leave the suitcase with them in the meantime. (This is good, because otherwise I was totally planning on ditching it somewhere. Basta with the carrying around of the suitcase and the sweat dribbling annoyingly down my back. Who needs those winter clothes, anyway?)

Upon my return, I squat down in a corner of the post office and proceed to wrap the thing up in brown paper. I am no engineer and also have zero real-life type skills, and both of these facts are evident in the finished product. I scribble the address on it in black marker and the effect is complete: it is a miracle I passed first grade.

"You know," comments the younger woman as they help me and my wiggly arms get the suitcase back onto the scale, "if you had taken out 500 grams, we could have sent it in a different class and it would have cost half as much." Indeed. I eye the suitcase, thoroughly (if messily) strapped up in crooked post-office tape. I look back at her. I do not know how to say "now you tell me" in Italian. Perhaps it's for the best.

The older one seems to sense that, language-abilities permitting, that could've been anwkward moment. "You know," she says contemplatively as I hand over the money, "I love Paris. My dream is to sell everything and go to Paris to be a flower seller."

"Ah, si?" is all I can manage. (I mean, think about it: what is the appropriate response there?)

She takes this as an invitation to elaborate and even shares her dream with the customer at the next desk over. By the time the suitcase has been sent into the back room for processing, we are all chatting companionably about which district of Paris would be the best place to sell flowers, and what kind she should sell.

"Buon viaggio, allora," they call after me as I leave. I feel smiling and re-energized, despite the fact that it is 6:30 and me and the suitcase have been at it since circa le 2:00. In a moment of craziness, I decide that this would be a good time to attempt the climb to the Madonna di San Luca (it's a path of 666 portici that takes you to the top of a big hill). I am a bit bleary by the time I reach the top, and also it is closed. Boo.

Probably Italy is a little bit magic, though, because despite all that, I am still kind of smiley when I get back to the train station and think about the lady's flower selling scheme. I was a much grumpier person when I lived in America.