Joe Avati: Nonna at the Ramp
You know you’re Italian when your Nonna sees a ramp station attendant and immediately assumes he’s either family or someone who owes her money.
We’re at the airport, right? I’m trying to get through the ramp station, and Nonna is behind me with her handbag, three cousins from Calabria, and her Zio who has somehow been travelling since 1974 without ever showing a passport.
The attendant says, “Good morning, can I see your boarding pass?”
Nonna looks at him like he’s insulted the entire village.
“Boarding pass? I have ticket.”
“Yes, Nonna, but he needs to see it.”
“I show you ticket. Is good ticket. I buy from woman.”
“What woman?”
“Woman at shop.”
“What shop?”
“Shop near house.”
This is how Italians communicate. No names. No addresses. Just geographical clues that haven’t been useful since 1986.
The attendant says, “Ma’am, I just need your boarding pass.”
Nonna pulls out her handbag.
Now, this is not a handbag. This is a portable archaeological dig.
She’s got tissues, rosary beads, two mints, a photo of Padre Pio, receipts from 2009, a little plastic bag containing another little plastic bag, and somewhere in there, the original deed to Calabria.
The attendant is waiting.
Nonna goes, “Aspetta.”
And when an Italian woman says “aspettа,” you know you’re not going anywhere.
Five minutes later she finds the boarding pass.
Except it’s not hers.
It’s her cousin’s.
She looks at it.
“Is same thing.”
“No, Nonna, it has his name on it.”
“He is family.”
“That doesn’t mean you can board with his ticket.”
Zio gets involved.
He leans over and says to the attendant, “You have problem?”
Now suddenly it’s a diplomatic incident.
The attendant says, “Sir, I’m just doing my job.”
Zio goes, “Exactly. Do your job.”
Then he walks away like he just won a court case.
Meanwhile the cousins from Calabria are standing there giving advice nobody asked for.
One says, “In Calabria, they don’t do this.”
Of course they don’t.
In Calabria, the plane probably doesn’t leave until somebody’s cousin has finished making coffee.
Then Nonna notices the ramp.
She says, “Why they put ramp here?”
I say, “For people who need assistance.”
She goes, “Assistance? I walk.”
“Nonna, nobody said you can’t walk.”
“I walk better than you.”
This is another Italian tradition: turning accessibility into a personal fitness competition.
Now the attendant politely asks if Nonna needs assistance getting to the gate.
She looks at him.
Then looks at me.
Then back at him.
“No.”
Two seconds later she says, “Maybe.”
I say, “You just said no.”
“I say no before. Now I say maybe.”
The attendant brings a wheelchair.
Nonna looks at it like she’s been offered a hearse.
“What is this?”
“A wheelchair.”
“I don’t need wheelchair.”
“You asked for assistance.”
“I ask for help. Not wheelchair.”
Then Zio says, “Sit down, Maria. You complain anyway.”
She sits.
Immediately she becomes the Queen of the Airport.
“Push faster.”
“Watch the bag.”
“Don’t go there.”
“Where are you taking me?”
The attendant says, “Gate 12.”
Nonna says, “No, gate 14.”
“Your boarding pass says gate 12.”
“My cousin told me gate 14.”
And there it is.
The ultimate authority in an Italian family: a cousin who isn’t even there.
The attendant says, “I’m pretty sure it’s gate 12.”
Nonna leans forward.
“You are pretty sure?”
“Yes.”
She turns to me.
“See? He doesn’t know.”
Now the whole family is following behind the wheelchair.
Four cousins.
Zio.
Me.
Nobody knows where we’re going.
But we’re all confidently walking behind Nonna because she’s Italian and therefore apparently has airport navigation built into her DNA.
We finally reach the gate.
Nonna looks at the sign.
Gate 12.
She looks at me.
Then she says:
“See? I told you.”
And that’s Nonna.
Wrong for forty-five minutes…
…but somehow she still gets to the gate first.