Vigili del Fuoco to the Rescue!

Posted Feb 19, 2006 by Bill Ward

Updated Feb 19, 2006 at 11:01 PM

5:30 a.m., Via Spotorno, south Turin

Here’s a vital travel tip: if you bring your home set of keys with you on a trip, make sure you leave them packed away in your suitcase. Otherwise, you might wind up like me early this morning in frosty Turin—locked out of your apartment and feeling like a total dork.

Here’s how it all happened: After trudging up to my apartment and dumping all my gear on the living room sofa, I realized I had left a guide book on Turin I needed downstairs in the car. So I grabbed my keys and headed for the door. As I pulled the door behind me closed, I opened my hand and looked at the set of keys I had taken—my home keys! Terror shot through me. I turned around and tried to use one of my home keys to get back in, as if one of those would work in a lock that takes a skeleton key. No chance.

There I stood, wearing no jacket, no identification, no cell phone—just a sweater, jeans and sneakers. I was locked out of the apartment with no way to call anyone for help. The company that rented me the flat had given me a 24-hour number to call in case of emergency, but it was inside the apartment. I had the number in an e-mail but without my ID, I wouldn’t be able to get inside the the Main Press Center to retrieve it. And even if I could call home, it was midnight back in Tampa and no one was at home or work.

With few options, I headed toward the MPC—minus a coat—hoping I could talk my way inside. I got to the security gate and the guard there was watching a movie on his portable DVD player. He let me in his little heated room and, speaking what little English he knew, figured out my emergency. So who did he call? Not a locksmith, not more security and not even the Ghost Busters. No, when you get locked out of your house in Italy, apparently it’s the fire department, known here as “Vigili del Fuoco,” who come to your rescue.

I gave the guard the address to my apartment and he told me to go wait there for the fire truck. He asked “are you freddo [cold]?” and I assured him that being from Florida, yea, I was freezing. So he gave me his coat to wear and wait for the fire department outside the door of my apartment. About 20 minutes later, an Italian fire truck comes down the street (the wrong way) and I wave them down.

Out pop four firemen in full fire gear—rubber boots, coasts and pants. All that was missing were hoses and axes. As usual, nobody speaks English but me. But I have slowly learned here that the passable French I know, along with the bits of Spanish I have learned living in Florida, is sometimes close to Italian. So up we go, four firemen and one goober American, four flights of stairs. I told them in English “I bet it’s never the first for you guys, is it?” Not a laugh or a grin from any of them. We finally get to my floor and the break-in is on.

One of the firemen pulls out what looks like a plastic x-ray sheet and he slips it between the door jam and lock. Another fireman holds a flashlight, another one starts slamming his shoulder in the door (I feared they’d wake the neighbors and then everyone would in the apartment block would be ticked at the tourist) and the fourth guy, who looked to be the top-ranking fireman, appeared to suggested different tactics on the unyielding door. Then he asked me in sign language if the doorknob turned when it closed. In similar hand gestures, I tried to tell him the door pulled closed. They all stopped to watch me, then went to work on it again.

After about 10 minutes of jimmying the lock with the plastic sheet and pounding the door, it sprung open. What a relief! One of the firemen headed back down to the truck and the remaining three went inside the apartment with me. I figured I’d just show some sort of ID and that would be the end of my ordeal. But I soon learned we had paperwork to do. “Documents?” the head fireman asks. I produce my Olympic ID, my passport, the rental agreement for the apartment and, for good measure, the international driver’s license I got at AAA. No one has yet to ask for that but I showed it to head fireman anyway.

About 10 minutes later, when they are assured that I really do belong in this place, I sign a piece of paper, they gather up their things and head for the door. Making the gesture for the international symbol of money—opening my wallet—I asked if I owed them anything. The head guy shakes his head no. I wanted to give them a Tampa Tribune pin, like the kind I had brought to hand out at the Athens Games, but I never got around to having some made before I left for Italy. So I dug into my souvenirs bag and found some Visa Turin Olympic pins I had bought last week at one of the official merchandise stores.

I had three of those pins and one pin from the Chicago Tribune group of newspapers that a friend had given me here. That pin just says “Tribune” on it and I handed it to the head fireman. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that wasn’t my Tribune on the pin because he looked so happy to make the connection between the name of the newspaper name on my ID and the name on the pin.

I thanked them profusely with a half dozen “Grazie Mille” (thank you very much) and off they went, probably to help some other locked-out tourist or stranded kitten. Then I grabbed the right keys, a coat and trudged back to the MPC to give the guard his jacket back. I tried to offer him a 10 Euro note as a sign of gratitude, but he refused to accept it. So I gave him a pin, too, a USA Olympic pin I had bought.

By now, it was nearly 7 in the morning and it was getting light outside. As I crawed into bed for a few hours sleep, I wondered what I would have done if that one person had decided not to help me.  Too scarey a thought before bed. I placed my home keys out of harm’s way in one of suitcases and switched off the light and thanked goodness for the kindness of a stranger.