Europe 2025

Okay, so the whole point of coming to Bergamo was to connect to this direct flight down to Mostar in Bosnia. There aren’t many direct flights to Mostar and this little airline I’d never heard of, SkyAlps, seems to have the most routes going there. Also, it’s me — I love trying new airlines no one has heard of. With a bit of time to spare, I saved the taxi fare and took the airport bus out to Bergamo Airport (if we were flying Ryanair, we’d be calling it Milan).

The airport’s a bit crowded and requires some backtracking — you enter, check in, then double back to reach security. But I find the Mostar check-in desk, staffed by a friendly-looking woman wearing standout yellow flower-framed glasses. I know my bag is a few kilos over the low 15kg allowance, so I figure a charm offensive might help. It doesn’t. I pay €33 for my bag to come with me.

Through security and up into the maze of shops, I grab some lunch and eat it before clearing immigration. They even let my Aussie passport use the automatic passport control gates, which is a win for speed — while the Brits behind me get sent to the manual lane. Italy hasn’t forgotten Brexit.

As if the airline saw me clear passport control, I get a text saying my flight is delayed an hour. Not ideal, as there’s less to do post-immigration, but I’ll survive. An hour later, another text comes — another delay. Avgeek mode kicks in and I start tracking my plane. Or rather, the lack of one.

I’m expecting a Dash 8, which SkyAlps usually operates, but instead I find an E190 currently in Mostar, scheduled to operate my flight. It’s a Marathon Airways E190 flying on behalf of SkyAlps. These ACMI leases (Aircraft, Crew, Maintenance and Insurance) are common in Europe — Air Baltic is a big player in this space. This plane’s been sitting in Mostar since yesterday, so I’m guessing something’s wrong with it or the crew, making it late getting to me.

Another hour passes. Another delay text. While I’d rather be on my way to Mostar — I’ve only got one night there — I’m also getting excited about the €250 I could be entitled to if we’re delayed more than three hours. If I’m going to be late, I may as well get something out of it. For those unfamiliar, EU261 outlines what airlines owe passengers in the event of delays or cancellations. For my short flight, a delay of three hours or more means €250 in my pocket.

Mentally, I’m already spending the money when I get the email:

“We wish to inform you that your SkyAlps flight BQ1989, originally scheduled for today, 15.06.2025, has been rescheduled for tomorrow...”

Well, I wanted the compensation, but not at the expense of stuffing up my itinerary. Oh well. The email says airline staff will help arrange accommodation and transport. The catch? Finding them.

There’s some chatter at the gate, mostly in Italian, so I don’t really know what’s going on. I chat to an American couple and their daughter — they haven’t seen the email yet, so I break the news.

An announcement tells us to head to check-in desk 4. Easier said than done, as we’ve already cleared immigration. Me and the couple go back to the border officer, I explain our flight was cancelled, and he literally crosses out our stamps and waves us through.

I stop at lost and found to ask about my bag. They say to go to belt 4. I head there — no bags. I wait. Then another announcement comes: go to ticket counter 4. I track my bag using my AirTag and see it’s back in the check-in hall. Presuming the airline already has it, I follow the instructions and exit without it — a mistake I’ll be scolded for later by the same lost and found lady.

At ticket counter 4, they say a shuttle is being arranged once hotel bookings are confirmed. I ask about my bag. “Oh, go to lost and found, they have it,” I’m told. My AirTag still shows it in the check-in hall, but I try lost and found again — this time landside.

I arrive to find it closed. I buzz anyway. The same staff member answers — now properly irritated. “I told you to wait! Now you can’t go back. We have no people to get the bag. You must wait now,” she says, snatching my boarding pass and pulling down the shutter. Making friends in Italy.

I wait as a few others show up also asking about bags. She yells at her colleague to make us wait, which feels awkward since the other people here aren’t even from our flight. Turns out only six of us checked bags for this flight. Eventually, someone walks the few steps needed to get them — my AirTag shows mine approaching right as they appear.

Bags finally in hand, the American family and I head to the information desk, joined now by an older Italian couple who find the whole thing hilarious, and a younger woman who looks frazzled but is trying to herd us into some kind of order.

The shuttle transport the airport arranged — for around 20 people — has 7 seats. That was never going to work. Every five minutes we’re told another shuttle is only a few minutes away. Eventually it shows. The last seven of us board and get driven to our mystery hotel for the night: Bergamo West. Out near a paddock and a sports centre, with nothing around.

Check-in is slow. Everyone’s asking the same questions, ignoring the receptionist’s repeated answers. It’s now about 9pm and we haven’t eaten. The hotel doesn’t have a restaurant at night, so they offer to order everyone a pizza.

“One pizza per person and one drink,” the receptionist repeats over and over.

“But what pizza do you have?” someone asks.

“Wait, I ask him in Italian,” says the older Italian man, who proceeds to translate the exact answer we were just given. This is becoming a comedy sketch. A photo of the menu is passed around. I order a ham and pineapple — it was first on the list, and I figured it might dispel the “no pineapple in Italy” myth.

It takes 90 minutes for the pizzas to arrive. I take mine back to my room, eat it, and call it a night. What a day to get absolutely nowhere.

With no updates overnight about when we’ll be picked up again, I set an alarm for 7am, grab breakfast, and wait. The new flight is at 11am, so I figure we’ll need to leave by 8:30 to re-check bags, clear security, and immigration. Around then, I head to the lobby and count 15 of us waiting. The receptionist knows nothing. The airline won’t answer calls. We just wait.

Around 8:45, the American family orders a taxi. I consider doing the same, but at 9:00, a shuttle finally arrives. I cancel the taxi and jump in. The seven seats fill fast, leaving half the group behind.

Arriving at the airport, it seems they forgot to assign a check-in desk for us. I ask at information. First, they say the flight left yesterday (um, no). Then, after a few calls, someone opens a check-in desk just for me. The others are still waiting in the hall, unclear on what to do, so I direct them to the desk. I drop off my bag and head to security.

By the time I’m through security and immigration and at the gate, it’s departure time. A slight delay to the delayed flight means I still make the first bus to the aircraft. In the end, 11 of us make the new flight. Where the others ended up, who knows.

Finally onboard, and the plane is now an E175—operated for Aeroitalia, by Marathon Airways, on behalf of SkyAlps. Talk about convoluted. To make things even funnier, the cabin crew seem to represent all three airlines. The hectic woman from yesterday, who was trying to herd us at the airport, is now in full uniform, working the flight—though it’s unclear whether she’s Marathon or Aeroitalia. With so few people on board, we’re told to sit anywhere between rows 5 and 14 for weight and balance before departure.

As we taxi to the runway, one of the older Italian women suddenly thinks she left her passport on the bus and asks if the plane can turn around to get it. Despite four crew members calmly insisting it’s probably on board, they still end up calling the cockpit to check if we can return. At this point, I’m convinced I’ve ended up in a hidden camera comedy sketch. I’ve never seen anything like it. Thankfully, just as the call is made, the passport turns up—sitting in the seat pocket. Crisis averted. We take off for Mostar.

After all the drama getting here, the flight itself is uneventful. I’m given free snacks—sweet or salty—and a Coca-Cola, and watch the scenery drift by. We descend over Croatia and land in Mostar, stepping out onto the tarmac like a private charter, just 11 of us. Next to us sits the aircraft that was supposed to fly yesterday, still parked with nowhere to go. Maybe some of the spare crew on our flight will switch over and finally get it moving. Immigration is quick, and before long I’m finally in country number 55. Welcome to Bosnia and Herzegovina.Baca lagi