Coming home: Madrid to Portland

I can't remember ever having a more stressful journey between two points. Even though it's been over a month since it happened, in telling this story to a friend two days ago I got all stressed out all over again, which indicates to me that I'm not over it yet. But perhaps writing this blog post will help me process and get some of that energy out of my system.

My flight was scheduled to leave Madrid for Chicago around noon on Monday, Sept. 1. Since I didn't have any bags to check - in fact now only had one bag, period, because Brussels Airlines had lost one of my bags the day before - and I had checked in online the night before, I decided to leave the place I was staying at 9am so I could be at the airport by 10, which (my experience led me to believe) would be plenty of time to use one of those self-service machines to print out my ticket, go through security and find my gate. Ahahahahahahaaaaa!!!
Okay, so yes, I did leave my friend's house a little before 9am. However, it took a little longer than I expected to arrive at the airport. From Lavapiés to the airport requires a minimum of three lines on the metro. I don't remember anymore whether it took longer because it just does or whether one of the lines was running irregularly, but I think it must have been the latter. At any rate, it took more like 1h 15mins.

I could have taken the bus from Atocha straight to the airport for €5, but I already had a 10-trip metro ticket and had put two supplementals on it when I'd arrived back in Madrid the day before, knowing that I'd use one of them that day and the other the next day. (Going to or from the airport costs an extra €3, which is called a supplemental.)

Then, when I arrived at the airport and went to pass through the metro gates, wherein you must insert your ticket again as proof that you paid the supplemental fee, the gate would not let me pass. I tried several different machines, but each time a no-go. Eventually I got someone's attention and explained my problem.

"You have to pay the airport supplemental," the metro official said.

At this point I was running behind schedule and was annoyed at the situation and starting to sweat a bit. I may have been a bit short with him. "Yes, I know. I bought two supplementals when I arrived yesterday."

"You can't buy a supplemental in advance," he said and turned away, indicating that this conversation was over as far as he was concerned. Hmph. Not very Spanish of him to be so cold and unhelpful. Also:

GRRRRRRRRRR!!!! WHY DID THE MACHINE NOT MENTION THIS WHEN I BOUGHT THE STINKING TICKET?!?

So guess who got to buy yet another supplemental and ended up having an incredibly expensive metro ride to the airport? Yes, yes, I did.

Fine, whatever. Moving on. I followed the signage to the proper check-in area for my flight.

And here a couple of things about the Madrid airport. First, it has excellent signage. The signs are easy to find and frequently placed so that worry-warts like me don't start wondering if we've missed our exit. Second, the Madrid airport is HUGE. There is no way for me to adequately express to you just how enormous this airport is. There are four terminals and each one must be at least as big as the Portland International Airport. And most of it is currently unused space. My guess is that Madrid Barajas (I refused to call it by its new name) was designed to be able to handle the amount of traffic they hope it will have 100 years from now, which, judging by the size of it, is about half the planet's population. No, seriously, when you get off the plane in Madrid from the States you have to walk a mile to get to the metro. That's all indoors. In one terminal. THIS AIRPORT IS HUGE. More on that later.

Okay, so after walking for about 10 minutes I found the check-in area for my flight. Which was an absolute zoo. It's been years since I saw lines that long, and that's with five check-in windows open on each side. At the rate the lines were moving, it looked to be a 2-3 hour wait. And no sign of those self check-in machines. And it's 10:30 already. Oh. Hell. No.

I got in the marginally smaller of the two lines, my heart rate spiking and me sweating for real now. Calm, calm. I'm looking around, trying to see those self check-in machines. Does this airline just not have them? Seems unlikely, but this is Spain. And then I notice that everyone in these incredibly long lines has luggage that they're checking. A ray of hope!

But I don't want to leave my place in line to go ask the airline rep who's standing about five people ahead of me and keeping an eye on the end of the line because what if I really am supposed to be here? I decide to wait until the line moves enough that I can talk to him without abandoning my spot. How long could it possibly take? About 10 excruciating minutes, it turns out. But finally I get up there and have a little chat with him, and indeed there are self service machines on the next row (no signage for them - bastards) and not only am I allowed to use them but I'm SUPPOSED to use them. This line is just for people who are checking their bags.

My heart relaxes and expands with relief and joy and love for this beautiful Spanish man who has just given me this wonderful news! (He really is gorgeous. It's not just the gratitude talking.)

So I go over to the next aisle, and indeed there are something like 10 self-service machines, though not all of them seem to be working, and I get into line for the middle bank of machines.

It soon becomes clear that something is off here. An airline rep is flitting between machines, talking to people whose faces show bewilderment. Her own face betrays stress. I start sweating again. Calm, calm. I overhear the harried rep tell someone that the machines aren't working with U.S. passports today. She's sending U.S. passport holders back over to the other side to wait in line. The incredibly long checking-luggage line that I just came from. The one that's going to take 2-3 hours to get through. And it's 10:45. Oh. Hell. No.

I'm in total denial here. It's finally my turn and I scan my passport. No go. This can't possibly be right. I look over at the machine next to me and watch as a couple with U.S. passports successfully gets their tickets from it. As soon as they're done I swoop in, not caring who else is waiting. I. Need. My. Ticket.

I scan my passport. It's working! I get to a certain point and something seems to go wrong. But the last couple was successful so this has to work. I try scanning my passport again. Then an airline rep steps up to my machine, opens it, and reboots it. OH. HELL. NO. "You'll have to wait a few minutes for the machine to restart," she says. I do wait, sweating bullets the whole time, looking around anxiously to see if any other machine seems to like U.S. passports today. It's not looking good. And when my machine is finally ready to go again, it doesn't like my passport.

Now I'm panicked. There's no way I'm going to be able to get through that line in time. But someone has to help me, right? I mean, I did get here in plenty of time; it's not my fault the stupid machines are being fickle. Someone will surely understand this and take pity on me, right? I mean, I'm in Spain, the land of people who help one another. Except that metro guy...

Calm, calm, calm. Deep breaths.

I go back over to the airline rep who'd sent me to the machines in the first place. He's in the midst of talking with two of his colleagues, and it looks important and official. I wait. It's the longest two minutes of waiting I've experienced in a long time, but I know that my best bet is to act calm and (if possible) charming. At this point I'm so grateful that I speak Spanish fluently; I think it improves my chances. When he's finally done talking to his colleagues, I swoop in.

"Hi, it's me again," I say. Blank look. I don't let it deter me. "I went over to the machines like you said, but they're not working with American passports today." He doesn't seem surprised. I'm not surprised that he's not surprised. Spain isn't known for its fully-functioning technology. I am, however, increasingly worried; he hasn't gotten that I'll-help-you look on his face yet. "How long do you think it'll take to go through this line?" I ask.

He gestures and shrugs one shoulder. "You see how it is," he says. He turns his head, looking around as though expecting our conversation to be over.

A previous version of myself would have given up at this point. Not wanting to be pushy or ask for special treatment, I'd have gotten in line - trying not to cry (and failing) at the unfairness of the situation and the bad luck - and I'd have missed my flight, but I'd have done what I felt the system wanted me to do. I'd have been a good girl.

But that part of me that I've been nurturing over the last couple of years to help me ask for what I need nudges me. I let the worry show on my face, and then I explain. "I'm really worried because I don't think I have enough time for my flight."

He turns his attention back to me and starts to look concerned. Thank God. "What time is your flight?" he asks.

"At noon."

He looks at the clock and the line between his brows deepens. "Uf..."

"Will you please help me?"

There's a pause, and I'm sure I hold my breath. He looks back at me. "I don't know..." he says, his voice hesitant. The miliseconds tick by. Then his expression changes. "Wait here."

Relief floods my body again, but it doesn't last long. I'm still racing against the clock, and now I see that he's kind of wandering off, looking around but without a sense of direction or urgency. Or at least not looking as urgent as I want him to. He only gets a few steps away when a woman and her husband (am assuming) and their child (again assuming) approach him, and they start talking. They're all speaking Spanish too quickly for me to follow, but I can see from the expression on her face that she's trying to sweet-talk him into something. I'm torn between panic that he might forget about me and hope that I can benefit from whatever she's talking him into.

And then a miracle happens. He says, "Follow me," to the woman and her family, and he looks over his shoulder at me and says, "You too, follow me." And he leads us around the side and up to the check-in counter, bypassing the entire line, snags the attention of the first available agent (who happens to be the closest one to us), and explains the situation to her. Basically orders her to help us. The sweet-talking Spanish woman is thanking him, and he says, "Well if we don't help each other, who will?" She laughs in a chummy way and agrees and thanks him again, and as he turns to walk past me I have to resist the urge to fall down and kiss his feet. Instead I settle for thanking him from a place of true relief and gratitude, and he accepts graciously before moving on.

It takes every ounce of self-control I have to stand still while the family is helped first. They have three tickets and bags to check and small talk to get through. But finally, finally they wander off and it's my turn. The woman at the check-in counter is probably in her mid-twenties. Very pleasant. Surprised that I have no bags to check. It takes her all of a minute to print out my ticket and send me on my way.

Despite the fact that I've just ages 10 years, it's only been like 15 minutes. It's 5 after 11. I head directly to security, greatly relieved to have my ticket and feeling far more relaxed and confident about making my flight. But that only lasts until the woman who checks my ticket and ID as I pass into the line for security sees my ticket. She makes a little noise of concern and looks worried for me.

If there's one thing I learned while living in Spain, it's that the vast majority of Spanish people are pretty darn laid back about everything from almost getting hit by a car to contracting herpes, and especially laid-back about time. So if a Spanish person looks worried for you that you might not make your flight, it's time to panic. Again.

The woman tells me that after I pass through security I need to follow the signs downstairs and then I need to take a train to another building and then go through passport control and then one more security check. It sounds far. I look over her shoulder and notice that there are anticipated times to each concourse listed below the concourse. 22 minutes to mine. I don't know whether that includes time spent going through these security checks. Have I mentioned that this airport is incredibly huge?

Adrenaline flooding my system once again and once again trying to stay calm in spite of it, I go through security (which, fortunately, is relatively quick) and start following the signs. Down three flights of escalators jammed with people and their rolling carry-ons. Down a long hallway to the train platform. Luckily the train comes only a few seconds after I arrive. Everybody piles on. I'm the second stop. Leap off, walk as fast as I can without running down another long hallway, perhaps a maze of hallways. Come to passport control. Luckily this, too, goes fairly quickly.

And then I want to scream when I see what I have to pass through next. You know how in most sane airports they have a long hallway with stores on either side to tempt those with time into buying stuff? Well in this section of this incredibly large airport, you have to walk through A FUCKING OBSTACLE COURSE OF MERCHANDISE. There is no hallway; you have to pass through what looks like a Macy's show room, and there's no direct path. The path zigzags through the store, and on top of it they've placed display pedestals in the middle of the zigzagging path! GAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!

I take a deep breath and plunge in, steering well clear of the shop attendants holding little spray bottles of perfume and cologne. I'm sure the murderous look in my eye at this point would keep even the most determined salesperson at bay anyway. I'm staying on the path because it's the clearest way through, but other people - who are now running - are shortcutting through the racks of clothing and display cases, trying for the most direct route to the exit.

When I finally emerge from that nightmare, it's another long hallway, turn a corner, and I'm finally at my concourse. Which is really long. And my gate is at the end. Four moving walkways and a few hundred yards later, I finally get to the last checkpoint, where yet another person looks at my ticket, my passport, and my face before waving me through to my gate. And somehow I've made it through all of that with 20 minutes to spare before boarding starts. I'm the last group to board, too, so it's actually like another 40 minutes before I'm able to board. I'm just so glad I made this flight and had time to buy a bottle of water before I got on the plane.

The rest of the trip home is comparatively dull and hassle-free. I watched four movies on the plane from Madrid to Chicago, had no seatmate for most of the flight. We arrived on time in Chicago, and despite the fact that I had to go through immigration/customs and a terminal change with only two hours between flights, I made my flight from Chicago to Portland with no trouble, in part because there were airline reps waiting as we disembarked in Chicago to hand those of us with tight connection times a fast-track tag: a neon orange piece of paper that we were to keep visible at all times to let other airport employees know that we had to book it. It came in handy going through security again because I didn't have to wait in line. But seriously, after what I'd been through that morning in Madrid, I doubt I had any adrenaline left in me to panic if I needed to. Arrived on time in Portland, picked up by my friends, and reunited with my little buddy Milton.

I wish I could say that the travel stress was over at that point, but sadly it was not. Tune in next time for the Tale of the Lost Luggage.