Spain

THAT was harrowing. Let's recap for the record, shall we?

It is 0345 Thursday morning I am in the midst of a tension filled anxiety dream watching Mark Allen talk about human sexuality as he smokes a camel filter on a stationary bike. I recognize that on many levels many things are wrong with this so I immediately change the REM channel to find myself in a barn with a leaky roof and insulation hanging everywhere. I am thinking, 'you can fix this, it's not so bad, just get started' when the sound of the house phone rather rudely shakes me back to a semi-waking state with an abrupt digital tone of seriousness. I have cotton mouth and barely answer a weak mumble of greeting. It is RG. He says he is on the way. I look at my Ironman Timex special Kona edition, lick my lips and say OK, not having the nerve to say you're a half hour early. I could have convinced MA to quit and had had the insulation repaired in that time.

We drive to the 0445 boat, re-routed because of road construction. I drag my camera bag briskly and sit near the front of the MV Wenatchee. It is going to be another close one with a tiny margin for error. The ferry lurches towards Seattle and I practice some deep breaths and check e-mail.

Off the boat and the race is uphill to Rail-Link. I have credit card ready and make the swipe and grab in one motion. I hear the train below and hoist my bag in a stair-sprint. I miss the train by five seconds. Five. At 0500 they run every 15 minutes so now my margin has evaporated. I sit and self-console. It is something I am getting proficient at.

The next train shows up and I sit in a seat that looks and feels like it was designed from the post-Fascist school of anti-comfort. We make every stop along the route but no one gets off and no one gets on. I consider the crossover disaster waiting to explode when rage meets alcohol and semi-automatic weapons.

I do a race walk to American Airlines. The plane boards in ten minutes. The self check in does not ask me if I am checking a bag so I hail the agent that cheerfully directed me to the machine five precious minutes prior. He tries. Nada. He attempts to find a rep but they are all busy, I make sure he is watching as I dramatically point my Timex towards my red eyeballs. Reluctantly we get an agent to do a quick bag ticket and I look to make sure it has MADRID on it before doing a ten yard down and out towards TSA.

The usual nightmare. I am wearing a new pair of jeans. They are cut lower than my taste but they are somewhat stylish (for me) and were half off at Goodwill. The pockets are too low and my iPhone feels like it is bouncing between lower cheek and upper hamstring. I miss my 501s. This concerns me as I start to pull stuff out and put it in the bins. I am a bin abuser. Cameras, laptop, shoes, belt, jacket, credit cards, I used five, sometimes six bins. They hate me.

I am half dressed, shoe laces undone, belt in hand, pants dangerously drooping, jacket over the left shoulder and carry on Timbuck2 over my right. I have had nothing to eat but a half cup of half-zapped coffee. Gate 8 is almost in sight and I can see that there are about six people still in line.

I have a window seat next to a Enterprise secretary whose husband deployed to Afghanistan on Wednesday and a cabaret choreographer from Long Island who was in Seattle for a funeral. I say hello, smile to remove any lingering anxiety and let the back of my head hit the seatback. I settle into The Social Animal by David Brooks. I am hooked and study closely several chapters. I write a few notes on the paper napkin, a ritual begun a little over a year ago when profundities poured like port wine, "of all the blessings that come with being alive, love is the most awesome of all", I remembered as being one.

We land at JFK on a snow lined runway. I keep flashing to my stupidity in going to see Denzel in Flight three hours before leaving Reno for Sea-Tac Sunday night. Now tail-cam shows us landing in a spectacular silhouette of 737 and neon. I have three hours to kill and burn the first one walking back and forth in the terminal trying to find the Iberia gate. Ended up taking the Air-Rail to T7 and sat down to have a cheese panini and espresso. I heard the PA crackle and call several names, one of which could have been my own. I looked at my watch and we are boarding. Having zero self control as I passed hurriedly to the gate I stopped and asked the young girl for a small pistachio gelato. I remember fumbling with cash, credit cards, boarding pass and other important documents as I paid for the treat. I got to the counter and fumbled again as the agent needed my passport and bag claim check. A thousand thoughts filled my brain as the gelato kept if just above an ice cream headache. Finally, after a computer scan, the obligatory chin scratch and another page view, he looked at me and said, 'you can board'. I licked the last bit of sugar cone and smiled. Gracias.

Another seven hours in the air. More book. More on THAT later. The Spaniard next to me went quickly to sleep. I had enough leg room to semi recline. I was served two altogether horrible vegetarian meals. Scribbling more notes on cocktail napkin, my eyes swelled. That ONE thought of her had not gone, but lived on deliciously and determinedly in my brain, as it very well could forever. I needed sleep.

None came. The position could not be found. I read on with rapture and excitement as Mr Brooks talked of love, sex, touch, the soul, meaning, mission and metaphor with the flair of a poet. My watch said midnight as by back screamed for mercy. We landed in Madrid, Barajas at 0730 local time. I was dingy, but felt that old double shot of endorphin flow as we walked towards customs, passport control and baggage claim. When invited I addressed the passport agent with a proper sounding buenas dais, and he barely looked up as he stamped my passport with an authoritative gesture. Finding the baggage carosel I tried more deep breathing and silent stretching while waiting. I am quite sure I looked like one of the guys from The Hangover.

I was still standing there after everyone else had retrieved their bags and were well on their ways. Non aqui. My bag was MIA. I remembered the computer snafu in Seattle. I remembered my credit cards in my shoes as they disappeared into a black hole X-Ray machine, I remembered packing the two new Contour cams in my carry-on so that this exact circumstance would not equal disaster. I sauntered over to the customer service desk, held out my baggage ticket and with a sad but compassionate smile I said, non aqui.  We filed the requisite claim, and I provided them with a copy of the hotel reservation so when my bag did make it to Madrid, they could expedite it right over. Gracias

Down the stairs, up the escalator and off to the right hid the rent a car desk where a cute gal watched my approach as I again fumbled with those damn too low pockets for my Amex and drivers license. Buenas dais, come usted? Panic followed as after the third complete and thorough inventory of all available merchandise that I had somehow fumbled my drivers license away. It was nowhere to be found. Was it the gelato fumble? The TSA fumble? Maybe on the seat of one of the flights fumble? After further review I said gracias and turned to walk away. A cab to the hotel, a nap in a bed with clean sheets, and reconoiter. Draw up a Plan B. I wasn't going to get far in Spain without a DL.

Three steps is all it took. There was something there. I did a full on Fred Astaire 180 and marched back to Eva, smiling like The Artist. She was smiling too. Very ceremoniously I reached to my left shoe, untied it, brought it to the counter top and turned it upside down. A shake out.

I was laughing hard as she muttered some Spanish form of Dio Mio and quickly grabbed the paperwork again and headed me a pen. I asked her where the Holiday Inn Express was and she pointed to what I took for North and said not far.

Starting up my manual Renault I had two signs to follow. M-40 and Zaragoza. How hard can that be?

By the time I navigated through a series of roundabouts, alternating my now compromised attention from a hand drawn map to a thousand speeding sub-economy class cars to the Hotel, I was ready for sleep.

We have no reservation for you sir. You might try one of our other hotels. Can you do that for me? Yes, you have a room at the Express on Avenida de Aragon near Centro Comercial Plenilunio. Just take A2 towards Zaragoza to M21 Salida 2B. And be sure to use the service road. OK, thanks.

I finally find it. No early check in. The Wi-Fi that was advertised as free is 5 euros a day, and no, my reservation does not include those crepes the other guests are currently enjoying. No, we have not heard from the airlines about your bag and when ready would you like a smoking or non-smoking room?

I am seeing Jack in Five Easy Pieces, thinking once again about rage, mescal and a nickel plated Smith and Wesson. I remembered we talked about Hunter Thompson the other night. I hear Lawyers, Guns and Money blaring inside my brain. Mark Allen flicks his smoke away like Bogey.

I smile.

No fumar, por favor. No fumar.