The Arthouse

Danielle, The Airport Lady

I was just doing my job. That job includes answering questions any person might have. I know three languages: English, Latin, and French; learned in that order. I don't know much Italian.

It was just a normal night for me. Nothing really to note till this lady tapped me on my shoulder.

"Scusi, un informazione, per favore," she asks in Italian. (I'm assuming that's what she said. That's what Kathleen told me anyways.) I didn't know how to respond. I'm afraid I must have looked quite rudely at her in the midst of my confusion. I've never been good with faces.

Anyways, I did the only thing I could since I don't know Italian. I radioed for my colleague to come over and speak to her.

I remember she looked worried when I started talking into my walkie-talkie. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that she squeezed the hand of the teen boy next to her. I assume he was her son.

I click my radio off and tell her in the most reassuring tone I could deliver, "I don't speak Italian. I'm sorry. My colleague does, though. She's on her way right now."

I still don't think she understood what I said, but understood my tone.

She replied, "Grazie."

A few minutes in, her son says something. I'm not sure what because, once again, I don't speak Italian, and whatever it was never got repeated to Kathleen. They argued for some time. At one point in the argument the boy went quiet, thinking. After much deliberation he eventually blurted out, "I will die, mamma! I have no English!"

His words were slow and deliberate, as if he had not said that exact string of syllables often. The alleged mom yelled something back at him in quick Italian. Every now and then, I heard them mention Venice.

Man, I wish I could go to Venice.

Eventually, my colleague showed up.

"Danielle, what's the problem?" she asked me, donut in hand.

"Kathleen, aren't you on a diet?" I responded, glancing at the pastry in her hand.

"Screw it," she waved her hand. "I could hear those two yelling from the donut place. If I wasn't working, I would've grabbed a beer."

I laughed at that comment. Kathleen placed a hand on the irate mother's shoulder and asked her something in Italian. While their conversation went on, the boy looked at me. He swept his black hair out of his face. He reminded me of the type of boy that would make my middle school daughter swoon.

He opened his mouth, but didn't say anything. I assumed he was searching for the right English word. I waited patiently.

He eventually asked, "What's Detroit?"

I responded, trying to reassure him, "This city. Like Venice."

"Not Venezia." He crinkled his nose and glared at me. I decided not to push the issue. While my heart bleeds for him, there's nothing I could do, especially with the small window of time and the large language barrier.

I heard the Italian lady and Kathleen exchange "Ciao." I at least knew what that meant.

Once the mother and her son walked away, I asked Kathleen what that whole conversation was about.

"Oh, that? She was wondering what the announcement was. I replied that the flight was overbooked and we were offering to pay for whatever their next flight was if they agreed to reschedule. She decided to take the offer. Poor kid, though."

"Why's that?"

"He didn't want to move, but she made him due to circumstances beyond her control."

"Poor kid."

"Yeah. Want the rest of my donut?"

And that's all that happened. I didn't see the mother or her son after that.