Hola Espana!
Sunday, January 15th/Monday, January 16th, 2017
So this is kind of weird. I’ve bitched a lot about Europe. I mean plenty. It’s a jealously thing really…both ways. We’re more or less siblings that just don’t quite know what to do with each other. Maybe they wouldn’t admit it, but I’ll be the big sister in this situation. I just think that we’re bitching about who is the favorite anymore. It is what it is. Either way, I am driving through some crazy rain on my way down to Chicago to go to Spain. Fucking Espana man. And I am psyched. I have been blessed with friends in foreign places, and today, that friend is Sam. And I MISS Sam. Like really miss this kid. We used to bullshit on the daily in college and sometimes I get so nostalgic for that that I just get compulsive. Like crazy nostalgic…like book a $380 flight to Madrid nostalgic. So here I am. Driving down to Chicago on a Sunday night to wake up tomorrow in Espana. Cause why not? I mean realistically, that’s the question we should be asking ourselves anymore. I’m done with overthinking things. It’s time to live life.
So that’s how I ended up lying on the floor of O’Hare at 8:30pm on a Sunday night. Lufthansa is LATE. Germans are never late. Maybe that’s a bad sign, but I’m not at all willing to give up. I’m fucking going to Espana. Even if it kills me. Fuck.
The flight FINALLY takes off two hours later. I mean, the Pack won, but at this point, I just want to get to the other side of the world. I mean, is that SOO much to ask? (Yes it is) Shit.
Okay, I’m a little sorry Europe. Mostly, thank you Lufthansa. I literally have an entire row to myself. I more or less have a first class lounge, no joke. Funny enough the first class folks are all smashed together while the ~50 of us back here have the place to ourselves for the entirety of this eight hour flight. It’s great, especially given that it’s an overnight flight. Naps and pancakes for days. That is until we land in the motherland. I do forget that Europe is well…Europe. It’s clear who is who when we exit the plane. Americans kind of move like cockroaches…I guess I’ve never truly noticed it before. We attempt to exit in a sporadic yet efficient manner without making any sort of contact with one another. It is LITERALLY insect like. NOT Europeans. They stroll along slowly to the terminal, blocking the way. I wouldn’t mind the laid-back manner except for the fact that I need to go across the entire airport, through EU immigration and make it to my plan in oh…30 minutes now? I went from having a lovely two-hour layover to drink beer in the München airport to barely having time to piss before my sprint. Fuck.
And so I start that little jog, which is the polite airport version of “get the fuck out of my way.” Most people idle over to the side or at the very least split to let me pass, but there are plenty that just don’t get the memo. I’d like to see this shit fly in JFK or LAX. I finally get to a straight-away towards immigration and flat out run. The jet lag doesn’t even have time to kick in as I finally pull up to an extremely long line at EU immigration where I stop abruptly with a huff. The lady in front of me turns around and just smiles weakly. “American? Yeah…I don’t think we’re making our flights anytime soon.” Fuck. Apparently the plane pulled in just in time for an agent shift change, and apparently that doesn’t move any too quick. There is only one line for EU members and foreigners alike, so EU members just walk to the front of the line and budge in. No one says anything. What the actual fuck? It isn’t our fault that the BERLIN airport chose to only have one immigration lane open at this time! Stand in line with the rest of us fuckers!
I watch the clock impatiently as it ticks ever closer to my departure time. Obviously Lufthansa wouldn’t have an issue rebooking me on the next flight, the problem is that once I land in Madrid, I have to sprint straight to my flight for Barcelona, or else I am homeless tonight.
After much anxious bouncing and a few elbows to people trying to budge in line, I finally get to the agent, a kid no older than 19 who lazily flips through my passport pausing to look at my Chinese and Kenyan visas, mildly interested. Come on, come on, my flight literally boards in 5 minutes. Finally, he pulls his stamp and slowly flips through to find a page, stamping it intently and then hands it back to me with a smile, but I am already half way around the counter with a quick “Thanks!”
Outside of softball or volleyball, I don’t really do sprinting, especially while dragging a backpack full of crap and a blanket. Of course, my gate is all the way at the end of the terminal, because just of course it is. I pull up right about the time the gate would normally be doing its last call just to see people milling about. Delayed. Again. Fuck. The time I will have to switch terminals and get to my Barcelona flight gets ever tighter. I can only hope that the Spaniards haven’t decided to switch personalities with the Germans today. Hopefully that flight, too, will be delayed.
Well sloppy Spanish and sprinting aside, I am now sitting on my Iberia flight to Barcelona. Honestly, it was pretty much a blur, between picking up my bag, to waiting impatiently for a bus, to checking back in, I am actually in my seat and ready to go. There was definitely no hair lost on that sprint, let me tell you. I also was never anywhere close to tears either, but hey, I lie. Less than an hour later, I am standing in the Barcelona airport, dizzy from travel stress and jet lag. The last thing left to do is to just hop an Uber to my hostel.
Yeah. So, Barcelona doesn’t have Uber yet. Great. If it weren’t near midnight, I would take the train down to Passeig de Gracia, but since I am neither familiar with that area nor my hostel (especially given my experience attempting to find my hostel in Beijing) I opt to just waive a taxi. Twenty euro pissed away, but whatever, at least I’ll make it. I half pass out in the back seat as the driver eyes me intently, attempting to communicate with me in English, seemingly excited. I just smile and nod, watching the lights go by the window, sparkling in the night, teasing me.
I try my best to tip toe into the six-bed room, brushing my teeth in the hallway to keep from waking anyone, just to notice that there is no one in the room. Nice. Well, sort of. About 30 minutes later, after I have locked up some of my stuff and laid out my bed, I realize why no one is in here. Four very loud, very drunk Chinese nationals come stumbling in at around 1:15am. Banging around and turning on all the lights until they notice me groggily sit up and look at them. The loud chatter and lights die away instantly, replaced by thumping and the occasional exclamation from tripping over something. Whatever, I was in college, once. I pretty much pass out immediately anyway, this serves to be an interested week.
Dios mios, Espana, I finally made it!