What's the Italian for 'Dude, where's my car?'

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Tonight I'm back in my favorite hotel in Siena, Italy. It still has rotary phones. I've long since learned not to expect things to hurry when I come here - and it's a good thing I ended up planning a little extra time in my trip this time as well. As always, things in Tuscany operate at a different pace than the world around it. The plane landed a few minutes late because of winds, but was close enough to on time not to matter. There were no issues in baggage claim or at passport control. In fact, there were these two beautiful dalmations in the terminal I got to pet while waiting. I miss having a dog around. The big one, not the little evil one. Anyway, things were going fine until I got up to the Hertz counter. The admin in my office forgot to use my Hertz Gold card, so I had to wait in the long line, and spend more time providing passport, license, credit card information, etc. No big deal, just annoying. Because I've always used my Gold card at Pisa, I've never realized that there's a normal, non-gold member lot further out from the airport, that requires a shuttle bus. OK, so I get out there and the bus is full, but the guy gestures that he’ll be right back, and sure enough, he's back in 5 minutes to take me over to the lot. He drops me in the area where my car is labeled as being, and drives off. Problem is, there's no car there. The parking spaces aren't individually numbered, but rather grouped together under a single number, so I figure maybe my car is just over a few spaces one way or the other. Nope. Hm. Try using the clicker thing and see if I can get it to beep at me. It's a Renault Scenic, and doesn't actually have a key, but rather a wacky card that looks like a credit card, only a few times thicker. French ingenuity. Nothing beeping at me. So I walk all the way down to the end of the aisle. And then back up to the other end. And then down the next aisle. Did I mention it's like 90 degrees in Italy right now? By this time I see the shuttle guy coming back around for his next run and flag him down. I gesture at my paperwork and the number where I'm supposed to find the car, and say 'no car. Um.. No auto.' Shit. I should really learn Italian one day. He figures out what I mean when I point at the spot where the car is supposed to be and spread my hands wide and shrug in the international symbol for 'What the hell?' He takes my not-a-key and says what I assume to be 'wait right here, gringo' and drives off to complete his round. Then he comes back and picks me up and we spend 15 minutes driving slowly through the entire lot looking for the car. Nothing. So we drive back over to the terminal. The way back takes us through the gold-member lot. El Duce slams on the brakes just as we enter. I'm trying to figure out the international sign for 'You just gave me whiplash, you crazy S.O.B' when he gestures across my body at my car. Parked 10 feet from where I got on the shuttle. In my defense, I have to say that the paperwork really *did* say go to the other lot, and the lady behind the counter really *did* say 'go get on the shuttle'. Ah well. Nothing an extra glass of chianti at dinner won't cure.
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They threw in the haggis for free

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My lovely, lovely kilt finally came. Cross that resolution off the list. Aren't those some fantastic legs I got me there? As I mentioned before, once I was introduced to the kilt, I stopped wearing a regular tuxedo. As my mother's side is Scottish (Patterson - a sept of Clan MacLaren, I have at least a tenuous claim to wear a legitimate tartan. (I've also worn the Irish national tartan as a tribute to the Grady side, but let's face it: a "national tartan" for Ireland is kind of like an "official wigwam" for a Swede. It's all in the marketing.) Getting a kilt made to order was a blast, but you should be aware that there a number of mandatory accessories that go along with it. See those shoes with the wacky laces? But my favorite is by far and away the sporran. For the ignorant reader, that's the furry purse which hangs in front of my groin. Kilts don't come with pockets, after all, and you have to have someplace to put your flask. This one is especially nice - when I asked the guy at the kilt store what was traditional, he told me badger fur, with the badger head acting as the flap, a la Cruella de Ville. Badger heads being scarce in the shops these days, I asked him what was next on my list of options. "Seal" "Seal? Like the fur of a seal?" "Aye. Seal. It's the best." "Isn't seal hunting illegal or something?" "Not here. The great Robbie Burns said that there's nae like a wee seal to make a man's sporran." "Awesome. Club one for me." Never argue with a Scot when he starts talking Burns. I've got to admit, the thing is sinfully soft.
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Ain't family great?

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Last night, my bride showed me an email my father-in-law had forwarded. A lot of our US mail is delivered to their home, and while it's mostly spam, this one looked a little different. 'What's this - hey, that looks like a credit collection notice. What the hell?' It was indeed, for $76.83. I repeat - what the hell? I haven't lived in the states for well over a year now, who the hell can I owe money to? So I call the company. Me: Hiya. Says here I owe you money. Operator Yes sir. $76.83. Me: Unfortunately, I have no idea who you or your company are. Can you help me out here? Operator No problem sir. This bill is for the cable company from when you lived at 483 Lamkin Road, Harlem Georgia. Me: Huh. Imagine that. The only problem I can see is that I've never lived in Harlem, GA. Operator: You didn't live there from February through October, 2000? Me: Now that you mention it, nope. I moved to San Francisco in 1998. In fact, I have my 2000 tax returns which proves it. Operator: Do you know anybody who's lived in Harlem? Me: Hmm. Hmm. Now picture the light bulb above my head. Picture it going on. Picture my hand slapping my forehead a la Moe Howard. Me: Can you tell me who lived at that address? Operator: No problem sir, I can run a public records search. Me: Tell me if there's a 'Padgett' listed. Operator: I have several listed... 'Padgett, Robin A... ' Me: Stop. That's the one. That's my sister. Ain't this swell? Somehow, I've been listed as the owner of my beloved sister's cable bill. Funny - I don't remember signing up for this. It's like a little present she got for me. That keeps on giving, 5 years later. Me: So knowing that I can prove I was across the continent at the time, what are my options here? Operator: Well, you can dispute the charges. Me: Ok, I dispute them. Now what? Operator: You'll have to file an 'identity theft' report with the police. Me: Awesome. Let's do that. Oh hell - except the nearest police station is about 2,000 miles away, since I now live in a different country. Operator: (laughing) Well, sir, that is a pickle. I can offer you a settlement - you pay $50, and we'll call it even. Nothing will go on your credit report. Me: I pay $50, and then I can take the law into my own hands with my sister? No problem. Let's do that. Operator: (by this point, she was my best friend) That works for us, sir. I had to call my parents in Tennessee to get the latest phone number for my sister. Her numbers tend to be disconnected or rotate on a fairly regular basis, and it must have been two years since I've troubled myself to keep up. My sister, of course, was shocked and astonished that this could have happened. Yes, she listed me as a reference on the account, she immediately assured me, but that was all! Number A) I don't recall telling her she could list me as a reference, pretty much for this exact reason. Number B) Since when does a 'reference' become responsible for your bill? And Number Next) I can barely remember who I worked for 5 years ago, let alone the details of setting up a cable account. The quickness of the explanation was truly remarkable. Even halfway through my rant, I lost steam. No doubt she was still going to sleep the untroubled sleep of the innocent that night. The bill's paid, and my fifty bucks are gone. Yelling at her at this point is kinda like yelling at the leopard to get rid of those damned spots, won't you? I'll run a credit report and make sure there aren't any other surprises waiting for me. We went on to talk about the rest of the family, and she promised to send me pictures of my brother in highschool so that I can share them with the internet (since mine are all in storage and he demanded I prove how goofy he looked.) She laughed and said that's what the internet is for, embarassing family, eh? You know what? I guess she's right.
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