Haresh Shah
The Strike Italian Style
I land in Milan for the very first time in November of 1972. This is my first week on the job. Having survived Munich and Essen, I spend a couple of days in Milan to meet up with Gerrit (Huig), Don Stewart and the people at Rizzoli – the Italian Playboy publishers – before returning to Chicago to wrap up my personal affairs. I have all of ten days to do what needs to be done, including several meetings in Chicago office and be ready for the moving van to pick up my possessions.
We have already landed at Linate. As we are about to deplane, we are told that we are to pick up our own checked-in baggage from the tarmac and carry it to the terminal. The ground crew is on strike, including the bus transfer from the plane to the terminal. I have with me my largest and the heaviest suitcase. They have not yet invented wheeled baggage. I somehow manage to drag it to the terminal, find a cab and check into the Grand Hotel. Dump my suitcase in my room and take another cab to the restaurant where Gerrit is waiting with his wife Barbara and Donald Stewart. Two days later, on Friday, I am at the airport waiting to board Amsterdam bound KLM flight which would connect me with its flight 611 to Chicago.
The flight to Amsterdam is delayed on account of the heavy fog at Milan airport, but they are hoping for it to lift soon and be able to depart at the latest by eleven. It would bring me into Amsterdam just in time to make my connection. The fog lifts, the sunrays begin to break through the clouds, they have already announced the departures of Amsterdam and several other flights. Everything is just cool. But wait!!Not so fast!! Soon as the sky has cleared of the fog, they promptly go on strike. The negotiations begin. The hope is that they would get back to work in an hour or two, three at the most. Chicago passengers rush to change their tickets to fly via New York. But nothing moves for the whole day. We wait until after eight in the evening in hopes of getting out of Milano. Even though there are no transatlantic flights waiting for us anymore in Amsterdam or anywhere else on the continental Europe, it’s still better to spend the night anywhere else but in Milano. For there is no telling what tomorrow may bring.
But we’re stuck where we are. KLM feeds us a decent meal, makes us wait a bit longer and then to our dismay, we watch the empty aircraft take off, leaving us behind, gasping. The one which would return to Milan the next morning with the Amsterdam passengers and hopefully be able to take us back with it. We are given an option to take the night train to Amsterdam or stay over in a hotel and take our chances tomorrow. The train is not an option for me. I do not have visas to travel through Switzerland and Holland. At least I get a good night’s sleep. The preceding twelve days have been hectic and harried and this unexpected break helps me re-energize. The Linate crew is still striking the next morning. We are bussed and flown out of Malpensa.
I have now lost a whole precious day. Planned are several meetings with different Playboy people including my boss Lee Hall and the production chief John Mastro. And I have to wrap up four years of my life in Chicago. During those years, I have made many close friends and the bunch at Time has become my family. As a gesture of my heartfelt thanks and to bid everyone proper farewell, I am throwing a lavish bash in the penthouse party room of the lake shore highrise in which I live. My Time buddies jump in and help. Everything goes smooth. The celebration spills into the early morning. Good times had by all.
Two days later, a Bekin’s moving truck swallows the entire contents of my apartment and the car, and I say my arrivederci to Chicago.
●●●
Over the next two and a half years, I must have been fogged in or struck out or both for tens of times at Linate. In the meanwhile, I have acquired visas for every possible country on the continent, I might be required to cross. I try taking night train a couple of times, but when did I have that kind of time? So with the cancellations, delays and all, I have no choice but to put up with the quirks of the weather and of the group of people called the Italians. Stranded at the Milan airport has its rewards. Often you run into interesting people, including the stunning beauty with whom I would travel in the first class. But the cherry on the cake waits to be crowned for my very last trip from Milan to Munich.
●●●
‘Ciao Haresh, I will call you next week when I get back to office.’ I stroke her face and get into the cab. ‘Linate per favore.’ I look back to wave at Celeste (Huenergard) as the cab paves its way out of the driveway of Hotel Principe e Savoia into Piazza della Republica. She is still standing there, waving and smiling at me. I see her smoky green eyes starting to blur.
The cab crosses via Pisani at an angle to the other side of the street and accelerates towards the airport. Celeste’s teary eyes follow me. Little do I realize, my eyes too are getting fogged up. I struggle hard to control my emotions. I look outside the window. The traffic has come to standstill. The road around the tram tracks is being repaired, the right side of the street is blocked by a garbage truck picking up black plastic bags from the pavement. I glance at my watch. I can’t afford to be late. Milan airport has its very own set of rules about you checking-in on time. And I just have to be in Munich that afternoon. I am throwing ausstand, my going away party for the people at Playboy in Germany. The anxiety of making it to the airport in time pushes Celeste away in back of my mind.
Soon as the cab edges in near the departure gates, I jump out and make my way through the waves of people and to the first counter with the shortest line. I still have at least forty minutes. But the woman at the counter is taking her sweet little time. Unlike most other airports, they don’t have computers to aid them. Instead she must make a phone call to check-in every single passenger. The television monitor up above, blinks the requirement of checking-in at least thirty five minutes prior to the scheduled departures. There are still two passengers in front of me. The clock keeps ticking. It is now 9:40 and the plane is to depart at 10:10.
‘It’s too late for the Munich flight!’ she frowns at me.
‘What you mean it’s too late. It doesn’t leave for another half an hour,’
‘Yes, but you must check-in thirty five minutes before.’
‘Yes, but I have been standing in this line for fifteen minutes now!’
‘I don’t know that!’
‘What do you mean you don’t know that?’ Irritation in my voice is apparent.
‘The plane is already closed and it’s full. I am sorry, you understand English? I told you, you can’t get on the flight.’
This kind of rudeness only can happen at the Linate. I almost want to strangle her. Shut her up for once and for ever. Instead I rush to the counter #1 to see the manger.
‘I am sorry, it’s too late to get on that flight’, he snaps and conveniently walks away. My frustration and rage is building up, but there is nothing I can do. I rush to another counter. The clerk is at least pleasant. I start babbling to him too. He checks on the phone and apologizes that there was nothing they could do. The flight is already closed, the reserved seats are given away to the waiting list passengers.
‘Where is the Lufthansa office?’ A Bavarian looking guy in his green coat butts in.
‘It’s downstairs, across from the police station.’
‘Are you a passenger to Munich too?’
‘Yes.’
We both rush downstairs through both wings of the airport in a fury, looking for Lufthansa office. A German looking young woman is standing near the door, seeming she is about to open the office. She isn’t in the uniform. I am about to blow up when I suddenly realize that she too is bumped off the flight and is down there to complain. We knock. No one answers. Besides, the woman tells us that the airport personnel are going on their standard two hour strike in ten minutes. Perhaps we should check into the train schedule to see if there was an Intercity leaving soon. There is indeed one, leaving in about forty minutes. Fat chance that we could make it across the city within that time. Plus, it arrives in Munich twelve hours later. That too is no good. We also contemplate renting a car together and drive through the treacherous curves of the Alps. Not a good idea either.
But now with the three of us, we have strength in numbers. Hermann, an aeronautical engineer works for MBB in Munich. Rosemary is the European marketing manager for Elizabeth Arden, working out of Düsseldorf. Not attractive in conventional sense, but the way she carries herself has that certain sex appeal about her. And she certainly knows how to best use the beauty products she represents. She is in fact, the perfect walking and talking image for Ms. Arden.
At the stroke of ten past ten, suddenly there is calm and there is chaos. The airport employees have all flown away like a flock of migrating birds. . The check-in counters deserted and looking lonesome await the return of their occupants. The mob of people have turned around and are now moving in the opposite direction to re-book. Strangely enough they have opened a counter to do just that. While Hermann and I stand there, looking confused and disoriented, Rosemary has paved her way through the throng and all of a sudden she has planted herself at the front of the long line. She comes back with a reservation to Munich via Zürich. Hermann and I follow suit.
We stack all of our baggage together on one cart. I join the line, while Hermann and Rosemary wait for me. I am squeezed between two people on the sides and a hoard of them in the front and back of me in rows of three. For all these many people, there is only one agent re-booking. Over-worked, she does her work patiently and swiftly. By the time I get re-booked an hour later, I feel nauseated by all that body odor I am forced to inhale. Rosemary could have sold a whole bunch of Elizabeth Arden deodorant that day.
The strike is going to be over in the next twenty minutes. Handing tickets to Hermann to check-in our baggage, I run to the public telephone to call Brigit (Peterson) in Munich. But the foreign telephone exchange is on strike as well. After having lost three telephone coins I get hold of Katherine (Morgan) at Rizzoli’s editorial offices, and ask her to send a telex to Munich.
Hadn’t I known the Italians outside of the Linate airport, my image of them would have been that of the people most inconsiderate and the rudest on earth. They could make you feel the most helpless ever. Outright nasty. I have experienced some of the most humiliating moments of my life between Linate and Malpensa airports in Milano. You can plan anything, make dates, the weather could be the most beautiful, no fog to delay the departures. But at a whim of an union leader, they just walk out, leaving you glued to the spot where you stood, burning inside with rage, furious with your fists eager to punch someone, your feet stomping madly on the ground. But of no use. They have a cool way of pretending that you don’t even exist. You are in their land, and they are the ultimate MASTERS of the Universe.
You learn to be patient. You learn that it doesn’t help getting upset, that the blood you end up burning is your own. The smartest thing you can do is to accept the fact that you are helpless. You are dealing with the people who probably invented logic, but don’t quite understand it themselves. They are an emotional bunch. And you are dealing with the unions that are apt at blackmailing and disrupting the whole day, the whole city and the whole country, if not the whole continent, by going on strike only for two hours! Just take it easy. Not being able to get off the ground is not the worst thing that can happen on earth. Never get too upset and block your ability to reason. Never forget, you are dealing with the country that once was the greatest in Europe, and you are dealing with the people called THE ITALIANS.
The Zürich flight is leaving at 13:15. It has turned into a beautiful day. Sunny, the clean unpolluted blue sky, the crisp air and the friendly sunrays stroking your skin. I look outside the window as the Swissair slowly rolls towards the runway. I waive, ‘Ciao Milano’. And soon we are in Zürich.. We have three hours layover before Lufthansa takes off for Munich. We walk up the stairs of the atrium to the airport restaurant. We clink our glasses to prost.
‘Back to the civilization!’ I say.
‘Yes, back to the civilization!’ Rosemary echoes with a broad smile.
I rush to call Brigit. ‘No party tonight,’ I tell her. She is disappointed. Heinz (Nellissen) has taken the trip from Essen and is around. We’re party people and don’t let little thing like Italian strike stop us
‘Don’t worry. We will arrange everything!’ Its nice to hear Heinz’s reassuring voice.
The party is already in full swing when I walk into the corridor of our Munich offices at little past six in the evening. It’s the loudest and the most rambunctious reception. The revelry goes on until four in the morning. When I finally hit the sack, I feel happily nostalgic about what I considered to be the longest cocktail party of my life – that was the act one of my time at Playboy.
© Haresh Shah 2013
Illustration: Celia Rose Marks
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THE TAIWANESE BARBER SHOP
When I was just a little kid, the family barber would stop by our joint family home every morning to shave-cut hair-do head massage to the grown up males. He would squat on the floor with one of the males sitting in front of him, also on the floor, with his legs crossed. And submit himself to be pampered. My generation got more modern barber shops called salons. And then I got to visit a Taiwanese Barber Shop. That would change forever the way I would think of the business of cutting hair.
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