Woes on a flight over the Amazon

I’ve never hated 4 a.m. as much as I did today.

It’s not the painstaking time of day. It’s not fumbling through my things to find where I hid my passport. It’s leaving Icapuí.

The same potholes that haunted me my first night, cooed me to sleep on my four-hour taxi journey back to the Fortaleza airport. Portuguese “hellos” and “thank yous” now roll off my tongue.

Sitting on TAM’s 5C, sipping my last guarana and ogling my photos, I ruminate first experiences and first meetings that have since morphed into life lessons and everlasting memories.

It’s hard to forget the little faces and little shoes; the sheets that double as blankets in the brutal heat; the mototaxis threatening to send you flying. Plastic Havaianas will never look or feel the same. Naps in bed will be passé; only hammocks will do.

Strangers I met seven days ago are like family – goodbyes are dreaded and heartbreaking. Pasa Tempo chocolate cookie morsels still linger on the back of my molars. My fingers still smell like churrasco from last night’s feast.

We go abroad to learn other cultures – to appreciate them and to understand them. Somehow, by the end of this adventure, I have learned more about myself. Even when my skin disagrees, I can blend in. I can see poverty and despair, yet rejoice in its happiness. I can throw a “thumbs up” and be everyone’s friend.

Pity is for the ignorant – those who think that money is life and civilization must be modernized. With a few tree trunks and smiles brighter than the sun, communities such as Icapuí tug on the strings of the heart, swearing to leave a tattoo forever.

Queen of the airwaves

So how is it that you keep a devastated girl’s eyes from bawling at 4 a.m. when the taxi comes to pick her up in Barcelona to take her to the airport, burst her dream-world bubble and send her straight home, totally broke, to a boring reality? Well, you put her in First Class on a Delta flight, of course – especially when she needs to fly from Barcelona to Madrid, Madrid to Atlanta, and then Atlanta to Ft. Lauderdale for a total of 20 traveling hours.  

And this jetsetter did just that. Row 1, Seat B, baby, on all three legs of the trip. While I expected it to be good, my goodness, was I naive. It was - I am talking - feel-at-home, wait-you-hand-and-foot, “Yes, Ms. Packer, what can I do for you” good. I was a celebrity in my own right, sipping sparkling wine before take off and ordering a 5-course meal.  

My lap of luxury began in the VIP lounge of the airport, where I helped myself to a totally free self-service bar, coffee machine, snack fridge (fully stocked with croissants and sandwiches), and refreshment machine. The fluffy, velvety couches were more welcoming then the bed I had been sleeping in the past four months at Senora’s place. Needless to say, with my rolling carryon in hand, I stepped off the elevator in to the exclusive lounge and my mouth dropped. I am certain that I looked like a little child in Toys-R-Us who had been given a blank check. Who know that the other world lived so well and how had I been missing this my whole life?

The other VIPs wore the room – better yet, ballroom – well, playing on their laptops and iPhones in Ferragamo suits. Perhaps, I should mention I didn’t quite dress for the occasion. My black, velour sweatpants, green American Apparel V and straw fedora weren’t assisted by my no-makeup face, and I wouldn’t be shocked if the three-piece suits wondered who let this “child” in here. I, however, had plans of being comfy and shrugged it off. I woke up at 4 a.m. for Christ’s sake! If I am gonna pay for first class, by golly, I am gonna wear whatever I want.

I helped myself to the free goodies and delicious coffee, before snagging Spain’s version of Yoohoo from the fridge and going down to board my nine-and-a-half-hour flight. After bypassing all the common folk at the gate, I became acquaintances with 1B. He was a beauty in his leathery blueness and the full-sized pillow and comforter he was wearing fit him well. And what’s better, he brought me a present. I took my seat and immediately threw off my shoes to put on my gifted no-slip-grip socks (apparently, I am very easily impressed, but what can I say? It’s not everyday an airplane gives you a sleep mask and a toothbrush!). While all the business people were frigid, still blabbing endlessly on their phones, I was smushing my tush into my seat and electronically moving the seatback and footrest up and down and up and down, as if I had never sat in the chairs outside of Brookstone. When I got tired of that, I popped my personal reading light and mini TV in and out. I then proceeded to figure out how my big table and my small table worked.   

My mental process during all of this went like so: Oh yeah! Oh yeah! Check me out! I am living like Richie Rich or that kid from Blank Check. Woohoo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And the flight attendants didn’t help my ego with their “Hello, Ms. Packers.” When one came around ask for drink orders, the men and couples around me ordered wine and top-notch sparkling alcoholic beverages. I had other plans for easing my edge and asked for a bottle opener for my stolen, glass-bottle chocolate milk. In the most serious voice, but with a genuine smile, the flight attendant said, “Gladly,” and brought me a glass cup with ice so that my milk would be cold. It’s a damn good thing she didn’t bring me a straw because I may have been tempted to blow bubbles in my chocolate drink.

When the man sitting next to me asked my name, I contemplated saying Annie Warbucks and I was a heartbeat away from asking him to pinch me.

The rest of the flight was sheer bliss. When I slept, I reclined. When I ate, it was surprisingly delicious. Actually, it was scrumptious. And perhaps the best part was the expensive wine the attendants kept refilling. White, red, sparkling and port.  

And so my flight went as such: Glass of wine. Eat. Sleep. Another glass of wine. Watch Slumdog Millionair. Eat. Coffee. Wine. Watch Marley & Me. Eat. Sleep. Eat. Wine.

Come on folks, does life get any better? For the first time since my sorority presidency, I felt like a queen. A queen of the sky - up above the clouds, having people wait on me.

But since what goes up, must come down, so to did my attitude in tandem with the plane itself. I went from my mile-high high to a thudding splat by the time I exited the plan in Atlanta.

As I exited, my nostrils were filled with the nauseating, deep-fried odor of Popeye’s, McDonalds, Taco Bell and Burger King. The bright, neon lights in the airport stung my retinas. And, oh, the people. Americans. Gross. Overweight men in floral shirts. Sweatshirts galore. Flat, rubber flip-flops that should only be worn to the beach. And the worst of it all, men in shirts, ties and shorts all at once. I guess I became a European snob while I was away.

For all the missing home I did, I seemed to have forgotten that home means fat, grungy, loud Americans living on fly-over land without much history or ancient ruins of any sort. Feeling terrible for myself, I picked up a Starbucks, but it only soiled my mood more. I subjected myself to sipping on burnt-bean, coffee-flavored water that some American thought would be funny to call coffee.

Welcome home, air princess, welcome home. You should've blown chocolate milk bubbles while it lasted.   

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.

This brought to you from 33,002 feet up

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.