16 March – Beware the Scuzzingi

In 2004, a bunch of us rented a villa in Nice after celebrating our friends’ wedding outside of Torino.  It was a perfect holiday, one I think of often and with fondness.  As the week’s end drew near, we were reminiscing about, well, the previous few days.  Our friend Scott mentioned in passing, that we had been fortunate not to have fallen prey to the Scuzzingi epidemic that was sweeping Italy.  Scott was about to start med school, so I thought that this must be some odd Neapolitan flu-bug or rash or something, but I mistaken. 

We stared, perplexed, and asked him what was a Scuzzingi, exactly. 

“Scuzzingi, you know Scuzzingi, the roving bands of Vespa-riding thugs who swarm and roll unsuspecting pedestrians, leaving them with nothing but a ‘ciao’”.  Seconds later, we all erupted in one of the most hysterical bouts of laughter on record. 

There are no Scuzzingi.  But there are gypsies.  

First, I must say that I hate, HATE when evil, nasty stereotypes are reinforced.  It’s unfair and the people who perpetrate them should be ashamed of themselves, more for the damage inflicted on their own people than of whatever the trivial consequence of their misguided actions.  I do feel especially bad for Romani.  How difficult it must be to grow up in a culture that is reviled by nearly every outsider.  They have been persecuted in every generation*, and each attempted genocide is brushed neatly under the sundry rugs of history.  It makes me ill that such bigotry is not even thought twice about.  People don’t like gypsies and therefore they don’t matter.   

This is why what happened last Monday filled me with fury. My mom, who was visiting from the States, and I were looking for a spot of lunch and a place to escape the monsoon**, when we ducked into the first cafe we could find as we left Westminster station. 

From the moment we were seated, my spidey-sense tingled.  The staff was too attentive, stood too close and kept touching my arm and shoulder.  There were too many of them as well and they encircled the table.  Everyone in the restaurant was a tourist – such a good sign.  We ate lunches – for me a dry, stale cheese and tomato sandwich; for my mom a grey hamburger with a whisper of cheese.  I drank two sips of what must be the most unconsciously bad cup of coffee I’ve ever been served.  We wanted out of there as soon as possible, so we asked for the check.  They dropped a piece torn from a note pad with the £20.50 scribbled on it.  I looked at it and then at the waitress and said there must be a mistake.  She apologized, took the paper back and said – ah yes, you’re right.  The new paper had £19.50 on it***  Still just in shock, I asked them what the other numbers on the bill might stand for and learned the £2.50 was for the nasty, melted crayon flavoured coffee****, and the £2.75 was for my mom’s Diet Coke.  This was because we ordered “large”.  We did no such thing – there was no talk of size and the glass and mug were standard restaurant size– not in anyway big-gulp or beyond.  The waitresses also added a 25% gratuity, monstrous in a nation where 15% is considered very generous. 

A similar conversation was happening at the table next to us between the staff and two students from the mid-west.  They were charged £25.00 for two burgers and two 7-UPs.  50 bucks.  Can you imagine what that must have done to their budget?  They asked for the menu and could easily prove that their meal should have been about £10 total.  The encircling began anew, but this time there were burlier members of the party, and arguing is not always the course of action. 

Mom went to get her credit card – and I stopped her.  You did not want these people to have that information.  The cafe didn’t actually take credit cards – of course – you have to be a licensed business and have a paper trail to be authorized to take cards.   Unfortunately, we were 50p short.   

Back into the monsoon I went to find a Hole in the Wall^.  The rain sizzled off my enraged flesh and did little to calm me down or help me put things into perspective.  I do not like being taken.  I do not appreciate being treated like a fool.  I don’t accept people treating others so discourteously.  If I can do anything to make a criminal’s life a bit less easy I will do so gladly. 

So, when next you or a loved one are in London, make certain that you give no custom to the green-awning-ed cafe located on Parliament Street, between King Charles and Bridge Streets (see the picture – it’s the building with the star).  It is conveniently located, but it is run by thieves^^.  I have circulated this information to various travel blogs.  If even one person can avoid being ripped off by the proprietors, then it was all worth it.

*Read Bury Me Standing

**Worst weather and winds in quite sometime in the UK.  Sorry Mom! 

***To put this into perspective, two nights previously we had had a fantastic dinner at Aziz^^^, with a bottle of wine, sparkling water, appetizer and main courses for about 50 quid.

****A five-shot, Venti Iced-Americano at Starbucks is £2.15.

^ATM machine – how cute is the UK term though?

^^And anyone who makes such a rotten cup of coffee must be a soulless little monster anyway. 

^^^Sooooooooooo yummy.