Yesterday, after a 2-month hiatus from English and traveling abroad, I hopped on Atlanta’s MARTA and dragged a hastily packed carry-on to the airport. My mother likes to remind me that I always believe I will have more time than I actually do and that I plan too many activities. I have to disagree. 4.5 days in Georgia was plenty of time to unpack from Middlebury, pack for this trip, pack for DC (oh yeah, because I will have fewer than 24 hours upon returning from Spain and Portugal before heading to the farm for Labor Day and then straight to my newest tenancy in our nation’s capitol), have meals with several non-family members (this I actually accomplished by reminding said members that “doing coffee” was cooler than lunch or supper), working part-time from afar for my new job, beginning the annual fall check-up rotation (ears and eyes, but that’s another story), studying for the GRE (that just didn’t happen until I got on the plane), and – HAHA, I almost forgot – PLANNING this trip.
Luckily my sister reminded me to plan the trip on Tuesday. In fact, I began this journey with a healthy lucky streak. I arrived at the airport two hours early, as mandated by TSA, got through security in 15 minutes, changed my dollars to Euros, and relaxed in the Delta Sky Club with a gin and tonic and yogurt covered pretzels* until the front desk calmly called my name over the appropriately gentle and non-crackly speakers**. I happily approached and gratefully thanked the desk agent upon learning that the gate agents hoped to speak with me, and I then descended easily in a clean and well-functioning elevator. Things were looking up.
At the gate I waited in line for a few minutes, which dampened my mood considerably as I really do not enjoy waiting at airport gates. There are always sick people and children with sticky fingers who smell like graham crackers and ride in minivans just dying to invade my personal space, which happens to require a roughly 5-foot radius. I also believe I should not be made to wait in lines generally, whether or not sick people/children are there, but that may be a less reasonable demand in an airport (or life).
The attractive transsexual gate agent took my passport and ticket and shook her (formerly his) head, saying, “I have some bad news for you.”
I had prepared for this for 23 hours, because when I checked in online I noticed a little red advisory noting that the flight was oversold and they would appreciate volunteers to take later flights. I am not the type of person who volunteers to take later flights, so I mostly ignored this advisory, filing it away in the back of my brain as “something that might go wrong”. I stared at my transsexual gate agent, trying to decide whether I could volunteer to change flights quickly enough to get the extra money before she told me I had been bumped to a later flight, but I got distracted by her incredibly long eyebrows. Suddenly she smiled. “We’re overbooked, so I’m going to have to upgrade you.”
All I could think to say was, “That isn’t bad news.”
You probably realized by now that my English, spoken and written, severely deteriorated with two months of disuse.
I sipped champagne and a glass of Riesling with my truffle and portabella ravioli while attempting to watch the beginning of “Date Night” (maybe it’d be good if you’re really drunk?), then gleefully drifted to sleep for several hours before a little GRE study session.
Unfortunately at this point my luck ran out. My plane landed in Spain almost half an hour late, causing me to miss the 11am train from Madrid to Valencia by three minutes. I think if I’d thought ahead and changed into a sports bra and shorts I might have made it, but my time was compromised by numerous flights of stairs unaccompanied by elevators or escalators, and my carry-on happens to be of the rolling variety. Next time I will consider investing in a me-sized backpack, which I think will make running up and down stairs quicker if not easier.
Oh, well, what the hell. Yossarian never dealt with this type of public transportation.
It is funny how persnickety the Spanish seem when I accidentally slip in Portuguese words. I found a cozy café in the train station and asked, “Cuanto cuesta para sentir-me?”
“Que?”
“Para sentir-me,” – I was trying to ask how much it cost to sit at the café, since it’s been my experience in Europe that frequently you have to pay to sit. I gestured toward the seating area. “Cuanto cuesta?”
“Sentar-se,” the man at the counter corrected me.
Okay – I get that it’s a different word if you change one letter. But if I worked at a coffee shop and some foreign kid walked up to me and asked how much it cost to set, I would not wonder whether he wanted to put tablecloths and utensils on my tables or simply sit at one of them.
Turns out it was free anyway, so I ordered a café con leche while they snickered at me. I wanted to be snooty and not leave a tip, but since no one leaves tips for a 1 Euro coffee in Spain I don’t think they got the slight.
*One of the awesomest snacks ever
**The Sky Club is why I travel
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