I'm Back!!!

Well folks, It's that time again. Remember when I said about halfway through my previous Spain trip that I was already making plans to return? Well just take my word on it, because I can't source the exact post and even I don't want to go back and read my whole blog.

So yes! The word on the street is true-I made it back to espana. Two weeks ago. I'm SORRY! I didn't mean to wait so long, it's just that all I've got is this silly little iPod and it's a pain and a half to type on. Anyway, let's hear the story, shall we? I will say this in preface: This will, as will soon become evident, be a "what-NOT-to-do" story. Please learn from my mistakes. (Yes, mistakeS, plural.)

A 45 minute connecting flight (20 minutes shorter than anticipated) boded well for my trip, and I felt confident that everything would go smoothly, even after I failed to find the envelope of over 200 euros I hid from everyone, including myself. I had plenty of time to find my next flight in the gigantic maze that is the Washington Dulles airport, and I even found it without getting lost! I had time to go to an overpriced airport store and buy one of those dorky neck pillows and some $20 earbuds.

Even though they suspended boarding halfway through because of an issue with the air conditioning, we ended up leaving on time and landed a little early. The flight wasn't bad. It was with and airline called Aer Lingus, which if any of you have flown before, you know it's about as comfortable as sitting in a chair for 8 hours breathing the same air as the surrounding 100 strangers can possibly be. I really didn't get much sleep, despite my recent neck pillow purchase. Which is too bad, because I'd been planning on ditching it at the Madrid airport when I landed.

So when I did land, I have to admit, I was a little terrified. For the record, 3100 miles is now the farthest I've ever traveled alone. But right then I was navigating my way through signs written in Spanish directing me to Baggage claim, or reclamo de equipaje, for the curious, where I would meet three of my new friends, with whom I would take a train to Valencia. I found my luggage with no problem, although everyone was shocked at how little I packed. It's become a point of pride for me, being an immaculately efficient packer. We've closed out week two, and I still have yet to re-wear anything from my amazingly 13.5 pound duffle. Yes, ladies and gentleman, I packed a bookbag and a duffle bag that weighed in a 13.5 pounds. One of the boys, who had a duffle bag similar in size to mine, as well as a roller luggage thing and a backpack, was made fun of because he "packed more than a girl." He simply shrugged his shoulders and said, "Well, we are going to be here for a month." And I laughed because I'm actually going to be here two months.

Anyway, after realizing that my debit card wasn't working, on which I will rant in the next paragraph or so, we decided to forgo the bus that takes you directly to the train station, because it was about 8am, and it didn't come until 10am. We told ourselves we could just as easily, and for cheaper, get the the station via metro. Ah, we were naive back then. It was a simpler time. Before we were aware of all the more complicated metro systems in the world. So basically what I'm saying is that it took forever and 4 or 5 transfers to finally get there. We arrived a little before the next train left, and unfortunately that meant that it was greatly more expensive, somewhere in the region of 80 euros. Understandably, we went with the next train that left at 2, which was 39 euros. But this meant that 1, we had 4 hours in which to not really do anything, and 2, that our host families wouldn't know when we were meant to arrive at the airport. Allow me to explain...because we bought our tickets so last minute, we weren't able to tell our host families when we would be arriving, so we were going to try and get there around the same time or before our roommates arrived, who had told the families when to come and pick them up. Unfortunately for me, mine got there at about 3, an hour before I did.

More on that later, because we had some time to waste in madrid. We walked around, ate, then went to a park. I don't know what it was called, but it was HUGE. After a visit to a really picture esque garden, we headed back to the train station. It was here, in my uncomfortable chair, waiting to board, that I began to feel the effects of not having slept for about 24 hours. I was getting anxious to get to my new home. However, relief was no where in sight even when we arrived at the Valencia train station, because we were fully aware that we still had much of our journey in front of us.

We took a taxi to the Valencia airport, and after a quick scan of the arrivals area, we realized our professor was no longer there. We sat down, tired, lost, trying to figure out where it was we went wrong.

Eventually, a fast talking Spanish angel (I can't be sure, but I think she was an angel) came up to us and asked if we were american students looking for Dr. Scribner. Which was lucky, because that's exactly what we were.

She hailed us all a cab and sent us on our way. We had a list of names and addresses, and I was the first to be dropped off. I took a quick look at where I was going, thanked the cab driver, and went to the front door.

It was then I decided to give up on life. There was a panel of buttons and a set of instructions as to which ones to press in order to be connected to which apartment. However, these instructions were asking for information that I did not have. Why couldn't it be as simple as knocking on the door and asking for Teresa from puerta tres? Someone left through the front door and I managed to sneak inside, where I asked the front desk clerk in my most pathetic voice for help.

Sympathetic as he was, there wasn't much he could do to help me without more information, but god bless him, did he try. He typed a search into his database for all the Teresas who lived in a number 3, and for all the unfortunate coincidences in the world, would you believe that there were eleven? ELEVEN!! I told him that if only I had Internet access, I could look up where exactly I needed to be (after repeatedly assuring him that there was someone expecting me and I wasn't your regular trespasser). Unfortunately, there was no such Internet access, so I asked him, half joking, if it would be ridiculous if he called all the Teresas in the apartment complex to see if he could find the one who I was supposed to be staying with. Of course, he said yes.

So, I sat down so I could at least be out of the way for all the people who did know where they were going. I did know this: this Teresa, whoever and wherever she was, had been told I was on my way. So the best I could hope for was that if I didn't show up, she would eventually come looking for me.

But then I was struck by a horrible thought: What if I was in the wrong place? All I did was give an address to a taxi driver, and now I'm just to trust that he took me to the right place? I mean, maybe not out of maliciousness, but certainly cab drivers get it wrong sometimes? If I was at the wrong apartments, Teresa may come looking for me, but she wouldn't find me. How would she? How would anyone find me again?? Tears flooded my eyes as this panic struck me, and I swallowed that lump that forms in your throat and told myself, knowing I was lying, that everything would be okay.

But really how could it? With no money (remember how my debit card wasn't working?), no phone, no Internet, I began coping with the idea that I'd be sleeping in the streets that night. I heard the clerk making phone calls and asking in Spanish if the person in the other line was expecting an American student. Every time he'd say, "Bueno, gracias," and hang up. Then he'd dial another number and do it all again. The tears started back up, and I feared they might win against my crumbling resolve.

And then, miraculously, a woman walked into the room saying something in quickly spoken Spanish, but her sentence was interrupted halfway through when she looked over and found what she was looking for: a sad, infinitely lost looking American sitting in the corner laden with bags and bloodshot eyes. And angels descended and sang me the song of unlikely joy.

Teresa and I were united.

Younger than my first host mom, and much more vibrant, Teresa talks a mile a minute and is really energetic. She lives in a really cool apartment with an awesome terrace that overlooks the giant swimmable fountain, the pool, and all the racquetball, basketball, tennis courts (though admittedly the spaniards installed two soccer goals and the basketball baskets are left ignored). My own Valencian paradise. My roommate was lounging outside when I came in, and it sounds like what I had hoped would happen is what happened, but I got lucky, so in the spirit of this travel blog, I give you this:

Travel Tip #1
Prepare yourself as much as you can. If you bank with Suntrust, don't trust them to remember that you're leaving the country. Bring money with you. Don't rely on the Internet to give you all the info you need to get where you're going. If you're too cheap to print it out, for the love of god, write it down.

Anyway, that's it for now. I'll update later about our recent trip to Barcelona.

"El mundo es un libro, y ellos que no viajan leen solo una pagina."