In Transit

First things first: you may or may not have noticed, but I titled my blog entry “In Transit.” At first glance, it seems like a really boring title. Shouldn’t a header be catchy? Witty? Attention-grabbing? Of course, as a writer, I naturally want my blog titles to be interesting enough to draw my readers’ eyes--and brains--on down to the actual text. But somehow, as soon as this title popped into my head, something about it just screamed “LEAVE ME ALONE. I CAN HANDLE THIS ONE.”

The conclusion I came to was that, when it comes down to it, the people who want to read about my misadventures will do so with or without a great blog header. And those who are too lazy to read more than 100 words have already stopped reading and will miss out on my scolding them. A warning to the wise: this first entry is really long. The next entries will definitely be shorter. Read at your own risk.

So back to the point, I titled this entry “In Transit” because my new friend Patrick kept saying those words. I don’t know in what context he was able to say it so many times, but those words stuck in my head. Plus, it seemed like a fitting way to describe an entire day of travel.

Let me back up a bit. I woke up at 4:30 a.m. to shower and get the last few things together. Around 5, my mom and dad drove me to LAX. It was definitely hard to say goodbye to them. This is the longest time I will ever have been away from them, not to mention my very first time flying solo. Needless to say, I was more than a little anxious.

The flight to Toronto was long, but I managed to get at least a few short hours of sleep. I don’t really sleep on planes because I need the rest. I sleep because I’m too bored not to. Auntie Polly has definitely spoiled me; I’m so used to Cathay Pacific that somehow, Air Canada just doesn’t compare. Plus, they force you to purchase food from them at exorbitant prices, instead of just coming around with free peanuts or pretzels. The cheap, angry Chinese in me kicked in and I refused to eat simply out of principle.

Landing in Toronto was an interesting experience. It was strange to look out the window and see rain clouds stretching across the goose grey sky. I don’t actually know what goose grey is, but it sounded nice to me. I had quite a long layover there. I tried to kill time by watching an episode of a Japanese drama I had saved on my computer and journaling in my spiffy new notebook (thanks ROCK). Sadly though, I was still pretty antsy.

Enter Lien. She came and sat across from where I was camping out. I was so starved for conversation (seriously, I was silent for longer than anyone has ever seen before) that I asked if she were going to Madrid, too. That at least got conversation going, and I soon discovered that we’re the same age and we’re both studying abroad in London. Only, her pre-semester stop is Brussels, while mine is Spain.

Our short conversation satisfied me for the time being, so I gathered up my courage and went to check out airport food. I actually wasn’t that hungry, but I noticed that my hands were shaking uncontrollably and hypothesized that my blood sugar was low, seeing as I boycotted Air Canada’s ridiculous snack offerings. After refueling (doesn’t that seem appropriate at an airport?) with a BBQ chicken sandwich and apple juice, I sat back down in my original position. Except this time, Patrick had moved to sit across from me.

Same as last time, I asked if he was going to Madrid and soon learned that he was my airplane buddy. My new friend, I found out, is Peruvian, and is going to study and work in Madrid. He doesn’t like sports, he installs stereo systems into cars, and he studies electrical engineering. Or at least, that’s what I think he said. Between his English and my Spanish, we understood very little and got along just fine.

So, after a while, I asked Patrick to look after my backpack so I could use the restroom. On my way to the restroom, I decided to look again at the board with all the flight listings. I was a little suspicious, because the Japanese ladies next to me waiting for their flight said they were going to Rome. Turns out, my suspicions were confirmed, because our flight to Madrid was now set for gate 177, instead of 179 like it had listed previously. I don’t really understand. They give absolutely no warning and no announcement of a change in gate. I felt like I was just lucky that I stumbled across it.

Well, Patrick and I moved to the next gate, and as we were struggling to communicate in Spanglish, we attracted the attention of a really sweet Canadian couple who had served in Spain for 17 years. They helped translate the missing pieces of our conversation, and then dove into a full-fledged conversation with Patrick. I was excited to discover that even though I can’t speak much, I was definitely able to understand almost their entire little chat.

And THEN, 30 minutes later, they changed it again. No announcement. Oh, and this is another thing that makes me mad. Both the Toronto airport and the airport in Madrid have great wi-fi connections. Only, you have to pay to use them. I’m a poor college student interested only in sending a quick email to my family to let them know that I’m still alive—I don’t want to pay for it! And the other thing about Toronto airport: All of the Asian people there are Cantonese speakers. It made me homesick.

Ok, I want to speed things up a bit now. Turns out, I ended up sitting in the row behind Patrick, next to another Peruvian girl, who had met Patrick on their previous flight from Lima to Toronto. I had a hard time sleeping during the 8 hour flight, but I was pleasantly surprised they served dinner and breakfast. Plus, I managed to make it through the new Indiana Jones movie. Maybe half a thumbs-up from this critic.

My wait in Madrid was the longest. I think I pretty much sat by myself the entire six hours, without talking to anyone, struggling to keep myself entertained. I journalled, walked, wrote flashcards of Japanese vocabulary, listened to music, played the loner game…

The only other “conversations” I engaged in were with the lady at the self-check in counter for Iberia, the guard who patted me down at security, and two little Venezuelan children who were probably more bored than I was, so they came over to talk to me. I take great pride in knowing that my Spanish is on par with that of a three year old child.

The flight to Almeria was a unique experience all together. The plane was dinky—really puny and aged. I think it probably held about 30 of us total, and boarding, I wasn't sure if it could hold even that number. At least it was a quick flight. I somehow slept through the take-off and landing, and woke up for the in-flight soda. The guy next to me downed a cup of thick, orange-red tomato juice with added sweetener. Yummy.

The end of my journey finally arrived, and I was so relieved to see Margaret waiting for me at the welcome gate in Almeria. After 25 hours of traveling, I think the most exciting part was coming back to Margaret’s apartment and taking a shower. No wonder nobody wanted to talk to me.