Ellemental: Volare (To Fly)
I had a surreal experience in the Naples airport returning to New York City. One of the tour instructors took me to the special assistance room to get help boarding. Did I feel crummy about this? It was my first time navigating European airports with a language barrier.
Alice asked an airport staff member there: “Parla un poco Italiano. She speaks English. Do you?”
The young woman helped me in English right then. She took my passport to the desk to verify who I was and where I was flying.
A stocky man in a yellow vest whisked me away when the boarding process started. He hustled me through the airport and right up in front of a line of 50 people waiting to check their luggage and get boarding passes.
The tidy and brisk man placed my luggage in front of the conveyor belt. I gave the black-haired woman behind the window my passport. In five minutes my luggage was checked in, and I received the boarding pass.
The yellow-vest man told me he spoke no English. He signaled with his hands for us to go into a special waiting area. When I palmed him a 10-euro bill he said, “Thank you” and touched my shoulder. A staff member asked me who I was and where I was going. “Christina Bruni to Charles de Gaulle (CDG) Paris airport. Then CDG to JFK.”
A woman who worked with travelers who needed accommodations marched me out the door and right up to the metal steps on the tarmac. She took my right arm in her hands as I walked up and into the plane. The woman escorted me to my seat. I tried to give her the other 10-euro bill I had, and this worker wouldn’t take it.
A flight attendant came right over to ask if I spoke French. In the English she could speak, the woman told me to wait until everyone else left the plane in Paris. A CDG airport person would take me straight to my boarding gate.
The black-haired young man at CDG had me use a motorized metal chair that he wheeled to the gate. He told me to sit in the waiting area, and his colleague would help me board the Paris plane first. A taller man with blue eyes arrived within five minutes and took me to the head of the line and up to the entranceway.
“Merci. I’m fine getting on the plane from here,” I smiled.
“Safe travels, Madame.” He smiled back, then turned into the airport.
Even though it can be easy to expect special treatment—individuals with disabilities deserve airport accommodations—I was grateful for the extra help in the airport.
The writing workshop tour instructor had needed help for herself once before at the special assistance room. That’s how she knew how to take me there.
The staff don’t ask what your disability is or have you verify what it is. You don’t list the disability when buying the ticket for a flight either. You go to the special assistance room on arrival at the airport to request accommodation.
From there, they check your itinerary and flight to see when they should help you check in and board. Ironically, because it’s a common request others make, one of the staff thought I needed a wheelchair.
Accommodations are justice. There’s justice going on everywhere.
In the CDG airport I gave the young man who wheeled me to the boarding gate the last 10-euro bill I had. He said: “Merci. Thank you.”
Boarding the Paris plane, I accidentally told the flight attendant who told me “Good evening” “Bon soar.” He repeated bon soir the right way — bon swar is how “Good evening” is supposed to sound in French.
From there on I thought it best not to use my limited French except for oui and merci.
Thirty minutes later the plane took off, and I rose in the sky.
