making moves

The bus ride to my new town was comfortable and largely uneventful. From Seville, we traveled maybe an hour or so to Ronda. Along the way, I was treated to an up-close view of the southern Spanish countryside, which honestly looked rather hardscrabble and barren. Rocky ground with clumps of low shrubs and wild grasses. Low, rolling hills everywhere and every couple of minutes, large patches of land with neat rows of what I'm guessing were olive trees (some orange trees, too).

One interesting note is how many Japanese people were also on the bus. In Seville, one of our tour guides had mentioned that there were Japanese people everywhere, and he said it with a kind of distaste in his voice. Japanese people can be kind of obnoxious tourists, much like Americans, I'm sure. All the ones I've seen so far have way too much stuff with them and they seem to have a camera jutting from every orifice or hand. Once we made it to Ronda, most of them disembarked. Only a couple remained for the trip to San Pedro.

We had a brief 20-25 minute stop in Ronda - which seemed like a very charming traditional Spanish town. I made a note to myself to add it to my list of places to visit before leaving Spain. The passenger makeup of the bus changed to mostly abuelitas (grandmothers) for the Ronda to San Pedro leg of the trip. Soon, the low, rolling hills changed to steep mountains with lazy clouds drifting by. We were now passing through the Sierra de los Nieves.

a glimpse of ronda

passing through the sierra de los nieves

I've never gotten carsick before, but I was sort of glad that I hadn't eaten anything yet, since the winding roads and sharp turns through the mountains felt more like a slow-moving rollercoaster than a charter bus. With the chatter of old Spanish ladies (one of whom had brought a twittering parakeet along for the trip), and the bus' soundtrack of easy-listening Spanish style jazz muzak (including a sax-muzak version of 'Careless Whispers') as my background noise, I soaked in the gorgeous mountain views and tried not to get too excited as we got closer and closer to San Pedro.

Unlike in Ronda, where the bus stopped at a proper bus station, in San Pedro, the bus just stopped in the middle of the street (at least that's what it seemed like to me). Just to be sure I was in the right place, I asked one of the abuelitas, "Es San Pedro?" "Si, es San Pedro," she replied. I exited the bus with a handful of others, all of whom seemed to be heading to other destinations nearby. I followed them to the bus ticket window near our stop and asked where I could find a taxi, since there were none visible at the stop. With my 2 heavy bags, I was not intending to hoof it to my hotel. The ticket lady directed me up the street, literally.

A short walk up a steep hill with an extremely narrow sidewalk, and over 60 pounds of luggage caused me to break a small sweat by the time I reached the taxi line. The driver loaded my things, and I told him where I was going. "Cuanto cuesta?" I asked. He laughed. "Poco poco" (though it sounded more like Popo... Andalusians NEVER finish their words!). He added something which I understood to mean that everything in town was very, very close. Sure enough, it seemed like all he did was circle the block, and we were stopped in front of Hostal El Labrador, my temporary accomodation for the next 5 days.

El Labrador is a combination bar / restaurant and hotel, but a sign on the front door mentioned that the bar was closed until January 20, so the main entrance was closed and locked. I was peering in, trying to figure out how to get in the place, when I heard a woman shouting over my left shoulder from above. Some auntie was leaning over her balcony trying to tell me which door to go into. We played a quick game of pantomime Spanglish and at one point, I was sure she told me to hit the tiger (el tigre), but soon realized she meant push the bell (el timbre). I did, and got a crackly 'Quien es?' from the call box. After identifying myself, a woman opened the door, and started speaking rapidly and motioned for me to come in the other door around the backside of the building, before she retreated back inside.

Not quite sure I'd heard her correctly, I paused at a door just a few feet away, then heard another voice behind me, this one from an older male. He'd apparently heard my interchange with the balcony lady and the proprietress, and saw my confused brown face and could tell I needed all the help I could get. He gave me a firm signal that said, yes, i should continue around the back. As I walked, I thought, 'Wow, these folks sure are really helpful. I'd probably be well looked after in this town.'

After checking in with Inmaculada, the innkeepr, I entered my room. The place made my hotel in Sevilla look like the 4 Seasons. It was clean and neat though, and it IS only temporary, so... no pasa nada (still don't know if I'm using that right).

Unfortunately, though, it seems that the wifi does NOT want to cooperate, so I am on a communication island right now. Not good, as I need to get in touch with my potential roommate to meet over the weekend, and I’d like to see if my school coordinator has responded with when I should arrive on Monday. I tried to restart my PC to see if that would help, but good ol’ Windows decided it wanted to install 34 updates before restarting, so I’m sitting here waiting on that now. I think I’ll just head on out to take a look around for a bit while it finishes. But it being siesta, I’m not sure exactly how much I’ll be able to see.

lo perdí (i lost it)

subject to change. ain't THAT the truth!

My flight to Spain should have been uneventful. But one tiny noob mistake turned an uneventful trip into something of a ridiculous saga.

The Realization

Maybe it was the excitement, maybe it was the jet lag, maybe it was meant to be, or maybe I’m just a bit daft. Whatever the reason, I managed to deboard the plane at my first connection point in Paris and leave my passport behind in my seat. How the hell I did something so ridiculously stupid, I’ll never understand, but I’ll probably be a long time forgetting the repercussions, namely, an extra 6 hours tacked on to an already long journey.

Once I’d discovered that I’d left my passport, I hurried to the airline help desk to see if I could get someone to quickly check the plane for my missing travel document. I explained my predicament to the desk clerk. She called the gate, spoke to someone in rapid-fire French (half of which I understood), and then hung up, turning to let me know that they were checking and would call back. When they did a few moments later, she relayed the message in heavily-accented English, “They deedn’t find eet.” WHAT!? Oh, Jesus, no. This is not happening. Of all the f*(#@n things to lose, I lose the 1 things that I barely got back in time for the trip!? This. is NOT happening.

I fought back encroaching tears and pleaded with the desk agent. “I know it’s there,” I explained. “I have been nowhere else, not even to the bathroom. I’ve already checked every inch of my bag, and nothing! And, I remember putting it on the seat next to me when I sat down.” She reconfirmed my seat number with the person on the phone, waited. “No,” she said. They saw nothing. At that moment, still fighting back tears and resisting the urge to cuss my own self out for being so careless, I just started praying under my breath. “God, I need you to come through for me. I know this can be resolved. I know you will help me find a way to resolve this. I know this cannot be how this is supposed to turn out - me, stuck in a Paris airport, unable to reach my destination.” Just then, the desk agent offered the only other suggestion she had, “Haff you reported eet to the police?” “No,” I said. She suggested I do so and pointed me in the direction of the airport police office.

The Station

So, at just past 5am, I find myself communicating my situation to a French policeman as best I can. He is listening as best as he can, standing behind an unnecessarily tall desk. I am eyeing both his face for the appropriate level of understanding, and the face of the clock on the wall next to me, noticing the minutes dwindle along with my chances of making my connecting flight. After communicating my issue, I am told to wait a few moments. I briefly consider taking a seat among the dozens of others waiting on uncomfortable-looking chairs, but I decide that standing in direct eyesight is the better choice. Much conversation transpires in French among the 2 or 3 officers gathered behind the desk. One, the most genial and the one who I have just talked to, seems to be pleading my case to another more stern, apparent authority-figure who seems to be rapid-firing back the appropriate protocol to Msr. Genial. Msr. Autorité appears totally unsympathetic to the silly, simpering American woman looking on helplessly at their conversation. I don’t think he even makes eye contact with me. A third officer stands by, mostly watching the exchange, his body and facial language seemingly saying, ‘Damn. That sucks. But I don’t want to get involved in this mess.’

After a few stomach-churning minutes, an officer approaches (was he 1 of the previous 3? In my flustered state, I really can’t tell.). He speaks to me in English, “Follow me.” I do.

"Have you asked the desk agent?"

"Yes," I say. "She called the gate and said they found nothing, but I know it’s there,” I tell him.

We go back to the help desk, this time to a different agent. She phones the gate again, gives the same details as before, listens, then speaks something in French to the officer. He turns to me. “They found it.”

YES!

A flood of relief washes over me. I notice that the previous agent gives a pinched look. What was that all about, I briefly wonder. But I have no time to pontificate. Officer Helpful is writing down the gate number, and escorting me back to pick up my passport.

The Reclamation

I chalked up the fact that no one really seemed rushed at all, or offered any help in getting me to my connecting flight to French / European standards of service or their overall lack of urgency about things. Still, I was hoping there would be a sliver of a chance for me to make it, as long as I moved very, very quickly. Well… I did move quickly, but the airport tram, the gate workers (who where nowhere to be found when me and Officer Helpful arrived. Really!? We just called and said we were coming. WTF?), and everyone else in the airport were not on the same page. After Officer Helpful had retrieved my passport and given it back to me (he also had to take a pic for his report), I dashed back through the airport terminal, on the tram again, then a quick customs stamp, a thorough undressing at security screening, and by that time I saw flashing on the monitors that the status of my connecting flight was:

Boarding - Last Call

I broke into a run, with my shoes barely zipped and my belt barely back on, and my approved carry-on liquids barely stuffed back into my bag.

Now, I’m already not a runner, but after an 8-hour flight with spotty sleep, a stressful ordeal and with a kinda-heavy carryon in-tow, I’m pretty sure I looked like the most awkward, disheveled, panicked, banshee-woman that Charles de Gaulle airport had ever seen. I was sweating, and panting, and thinking of stopping, but I had to push… just in case. When I made it to the gate, it was immediately clear that I was too late… by about 7 minutes.

Final Destination

I asked the gate agent what my options were and she pointed me to the AirFrance info counter just a few feet away. I approached, explained my situation, and asked what could be done. I was preparing for the worst - an extra fee, no more flights / seats available, etc - but hoping for the best. After a helluva lot of click-clacking, typing, sighing, and conferring with her manager, Mme. Info Desk uttered my new favorite French word, “superb!” And I was all set with a new ticket with no extra fees. My next leg would take me from Paris to Madrid, and the final flight would leave from Madrid to Seville… about 6 hours afterwards.

Though I was happy that I hadn’t totally screwed myself, I was completely dismayed at the idea of having to wait in another airport for hours. Plus, now that I would be arriving late, it meant I’d have to find my own way from the Seville aiport to the hotel (instead of taking the free shuttle provided by my program), and that I would likely miss the first part of orientation.

I was exhausted, disheveled, and it appeared that my too-thick socks combined with my too-tight new boots, along with all the running and walking had resulted in a painful blister on the back of one heel.  Any hopes of arriving cool, calm, and collected were long gone.

By the time I finally boarded the flight to Seville, I was an irritated lump of sweaty, achy, tired flesh, and I still faced the possibility that my luggage might not be waiting upon my arrival. Fortunately, it was, and I sailed out of the Seville airport as quickly as I could, caught a cab to the hotel, and vowed never to repeat such a ridiculous mistake or experience again.