No pasa nada. Tranquila.

If Americans say “Oh my God” too frequently, then Spaniards, particularly Catalonians, say “no pasa nada” like a broken record. And when they aren’t saying “no pasa nada,” they are telling each other to “tranquila.”

“No pasa nada.” Don’t worry about it. No big deal. “Tranquila.” Chill out.

It’s a great concept and fits the Spanish way of life perfectly. No worries. Slow and steady. Everything will work out as it should. But, if you know me at all, “chill out” and “don’t worry about it” do not exist in my vocabulary. My Type A personality and I do not have any inkling of either one of these concepts. Especially in tense situations.

Because I have been in Barcelona for more than a month, I decided it was time to being my travels. Irena, one of my best friends from home who is also studying here, is my tried-and-true travel buddy. And we recruited some new friends (Kyle, Willie and Miquel) to come with.

First stop: Paris. The city of amor. Where we hopeless romantic can regain some hope that there is such a thing as true love and fairy-tale endings. And the city of food. Not just food. The best food in the entire world. There was no doubt in any of our minds that we weren’t going to love life.      

The morning of our hour-and-a-half plane ride out, I decide to wake up early and shower. I want to have enough time to do my hair and my makeup without feeling rushed and then head to the Metro so I can meet up with Irena and Miquel. The three girls are flying together and will take a taxi to the El Prat airport in Barcelona. One of Irena’s friends, who is also headed to the airport for another trip, suggests we skip the taxi and take the train to the airport so that we can save our money. The train is free. The taxi is about 20 Euros divided by four. We are broke students. Free can’t be beat. Plus, it’s early. Why not? I should learn to take the train to the airport.   

So the four of us, bags in hand, head from one Metro to another until we get to Sans Estacion, where we can pick up the train to the airport. The ride on the train is about 25 minutes and we’ll have just enough time to get a bite to eat and relax before the flight. At Sans Estacion, we switch from the Metro tracks to the Renfe tracks, which are run by the Catalan government and serve as an alternate to the Metro. We ask the information desk which train we need to take to get to the airport and then wait by all the other people with luggage. When the train pulls up, the four of us rush on, eager to get a seat on our ride to the airport. We chit-chat about everything we are looking forward to doing, all the places we want to go, and all the food we plan to eat. We are in our own little fantasy world. Little children excited to be traveling and trying to come to terms with the fact that WE ARE GOING TO PARIS!! A few minutes later, the train doors close and we are off.

As we are chugging along, I look out the window to realize that airplanes are taking off in the direction our train is traveling. I glance at the digital watch on my cell phone and make a mental note that we have been on the train for about 23 minutes. We should be just about to pull into the station at the airport. So where is it?

At this point, my friends are starting to wonder why we don’t seem close either. But we were standing with all those other travelers who had large pieces of luggage, and they got on the train right? I look around. Nope. The four of us are the only fools with luggage on this train. Then again, perhaps the other travelers got on in different cars.

My heart starts pounding hard and the guy we are with decides to lean over to an older Spanish couple doing a crossword puzzle to ask when this train will get to the airport. The old man laughs and informs us that this train is not going to the airport, but if you know Spanish humor (which I am slowly starting to get the hang of), you know that half the time people are kidding. Phew. Es un chiste, no? It’s a joke, right? So Brett asks again and, once again, the gentleman tells us the train is headed to some small little village and the stop isnt for another 40 minutes.

No, no es un chiste. My eyes wander to the big train windows and I see that we are on a bridge over some body of water. Nowhere near the airport. In our haste to get on the train and get to the airport, we didn’t even notice that all the people standing around us with luggage at the train station didn’t get on behind us.     

Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. My heart can’t handle this. Get a person who works on this train over here and fast!

A man in a white button-up with a train hat on comes over and reaffirms our biggest fear: the train will not make it’s first stop for another 35 minutes, putting us at a station in some far-off land at about 11:20 a.m. My flight leaves at 12:35 p.m. My head becomes a dizzy maze. I feel like I am spinning in circles. And because my flight was so cheap, there are no refunds. No refunds? I am about to miss out on my well-planned weekend and lose my money. I can’t handle this.

Think, KP, think. Think fast. OK, I’ve got it. I’ll just ask the train worker.

Mr. Train Conductor laughs when we tell him we are trying to catch a plane from the Barcelona airport. He tells us we can take a train back to Sans Estacion once we get to the first train stop, but it will take an hour for us to get back. [Aside: Oh great, then we miss the plane…what a stupid idea!] So Miquel asks him about a taxi from the train station to the airport. Again he laughs, and I really don’t see what’s so funny. He says he’s never done it because it’s too expensive and he has no idea how long it will take. And then, to add salt to an open wound, he tells us we have jumped the train and we need to pay for our tickets. You’re kidding me. You have got to be kidding me. But he is not. 5 Euros per person. So I open my already-empty wallet to pay the man for a trip I didn’t even want to take in the first place. After we all pay, he chuckles and says “Pero no pasa nada” as he walks away, leaving us to sulk.

No pasa nada? No pasa nada youself! I’m gonna miss my non-refundable flight and ruin my first away trip, and you are telling me to tranquila? You must be joking.  The four of us living out the “stupid American” stereotype.   

I look out the window and we are still over the ocean or river or whatever the hell it is. A taxi to get us back to the mainland (if there even is one) will probably cost a fortune. But desperate times call for desperate measures. We need to run off the train and get to a taxi as soon as the train stops to salvage any sense of hope we might have about still making our flight and living out our perfect weekend. Plus, the taxi will be divided by four to ease the cost.

At the train stop, we get into a taxi and tell the driver we need to get to the airport in the fastest way possible. Then I look up and realize we have a woman taxi driver. Not that I am sexist, but when I wanna get somewhere fast, I need a speed demon. A man with a heavy foot willing to step on it like never before. But she’ll have to do. We start driving and she tells us it will cost at least 100 Euros. Whatever. Just “andale!” or “venga!”. We need to get to the airport. The ride is spent in silence since the four of us are too tense to even speak. The driver’s old-school 1990’s American music playing in the background doesn’t help to soothe much either.

We pull in to the airport at about 12 p.m. and run to the check in counter. As if we haven’t had enough bad luck, I find out my bag is too heavy and I need to check it for an additional 20 Euros.

Oh no. No way. Enough. I open my bag, jerk my laptop out and switch it into Irena’s, which luckily, has room. Then the man at the ticket counter prints our boarding passes. We look to learn that we are sitting in the very last row of the plane. Though I am the most nervous flyer ever and the back of the plane is the bumpiest, at this point, I just don’t care.

When we get situated on the plane (miraculously, I may add after literally running though security!), the flight attendants inform the three of us girls that because we are in the last row, we cannot keep our jackets or our purses with us. They must be stored in the overhead compartment so we don’t start a fire. I have never in my life heard of such a thing, but as the plane starts backing out from the gate, we are heaving our items above our heads.

“Tranquila, girls, now just put on your seatbelts,” one attendant says.

Again with the tranquila? Really? I am gonna need a horse tranquilizer to tranquila, so unless you can provide me with one or two or forty, I suggest you stop telling me to tranquila!

Eventually, I sit and relax and listen to some music. Half way through the flight, when my heart starts to pitter-pat in a normal rhythm again, I tell myself that maybe, just maybe, the Spanish know something I don’t. No pasa nada because everything will work itself out. Now if only I had some tequila to tranquila.