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ESPAÑA
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Tuesday
– The day before departure:
One
thing about waiting till the last minute to pack is that it leaves very little
room for error. In our last
episode, Ms. Trekker had packed on Saturday and on Sunday devoured an entire
bottle of anti-acid while hounding me to start my packing.
Of course I waited until Tuesday evening before grudgingly assembling the
fewest of necessities. The
camera and all of its electronic paraphernalia were safely stowed in my pack
back – my trip will be a success as long as my carry-on and I arrive together.
Next I threw the obligatory change of clothing and other beneficial items
into the faithful old bag I have owned forever and then I went to bed.
I would close the bag after including my shaving gear in the morning.
Wednesday
– The big day arrived:
My
making an effort to pack the evening before seems to have been a magical elixir
for Ms. Trekker’s frayed nerves. We
arose surprisingly early, leaving ample time before the arrival of the Shuttle.
After breakfast I put the final touches on my packing, adding a baseball
cap and the shaving gear. Zipping
up my old faithful bag I noticed something strange about a seam at one corner.
Closer inspection revealed that the threads holding the zipper were gone.
As we tugged at the zipper, more of the rotten thread unraveled into a
pile of dust. Old faithful had died. The
shuttle was due in an hour – my first thought was Super Glue – only to
discover we were out.
At
this time of the morning, there aren’t a lot of stores open, so I was left
with few options. WalMart saved us
in Florida, WalMart would have to come to the rescue again – off we went for
super glue. Left to my own
resources, I would have made a bee-line straight to the glue, paid and been on
my way. But with Ms. Trekker along,
we were required to make a complete tour of the store, a tour which lead past
the luggage section. I ended up
with a new bag as well as glue. Returning
home, I easily transferred the clothes from the carcass of old faithful into the
new bag and triumphantly zipped it shut with plenty of time to spare.
The shuttle was not due for another few minutes.
This year the shuttle driver found our house without getting lost, enabling us to venture forth on the start of our journey to Spain on schedule. At first it seemed that we would be the only passengers in the old dilapidated van, but half way to the airport, we turned off to make a stop at a hotel. After a few minutes wait, the driver went in to check on the wayward no-show, only to find that no one registered at the hotel had called for a pickup. Incredibly, she decided to wait a few more minutes – a needless delay – now I needed the anti-acid. Eventually she’d give up and we would proceed to the airport.
The
line for check-in was endless. Ms.
Trekker joined the end of the line and I went to the restroom.
When I returned, she had moved to a different line and was almost to the
counter. The original line
consisted of 150 teenagers going to Spain on a church mission.
We had clearly joined the wrong line.
Fortunately, the teenagers were being divided up and shipped out on three
different flights, but we were still surrounded by youth – a fun and pleasant
way to start the trip. We were
boarded and bound for Newark “on-time”.
Amazingly, the students all obediently took their assigned seats - of
course trade negotiations commenced before the doors were closed - the aisle was
a cluttered, busy place during the flight.
After
a noisy 4 hour and 42 minute flight through 3 time zones to Newark, we were
looking forward to being able to de-plane, stretch our legs and hookup with my brother-in-law
and his wife before departing on the final leg, the flight to
Madrid. Ominously everything came
to a halt immediately after we touched down in Newark – we were parked on the
tarmac. The pilot eventually
announced that another plane was occupying our gate and “the company” was
trying to find another one for us – it might take 30 to 40 minutes. Now that the CIA is nearly out of business, who is “the
company” anyway? Whoever they
are, they must be unusually efficient for the travel industry because we did not
sit long on the tarmac. As soon as
we de-planed, we rushed through the terminal to the assigned gate for our plane
to Spain – it was there and loading, the in-laws were present, there was
barely enough time for an urgent trip to the loo; we thought things were coming
up Roses! We boarded. We took our
seats. We sat, and sat, and sat.
Finally, an hour later we pushed back from the ramp to join the queue for
the active runway –
a sure sign of wilt on the Roses.
Not
much can be said of a 6 hour and 50 minute, body pulverizing flight through 6
time zones to Madrid. You try to
sleep, but don’t – body parts go numb – fog embraces your mind –time
seems suspended but then you land to find that you’re in the middle of the
next day.
Thursday
– the coastline is traversed:
I
was not aware of when in fact we made landfall over the coast; I was again
standing in line for the loo; also the good folks at Continental have not
equipped the plane windows with the yellow virtual border stripe as has been
done for sports, so I was unaware of when we actually crossed from Portugal
into Spain. None-the-less my first
impression of Spain was surprising. From
30 thousand feet the land seemed to be low rolling hills rather than the
expected majestic mountains – what I could see was totally devoid of forested
areas and every inch seemed to be cultivated.
Most of that agriculture appeared to be orchards of some nature. Towns
were sparse and seemed to be quite distant from each other.
It is a far different picture than I had expected from this old world
country.
Having
made up the hour we lost while sitting at the Newark ramp, our flight arrived on
time in Madrid and we proceeded to follow the “SALIDA” (exit) signs but
which instead lead us to customs. Arriving
at the queuing area for customs we found five lines, each about 50 M (meters)
long; our sister in-law picked a line for us. Soon we notice that the all of the lines had grown - we found
ourselves in the middle of a line that was now nearly 100 M long – and it was
not moving. The Roses were
dead. To mercifully summarize, we
took two hours to move 50 M through customs, while 99% of our companions in the
other queues made it through ahead of us. In
the end we had to change lines to get through at all.
Upon
clearing customs and retrieving our waiting luggage, we finally were able to
proceed to the main lobby to greet our long waiting nephew.
After greetings, our nephew stuffed the four of us and our associated baggage
into a cab; all the while firing off instructions to the cabbie in Spanish –
we were impressed by his fluency. Only
four people fit into the cabs of Madrid, so he elected to ride the subway to
re-join us at our hotel. A cab ride
in a new city is a treasured experience – this one did not disappoint.
Madrid’s traffic is insane - the old world city is a delight!
There is ample reason for the small size of the cabs (or any other car), because there is no room in the crowded streets for larger vehicles; nearly all vehicles proudly bear the battle scars of prior territorial disputes. Machismo is alive and well in the streets of Madrid. Indeed, the three-lane highway is not considered nearly enough by the motorcycle and scooter group, who daringly convert it to 5 lines by filling in the voids between the lines of the less agile cars.
Upon
reaching the Hotel Europa in the heart of old Madrid, we found our rooms
were not ready so we migrated to the hotel’s bar for a glass of cervesa.
Our first sojourn into Madrid’s nightlife proved to be somewhat embarrassing – as weary American travelers we were still dressed in shorts and sneakers – we were not welcome at the first restaurant – but a second condescended to accommodate us. A wonderful dinner was enjoyed by all, with the evening topped off by a sampling of various dessert specialties from the region around Madrid. Happily, at last we could retreat to our hotel for some much needed sleep. On our return trip to the hotel we were taken past the center of Madrid – a spot marked by a plaque in the concrete side-walk. From this point distances in all directions in Madrid are calculated. The “Centro Cuidad” was approximately 150 meters from our hotel. For the Spaniard, life must be anchored by the certain knowledge that a geographic center of his town, city or life has been marked to provide a point of reference in the continuum of his life.