Rome-Fiumicino’s Baggage Handling System gets an…

…out of 100 for efficiency.

We flew into Rome's main airport twice on our trip, once from Dulles and once from Palermo and each time it took AGES for our suitcases to appear. I give the system an 8 instead of a zero because our bags didn’t get lost, they just took forever to arrive from the plane. (And also because I have a picture of a big orange 8 from the airport baggage claim area.) It took almost as long on the Palermo-Rome flight as it took to fly from Palermo to Rome. At least for that shorter flight it had cooled considerably in Rome.

But when we first arrived from the US, it was Africa-hot in that airport’s un-cooled baggage claim, filled with surly, weary and unwashed travelers. When the bags finally arrived and we stepped outside for the taxi line, it felt slightly cooler for a moment. Then it felt even hotter as the thick cloud of diesel exhaust from the long line of taxis gave us an oh-so-European embrace. Say what you will about the expense and inconvenience of California’s emissions laws, but the Land of Diesel has much in common with Mordor when it comes to air quality.

We learned a few things about Roman taxis that might help you out if you ever head that way. First, there is a fixed fee of €40 to Fiumicino from Rome or vice versa. Second, some Roman taxi drivers are likely to try to get around this if they think they can charge you more. Third, that €40 fee does not seem to allow for the usual additional one Euro surcharge per suitcase you find in many other European cities’ taxis—i.e., it’s €40 even if you have two or three pieces of luggage with you. And four, if your hotel offers a private car for €65, it’s worth the extra to ride in a new, clean Mercedes instead of the average or worse Rome taxi, which may or may not be driven by a heavy smoker, may or may not have air conditioning when it’s 90 degrees in the shade, and may or may not play disco hits for an hour as you sweat in your travel clothes and wish to be struck by lightning if that’s the only possible end to your suffering.

It’s also worth the extra €25 because in spite of all the may or may-nots, you can be sure that your taxi driver will be striving for the national Most Fearless Driver award, which he can’t hope to win without sailing into crowded intersections without touching the brakes, or seeing how close he can come to stationary objects without scraping the mirrors off his doors, or scaring countless tourists into soiling themselves in public crosswalks.

During our trip we took that ride three times in taxis, all of which sucked in some pretty distinct ways, and one time in a private car, which sucked in only one way. Our flight home started at Rome-Fiumicino at 7:15 am, which meant we were supposed to be at the airport at 5:15, which meant we should leave the hotel at 4:30 to allow 45 minutes for the trip, which meant we needed to wake up at…

We decided to live dangerously and count on no traffic at that hour and on a short line at the First Class counter, which meant we were really only risking a long line at Security. So we left the hotel at 5 am and got in that beautiful, clean-smelling Benz for a slow, safe trip through a darken Rome.

It was slow because the driver decided to practice his English by donning the guise of a tour guide as we drove through town. He was a friendly little guy, about 40, with a heavy accent and a small English vocabulary. He had great passion about his subject, however, and spoke earnestly if not fluently about several landmarks as we drove along. The concentration required to translate his thoughts into English, though, took something away from his ability to focus on driving, and we started going more and more slowly as he struggled to find the English words he sought.

We were on nearly deserted streets, where a typical Roman taxi driver could easily have gotten his rickety rig up to its top speed, and suddenly were being passed by every vehicle that happened along and a meandering cow who seemed lost and was wondering where his farm had got to. We were already leaving much later than prudence demanded, and there we were, listening to that stuttering rambling in the driver’s seat as we crawled toward the airport. But it only lasted about five minutes, I think, though it seemed much longer. When we reached the ring road and the notable landmarks ended, boy we really started flying and made it to the airport in a total of about 30 minutes.

If not for the slow start and having to hear Enya’s “Orinoco Flow” for the third time that trip, it would’ve been the perfect ride to the airport. But at least it wasn’t disco, and for that alone it was worth the extra 25 Euros.