Weekly Business Trip to Italy.

A lady nudges her husband and points at my screen, they exchange glances.  I act like I don’t see them or care, but in reality I care a great deal and in some ways I feel a small sense of importance.  “maybe this job is cool” I think.  Then they turn back to the inflight magazine, sip from their glasses of wine with lids, I continue to model up some kitchen in CAD.

I am a designer, I travel on an almost weekly basis to Northern Italy, I fly to one of the Venice airports then on to my meetings with suppliers dotted around Treviso, Friul and Cormons.  It sounds like a dream job to most people.  Most people think that I wake up around 10am, roll into a pair of freshly pressed chinos, throw a cashmere scarf over my tanned, muscular shoulders and wander out of my home topless.  I stride with confidence with a satchel full of pencils, step into my chauffeur driven limo which whisks me 10 minutes to my learjet.  The plane takes off, which disturbs my second slumber and I land, refreshed, on the Grand Canal in Venice.  I swan across the water (of course I float) and into some piazza where I kiss the cheeks of many, many beautiful women.  We laugh, we cry, we discuss art and occasionally draw a picture of some masterpiece before going for dinner at 4pm.  We eat the food of champions, we drink the wine of the gods before heading to bed again.  I then visit all of the tourist attractions and get private tours before my helicopter takes me back to my idle jet, which promptly take me home. 

The reality, my phone violently spurts out some aggressive noise whilst shaking nervously. GET THE FUCK UP!  I spring out of bed, groggy, pissed off.  It’s before silly O’clock.  I have pre packed everything besides the clothes I intend to wear.  I force down whatever food I have that requires no effort, feed that cat, say a teary farewell to my partner and child.  I leave the house and forget something.  I check over the hire car in the dark with help from the moonlight, find numerous dents and angrily call the letting agent to complain.  Sometimes I skip this and take a hit on my annual bonus.  I wave to the milkman who is leaving his house and drive 2 hours to an airport, I then fill the car up with fuel or the company penalises me with the charges.  I power walk through check in, bag over my shoulder and pride myself at getting through security without being asked any obvious questions.  “Any laptops, liquids sir?” the sombre security guard asks as I hold both in my hand.  I get through with minimal emotional scars.  I might get breakfast, I know all of the shops and eateries in this airport, I go to my usual, I get my latte.  

Boarding, “I know the terminal where this flight goes from” I think, they have changed it again.  I get to the gate, I watch as the holidaymakers and nationals judge me as I stand in the priority boarding queue.  We board, me first.  I sit in my big seat, legs crossed laptop out.  More judging, this time I provoke it and smirk as they sit in their clam shells, knowing they will be having fun tonight.  The flight whirrs away, another 2 hours pass and concluded with holiday makers arms crossing my vision to take pictures of Venice on landing, “Venice is on the other side” I say as they take pictures of the oil refinery. 

We land, the seatbelts of travellers ping!  The flight attendant reminds everyone again that “the seat belt sign is still on”, the Italians don’t care, they don’t understand or chose not to.  They holiday makers are out in the open now, no one knows where to go – they are terrified, lost.  I part the waves and speed through passport control.  I get to the car rental desk to retrieve my 2^nd car of the day.  I make my usual joke to the attendant I have befriended through numerous patronage “the Ferrari this time yeah?” the man forces another pity filled chuckle, he’s heard it from me before a week earlier. I check this car over, of course there is damage, the cars are damaged on purpose when they leave the factory here.  I drive on the right now, I sometimes drift to the left in autopilot. 

It’s still early, and I arrive at my first meeting.  I sit in some factory with a sugary espresso in a plastic cup, we talk about new kitchens, current kitchens, old kitchens, “the latest kitchen delivery is failing inspection”, “where are the bottle necks?”, “it clearly states in the minutes”, these are some of the frequently used phrased used in these meetings.  They tell me something that we have specified is wrong, we argue and sometimes resolve it.  Sometimes we leave it and talk about it the following week. It’s mainly politics. 

12pm is lunch time.  The quality of food tallies up with how well the meeting goes, if it went well, we go to some Osteria, delicious food and a real perk at last.  If the meeting goes sour, we head to the factory Mensa (canteen) which by British standards is still like a Pret a Manger.  I leave, some progress made and head to another meeting.  I always leave on good terms and have built good relationships, I visit so much I get invited to their Christmas party and recognise if I have had my haircut. 

The hotel, I have my haunts now and have sampled most in the regions.  It’s around 8pm and I eat in the hotel, again good food but I eat alone occasionally opening a book I pretend to read.  I probably drink too much before heading to bed around 10pm to watch YouTube videos in my pants eating peanuts from the minibar, “5 euros?  Seems reasonable”.

Time to fly back, that soothing alarm sounds again, I use the hotel shampoo as body wash and hit breakfast.  It’s the usual mix of ham, cheese and cakes, much like an Eatonian child’s lunchbox.   The journey back to the airport is much the same as the first only in reverse.  Again the this time tanned Holiday maker attempts another picture of an airplane wing with Venice in the background, but she’s left macro on and is left with a detailed picture of my nose.