I arrived in Barcelona,
Spain
full of anticipation. It was from the
airport, to the train, a short distance, and on to the French Catalan
Coast. As often happens with me, I have
difficulty sleeping on planes so after an all-night flight, I had no real rest.
I think most of
us have arrived at the luggage carousel and have impatiently waited for our
baggage to be spewed out of the mouth of whatever contraption it is that spews
out the baggage. We must look so
pathetic—watching the luggage carousel go round and round for our “special”
delivery which looks almost exactly like everyone else’s “special”
delivery. It is almost as if we are
having an identity crisis until our luggage appears, and then when the magic
bundle is finally in our hands, it is as if our mind says, “Good—I am myself
again. My sh** that I have packed is
reunited with the wonderful me.”
Such were my
thoughts in the Barcelona Airport in front of “my” luggage carousel. The only problem was that it just kept going
around and around. I was getting dizzy,
and I noticed a small crowd of others with the same dumb, perplexed looks on
their faces. I’m not sure how long we
stood there in front of the carousel until one of us finally spoke to “baggage
control.” The airline employee said that
the baggage had been delayed; there was no estimate as to when the baggage was
to appear.
After two more
hours of no sleep and not brushing my teeth, my baggage appeared! My sh** that I had packed was reunited the
wonderful me, and I was off toward the train bound for France.
I had learned a
little French to make my trip go more smoothly and to show respect for the
French people. The problem was, I didn’t
bother to brush up on my Spanish. I had taken a little Spanish in college, but
had decided that it was not my language when our Spanish instructor asked us
each to describe our sueño (dream). I proudly declared in Spanish that I wanted
to take a nap with Don Johnson. The
classroom was quiet and I guess that they thought, “Who are we to judge her sueño?” Like someone who
is slow to get a joke, about ten minutes after sharing my sueño, I said, “Fiesta! Fiesta! I want to go
to a fiesta with Don Johnson, not take a siesta with him!” The students and instructor burst into
laughter. “We just thought you were
honest,” said one of the male students on whom I had a mild crush. Perhaps it was this semi-traumatic experience
which kept me from giving the good people of Barcelona their due by brushing up
on their language.
This did not
serve me well at the train ticket dispenser. The sophisticated Barcelonians were not that
pleased when I asked for help with the train ticket dispenser without so much
as a por favor. I struggled to figure it out for myself, but
to no avail. Finally, a nice lady who
saw all of us (mostly Americans) struggling with the machine, came over and
helped us. I was late, but it was onto the
train I went. As I stumbled over my
luggage while getting onto the train, I saw what I thought was a great place to
finally sit down and relax. It was then
that a French couple came over and politely reminded me that I was sitting in
their seats. It took a while, but I
finally found my seat, and it was on to Banyuls-sur-Mer, France—delayed
luggage in tow.
Want your trip
to Barcelona to go more smoothly than mine?
International
Vacation Home Exchange can help. See
this luxury
exchange home in Barcelona and speak to an IVHE travel consultant.
Join me next
time in my Travel Tales of Travail series when I discuss why Deke’s Knee
Creaks.
Thanks to well-meaning but accident-prone travel
writer Sona Schmidt-Harris – You can follow her on Twitter @Sonag2000
