The Two-Pound Lifeboat
Christmas afternoon. Outside, rain, wind, and cold. My wife and I decide to finally do something we have been postponing for a long time: reorganizing the bookshelves. We have many books, accumulated over the years. Almost all of them read. About ten years ago we switched to e-readers, but the poetry of a physical book remains inimitable.
Among the Italian books there was one in English that needed to be put back in its place. As I picked it up, a small piece of glossy paper slipped out: a passport photo of me from many years ago.
It was a cold morning in late spring 2009. While Italy was already warm, the north of Great Britain was showing its properly Nordic side. I was prepared, wearing a thick padded jacket.
Checkout at the hotel had been slower than expected because of a long queue. I was not in a desperate rush to get to the airport, but it was my first time in the city, my first time using local transport which was unreliable due to work at the central station, and I was struggling to understand the local accent. I wanted to move with some margin. If everything went well, I would be home late in the evening, already imagining the usual welcome-back pizza on the sofa in front of the TV series I was obsessed with at the time: Desperate Housewives.
I hurried to the Metrolink stop right in front of the hotel. I knew that would be the last tram and that, because of the works, the next one would not come for almost two hours. There was nothing around and I neither could nor wanted to go back to the hotel. I ran to the ticket machine with several minutes to spare. There was no one else. I placed my suitcase in front of me and started tapping the screen.
While I was waiting for the ticket to be printed, the Metrolink arrived early. When I heard the sound of the doors closing, I started swearing at the machine, which at that exact moment finally printed my ticket. I grabbed the suitcase by the handle and jumped inside. The doors closed as I was getting on, catching the suitcase between them.
The tram departed quickly. Early. I smiled, relieved and satisfied. At least I would reach the central station in time for the next connection. Then I felt something was wrong. I started patting my pockets. Where was my wallet?
Panic hit. Inside were all my money, pounds and euros, my train and plane tickets, my documents including my driver’s license, my credit cards. Everything. I kept searching until I understood what had happened. In the panic of the closing doors, I had stupidly placed the wallet on top of the suitcase while retrieving the ticket. Then I grabbed the suitcase by the handle and rushed inside, making the wallet fall onto the platform.
When I boarded, I had been the only person at the stop, and there would be no other trams. I thought that if I went back immediately, I might find it. Or maybe I would find it in a bin, stripped of cash but with the documents still there. But that Metrolink, fast as it was, seemed to take forever to reach the next stop. And when I got off to catch the one going back, the ninety-second wait felt endless.
I got off with my heart in my throat and rushed to the ticket machine, full of hope. Useless. The wallet was gone. I checked every bin, the tracks, the pavement. Nothing. I understood there was no hope. Someone had found it before me.
The first thing I did was block my credit cards. Then I went back to the hotel to ask if someone had found a wallet and brought it there, since the last thing I had put inside it was the hotel receipt. Nothing. I called the airline, explained what had happened, and they allowed me to move the flight. The problem was that I was now without a ticket, without money, without documents. I felt, for a moment, completely erased.
I went to the nearest police station, Pendleton, to file a report. The officer was very kind and suggested I contact the Italian Consulate to find the best way to get me home. I tried calling immediately, but they were closed. I left a message on their voicemail. Assuming I would need passport photos, I went straight to the Arndale Centre, the only place I knew with a photo booth, and took a set of terrible pictures.
The next morning I went to the Consulate. There was an incredible queue of people who were clearly neither Italian nor English, to the point that I wondered whether I was in the right place. I was, so I waited over an hour before my turn. Eventually I was received by a middle-aged woman.
"Yes?"
"Good morning. I left a message yesterday. I lost my wallet and I have no documents. Here is the police report and..."
"This says stolen, not lost. Someone is lying."
I replied, darkly: "Listen. I placed it on my suitcase, ran for the Metrolink, and when I came back to get it, it was gone. I do not know whether this counts as lost or stolen. I am not an expert. I only know that I am here without money or documents and I need to get home. I have found a place to stay and a small loan, I am not sleeping on the street, but I need to leave."
"Wait here. Give me one photo and the report."
She disappeared for a few minutes and came back with some forms.
"You need to write all your personal details here. Do you have an ID with you?"
"No. That is the problem. Otherwise I would already be back in Italy."
"Fine. I cannot do anything now. We are closing soon and there is a long queue. Sign this request and come back in a week."
"A week? That is a disaster. I have work commitments. I cannot stay here for a week."
"I can give you an appointment for next week, but not a time. Come next Tuesday and queue again. You have no documents and we need time to handle this. Avanti il prossimo. Next please."
I took my papers and walked away in silence. I have always been extremely careful, and I already felt like an idiot for what had happened. Being treated like that only made it worse. I was not expecting an immediate solution, but a week felt absurd.
Outside, I looked around and understood that I would need to survive the following week with very little money, leaving the house in the morning and returning in the evening. I discovered that Tesco’s Chunky Chicken was a reliable cheap lunch, that I could spend some hours at Starbucks not far from the table often occupied by Tiziano Ferro, always deeply absorbed in his laptop, and that I would be walking around without documents. The best solution, I thought, was to spend a small amount of money on something cheap that could occupy my time anywhere, without electricity. My laptop at the time had less than two hours of battery life, and Wi-Fi worked intermittently.
A book. A cheap book, on offer, something that would keep me busy for at least a couple of days. The first bookstore I entered had a bargain corner, but almost nothing matched my taste. Except one. A hardcover with John Lennon’s face on the cover. The title was simple: "John", written by Cynthia, his first wife. It cost only two pounds. I bought it and carried it with me. To avoid losing anything else, I put my photos and the police report inside it. In the book, I thought, they would be safe.
I decided I would only enter Starbucks when I needed coffee or my laptop. The rest of the time I stayed in the Arndale atrium, under the stairs, where there were benches. It became my reading room. There was the Apple Store, where I went in to play with the devices and read news, sweet shops nearby, and restrooms close enough. A good place to spend several hours.
On the second day, a cleaning lady asked me what I thought of the book. She was reading it too and was curious. "You do not often see a young man reading a book like that", she said. We talked for a few minutes. She was not English by birth but had arrived there young and was now close to retirement. Her children were grown, about my age, all working in the City of London, and she still worked, proud and calm. Her English was full of local slang that I did not understand, but she took the time to explain it. Those ten minutes of conversation became a daily appointment for both of us. It was probably the best local accent course I could have had.
The week passed fairly quickly, between other small mishaps. On Tuesday morning I arrived at the Consulate very early, but an hour before opening there was already an endless queue, again of people who were neither Italian nor English and barely spoke either language. I still did not understand, but I queued.
After more than two and a half hours, it was my turn. This time there was a different clerk, with the same expression as the woman from the previous week.
"Good morning. I was here last week. I have the document your colleague gave me and..."
"Do not make me read all that. What do you want?"
"A document to return to Italy."
"You do not have an ID with you?"
"No. That is why I am here. I need some document, anything that allows me to return to Italy. I do not know whether I can file an Italian report here or only once I am back, but..."
"I cannot do anything. If you have no document, how am I supposed to know you are who you say you are?"
I lost patience. It happens rarely, but it happens. And when it does, I become surgically sharp.
"I was told to wait a week. I was given forms, which I filled out. Now you tell me you cannot do anything. Can you explain how an Italian citizen who has had his documents stolen is supposed to get home? I can bring witnesses, local and Italian, to confirm my identity. Tell me what I need to do, but I need to go home as soon as possible."
He stayed silent for a few seconds, completely uninterested. "Wait here."
He disappeared for over fifteen minutes.
"I have prepared a Declaration of Identity, in Italian and English. One of your photos is attached. Attach it to the local police report. Once in Italy, go to the Carabinieri to redo all your documents. Avanti il prossimo. Next please."
I took the paper and left, extremely irritated. But at least I could finally go home.
I immediately called the airline and they managed to put me on the Friday flight. Two more days, but at least there was an end.
On Wednesday I worked all day. On Thursday I went back to the Arndale to look for my reading companion. I found her upstairs, along the corridor. I told her I had the document and she smiled. "I am happy for you. Less happy for me. I will miss our chats.". I told her I would come back in the future and look for her. She was glad. We shook hands warmly.
I looked for her many times after that. I never found her again.
On the morning of departure I left extremely early. I arrived at the airport hours before my flight. I decided to go straight to security and wait there. I showed my new ticket and the Consulate document.
"Come with us, please."
They took me to a room and disappeared for about ten minutes. When the officer returned, he approached me with cold politeness. "I am sorry, but this document is invalid. You cannot fly. We cannot verify that you are the person who owns this ticket.".
I felt discouraged, then asked them to check by calling the Consulate, their own offices, anyone they wanted. I needed to get home. They refused. I insisted until exhaustion, eventually convincing them to call the airline.
"All right. You can go. The document is irregular for us, but the airline said to let you through.".
That evening I collapsed into my bed and slept for almost twelve hours. The next morning I went to the local Carabinieri station. I was received by the commander, kind and attentive. He listened to the whole story and became annoyed. Unfortunately, he said, some Consulates caused more problems than they solved. They could have taken my report directly and issued me a real Italian identity card immediately. I could have walked out of that office with a valid document and all replacement procedures already started. "But they almost never do. They prefer issuing a useless piece of paper and sending you back here. And now you will also have to pay a higher fee, because the English report says stolen, while they wrote lost.".
I left the station relieved by the efficiency of the local Carabinieri and went home, finally unpacking my suitcase.
Outside, the rain had started again, with a cold, biting wind, just like in Manchester. But this time I was at home, taking care of my things in the warmth of my nest. I put the photo back inside the book, smiled, and returned it to the shelf among the English volumes, greeting it like an old travelling companion.