Hey everybody! I’m Italian — which means I was born with a gold chain, a guilt complex, and a Nonna yelling “MANGIA!” even during childbirth.
And now I work at the airport — because if there’s one place Italians belong, it’s in loud, stressful environments full of yelling, coffee, and delays. It’s basically a Sunday dinner with more fuel.
Italian Childhood Prepared Me for This
Growing up Italian prepared me for airport work. You think I’m afraid of bad weather and irate passengers?
I survived Calabrese tomato sauce day with six Zias screaming at me in dialect while I was knee-deep in crushed San Marzanos.
Ground handling? Easy.
You know what’s NOT easy?
Telling your Nonna you’re not hungry.
“Ma perché? Sei malato? Vuoi morire? Do you need the priest??” (But Why? are you sick? do you want to die?)
My Nonna Thinks I’m an Air Traffic Controller
My Nonna doesn’t really understand what I do.
She tells people, “My grandson flies the planes!”
Nonna… I load the bags.
“Si, si — he puts the bags on the plane… so it flies better!”
According to her, I’m basically Tom Cruise in Top Gun, but with back pain and a reflective vest.
Italian Families at the Airport
Ever seen an Italian family drop someone off at the airport? It’s a full-blown opera.
There’s hugging, crying, the sign of the cross, someone yelling “STAI ATTENTO, EH?” (Be careful, eh?)
You’d think we were sending Nonno to war, not a one-week trip to Fort Lauderdale.
And you KNOW someone brought a suitcase full of mortadella that’s definitely not making it past customs.
Working Baggage — The Italian Way
You know you’re Italian when you’re working baggage and you lift a suitcase and go:
“Who packed this? A Calabrese Nonna going to Italy?”
45 kilos. No wheels. Held together with rope and holy water.
And when you ask them what’s inside?
“Niente… just some food, clothes, and maybe… a prosciutto leg.”
We had to call a bomb sniffing dog and it passed out from the garlic fumes.
Co-workers Don’t Understand Italian Culture
I brought leftover lasagna for lunch once — my buddy thought I was feeding the whole crew.
“Is that for everyone?”
“No, this is just the appetizer. My real lunch is in that cooler by Gate 12.”
And when we get our schedules, my manager’s like:
“Can you work Easter Sunday?”
“Are you out of your mind? I’d rather fuel a 747 with my tears than tell Nonna I missed Pasqua for a shift.”
Cabin Service + Italian Cleaning Standards
Sometimes I help with cabin service — cleaning the planes between flights.
Let me tell you: Italians clean like we’re preparing the plane for the Pope.
You ever seen your mom clean before guests arrive?
It’s like CSI: Vatican Edition.
She doesn’t vacuum — she performs an exorcism on the carpet.
So me? I’m scrubbing tray tables with vinegar, lemon, and the tears of my ancestors.
Airport Announcements, Italian Style
If Italians ran the PA system at the airport, it’d go like this:
“Attention! If you’re late, it’s your fault. Why didn’t you leave earlier? You deserve to miss the flight. Shame on your family. Also… drink water.”
The Break Room: Where Espresso Flows Like Jet Fuel
I’m Italian — our break room is just an espresso shrine.
One guy brought a moka pot. Another brought a plastic patio table. We’re out there like it’s Nonna’s backyard in Calabria.
“Gate 54’s unloading!”
“Hold on — just one more biscotto. THEN we’ll handle the jet.”
Finale: From Calabria to the Tarmac
So yeah, growing up Italian and working at the airport?
It’s a perfect match. I grew up in chaos, yelling over 10 cousins and two Nonne fighting over sauce.
Now I yell at planes.
I went from loading up my family’s car for picnics in Woodbridge to loading cargo on Air Canada.
Same thing — just more fuel, less cannelloni.
Grazie! And remember — always lift with your legs, and NEVER tell Nonna you’re full.
