I am suspended somewhere between 10:56 p.m. and 4:56 a.m., (a God-awful time of night, let me tell you) going 560 miles per hour and wishing I could go 10 times faster. By the end of the first hour, I had lost my nerves; by the second I was in deep conversation with the Spanish man named Luis who goes by Louigie sitting next to me; by the third, I was attempting to eat soggy pasta drenched in oil (no such luck), and by the fourth, I was watching Vicky Christina Barcelona. Now, at hour five out of nine, I am ready to pull my hair out. I’d love to sleep, but I took a Mucinex to clear up my recently stuffy nose and my eyes burn from staying open so long. Perhaps it would be better if last night weren’t New Year’s, but it was. I am drunk on lack of sleep and no matter how hard or how long I try to close my eyes, my brain is still buzzing. Did I mention that my seat won’t go back because it’s broken? Woops, sorry, forgot that little detail. So even though the dimly lit plane is conducive to sleeping for everyone else, little old me is typing like a maniac, hoping someone will inject me with a tranquilizer so I can sleep.
My wit and personality have all but disappeared as I stare blankly at the neon white light exuding from my Word document. With more than four hours to go and more turbulence to endure, I figured it’s probably be a good time to flip open my computer and “escribir” (or write). While I should probably be practicing my Spanish, I am tightening my grasp on the English language (or so I tell myself so that I can justify procrastinating studying for my Spanish exam, which will determine my placement for my classes in Barcelona.)
Caught up in my lousy mood, I realize I have forgotten to even mention that I am embarking on another fabulous adventure. For four months (plus change), I will be “estudiando en Barcelona, Espana.” A girl should only be so lucky, eh? I will be living with a host family and a roommate from St. Louis as I take 12 credits and explore Europe.
With a renewed sense of excitement at the near mention of the word “Barcelona,” I suppose I can’t complain, not even for a minute, about my long flight. Soon I will be in the land of romance languages, beautiful scenery, top-notch nightlife and “vino.” Wish me “buena suerte,” or “good luck.” In the meantime, however, a mere glance at my watch reminds me that I still have three more hours to go. I have discovered a new form of torture. Plane rides. Long plane rides. Because being stuck in a seat for nine straight hours is hell….even if Barca is only an ocean-ride away and the tapas are calling my name.
Posts
