Chairgate Part 1

This is my chair.  I have never complained about the top piece that often becomes detached from it's flimsy plastic body, nor have I made a fuss about the fact that I am the only person in my entire dormitory who does not have a nice, blue, rolly desk chair.  Last night I went with some friends to Alberto's room in the building next to mine to watch a movie.  Right before we left my phone rang.

"My friend."

"Yes?" I said.

"Bring your chair, because I don't think I have enough seats."

"OK," I said.

I put old reliable back together and folded him up for the journey downstairs, outside, and then up more stairs.  I made it all the way out into the cool Trieste night air, before I heard the tell-tale whistles and claps of an Italian trying to get my attention. I turned around to find the bald, grey-mustached man who lords over the front desk in my building shouting nonsense. He beckoned me inside and I followed.

"Where are you taking the chair?" He asked like I had kidnapped a small child.

"I am going to my friend's room to watch a movie and he doesn't have enough seats.  I will bring it back I promise," I said sarcastically.

"You cannot just bring chairs wherever you'd like Sir.  You must sign them out at the desk, this isn't a circus."  

This fellow is particularly fond of telling me what the dormitories are not. When we had a late-night game of dice in Alberto's room, he was quick to rap loudly on the door and tell us that the dormitories are not a casino.  When Keith and I ran downstairs at 5:30 in the morning to shout and smoke victory cigars after President Obama's victory, he was insistent that the dormitories are not a political rally.

My favorite aspect about this mustached front-desk Czar is his vigilant security of the Casa Dello Studente.  When I return in the early hours of the morning after a long night downtown, he always buzzes me through the front door and then stops me at the desk to ask his full-proof security question.

"Room Number?"  The first time I told him 17, my actual place of residence, the second time I told him 100, and I guess next time I will be living in room 1,000.  It is nice to go to sleep with piece of mind each night knowing that my building is under the watchful eye of Signore Mustachio: after all, the dormitories are not a crime scene.

And so after filling out a few documents, signing my name, and leaving my expired American drivers' license for collateral, I proceeded to Alberto's room to watch a movie.  The top of the chair of course snapped off at some point, and we had to stop the film to turn on the lights, so I could fix it.  

When I returned to my building and waved the chair at Mustachio, he seemed extremely angry that I had kept my word and he would not be able to report anything to anyone.

The funny thing is, this was not my first chair-related incident in Trieste...