Paris airport, Tuesday 28 August, 7.00 in the morning: Our Air France flight from New York is an hour late and many passengers are at risk or have already missed connections to various destinations. We, along with a dozen other passengers, have to leave at 7,30 for Bologna. The hostess tells us that we can do it, because the flight to Bologna is still Air France, we just need to hurry up and go from terminal 2 E to terminal 2 G. We get off and start running, led by an arrow that shows us the destination. We pass the visa of the passports and then off, hand luggage on the shoulder and still pedaling. When we think we've arrived, we realize we're just on a train that will take us to 2G, more or less.
Stop 1 and the indications start again, our race starts again. Escalators, walkways, we no longer know how many times we went up and down this huge airport. The arrow is gone, where is the 2G? Finally a compassionate soul tells us that we have to go out and take the bus, it's almost 7,15, we are out of breath, but we run to the bus stop. The bus arrives and shuts down the engine. I tell the driver that we have a flight at 7,30 and ask him when he will leave. He doesn't look up, doesn't utter a word, he just shows me his timetable: departure at 7,17, arrival at 2G at 7,23. It's a tightrope game, yet the driver starts chatting with other passengers and does not seem willing to leave; it's already 7,19. Without saying anything, I show him the time on my cell phone and, huffing, he starts the car. We run into the 2G, but we have to redo the security checks. We try to skip the queue explaining that we are missing the flight, the passengers don't protest, but the French police are in no hurry. With various excuses they stop more or less all of us. They also make me remove a handkerchief from my neck, which I keep to protect my throat from the air conditioning. Arguing animatedly we finally manage to pass and we rush to the gate: the plane is still stationary in front of us, it's 7,32 am, we go down the stairs to go through the boarding gate, but they have just closed.
None of the 10 passengers for Bologna can get on. We are amazed, dead tired, very angry, we hate all the French and then we start ranting we get in line to be rerouted to a later flight, it should leave at 9,30, but it is an hour late and we will leave at 10,30. To console us they give us a voucher for a breakfast. I ask the barmaid if instead of cappuccino and croissant I can have some water. Yes she says holding onto the unused voucher as long as you pay her.
This is the welcome that Europe gives us after a few weeks in the USA: superficiality (you can do it), incomprehension (no one helps us speed up this process), lack of professionalism (no one explains the way forward), lack of collaboration, dislike (mutual).
I have time to reflect on a New York Times article I read on the plane: “Has Europe Failed?” by Nicholas Sambanis, professor of political science at Yale. Sambanis's thesis is that the European crisis is not only economic and financial, there is also "a growing identity problem, an ethnic conflict". In essence, the European elites would have prefigured something for which the populations, divided by habits, but also by mutual prejudices, are not ready. A poem by an Italian journalist, Valentina Desalvo, comes to mind: "Between the real and the possible something is feasible, between the possible and the real it always fails: this is the failure of social man". According to the Yale professor, northern Europe regards southern Europe with a considerable dose of contempt, well summarized by the acronym PIGS to indicate the countries with the most problems. To get out of this vicious circle, the American suggests a frank, open discussion, above all within Germany.
Interesting isn't it? Of course, the little incident that happened to us at the airport is not enough to say that Europeans don't love and don't help each other, but there is a strong feeling that behind what is happening to us there is also an anthropological and cultural problem.
What happens instead on the other side of the ocean, where there is a country of over 50 states, cemented by an incredible feeling of national identity?
There is less wealth and much more inflation than in the past. New York seems aged, with dust on the skyscrapers (after seeing the glitter of the Emirates or Shanghai) and the garbage piled up next to Times Square. She no longer looks like the queen of the party, with a construction site still open, 11 years after 11/20. In big cities there are thousands of homeless people; in Boston we see a march of homeless veterans lining up to get something to eat. Oh yes, because eating, very badly, costs more than in Europe (or at least than in Italy). Even at McDonald's it's hard to get away with less than XNUMX dollars and you understand why Coca Cola is essential: otherwise how do you digest all the fat you put inside?
But under the accumulated dust, alongside the errors and probably the false myths that we have received, there is something incredible that I happen to find every time I go to the United States: you feel welcomed. Sure there are fingerprints and photos at the border, checks, limits, but there is also the "social pact" that really works. Lost in Washington, a gentleman approaches us and asks us: do you need help? Yes thank you. You welcome. At a big sporting event on Long Island, a friendly local worker leads us by the hand from security to the bus. At the exit we fear long queues for the return, but the organization is so perfect that we don't wait a minute. Whenever we need something our interlocutors bend over backwards to help us: Thank you, You welcome.
Two more small episodes, just to give an idea. Miami, two years ago. Return trip. We arrive at check-in and the hostess notices that my home-printed ticket is out of line. Moral we had to leave the day before, that sheet in my hand is waste paper and the responsibility is completely mine. The flight we thought we were taking was full as hell, but American Airlines stewardess Maria didn't give up and worked like crazy for an hour and a half. Moral: in the end you find us two places on a later flight, arrival in London instead of Madrid and connection with Bologna. In exchange we even earn a couple of hours, cost: zero. I don't know how to thank her: Maria thank you, You welcome.
Monday August 27, when we have to return from New York, we have very tiring connections. Departure at 18,20, arrival in Paris at 7, flight to Rome at 17,40, flight to Bologna at 21,25. I call Alitalia on Monday morning (the operatives were with the partners) and ask if there is the possibility of going directly from Paris to Bologna, they tell me no.
We go to the airport a few hours earlier and the American hostess Rina at the check in asks us if we want to bring the return back to 16,50 pm because our flight arriving from Paris is delayed. We accept and, on the occasion, I ask if by chance we can go directly from Paris to Bologna. "I'll try", answer me. He works half an hour on our file and finally finds the seats and changes the ticket. I am admired, amazed: good job Rina, thank you; You welcome.
You welcome is their way of answering please, more American than English. I think it's not just a figure of speech. There is a lot of substance in that sentence, which it would be nice to find us too: the commitment to make the best of whatever activity is being carried out, the commitment to satisfy the other, client or interlocutor who is. Here, hopefully, the public debt crisis of the old continent has been overcome, the economic and fiscal distortions that divide us have been fixed, I think it would be nice start working for a "you welcome" Europe. Provided that the feared "Balkanization" Nicholas Sambanis does not have the upper hand.
