The Journey

It's 11:24pm in Granada right now, 2:24pm in California. On August the 26th. My actual journey to Granada began at 7am California time on August the 24th, and it was not a journey without incident. While I'd love to give an intricate and detailed account of these past two days, other things are also happening or soon to be, and I'm extremely tired. So, here's the condensed account. I may attempt to add onto this account later, but I suspect that my desire to continually update my story may overshadow my desire to revisit the travel days.

I left my house early, battled San Francisco traffic and arrived to my gate for departure feeling confident and excited. My flight was delayed, but I still had hopes of making my connecting flight. I boarded my plane and spent the hours chatting with an interesting New Yorker/Italian with an interest in motorcycles, festival culture, body art and travel among many other things.

The JFK air train.

The JFK airport is big and scary. I confused the terminals, which had to be accessed through air trains which had to be waited for, etc. I was running by the time I got to the check point for my correct terminal. The woman at the counter unhelpfully commented that my flight should already be boarding. I shoved my film through the X-Ray machine in a hurry and jogged to the gate with my shoes flopping. Three woman intercepted me, asked if I was going to Madrid and informed me that I'd just missed the flight while they munched on snacks and apologized nonchalantly. I cried a little, and traveled back through the air train to speak with someone else, try and figure out how to get to Spain and where my luggage was.

The woman who helped me also had a Christmas-time birthday and sympathized. She got me a room at a nearby hotel, some food vouchers and flights for the next evening. I was picked up by a shuttle driver who confided that his job was hell and spoke to me about how we are responsible for our own destinies.

JFK desolation.

The hotel gave me a cookie and a king sized bed. I slept. It was divine.

Cookie and key.

Lovely sleeping arrangements.

In the morning I figured out more stuff and things, realized I was going to miss my orientation and took some deep breaths. I bought a pizza that was supposed to have olives, tomatoes and artichokes but really had tomatoes, onions and peppers.

My first meal since breakfast, the day before.

I took another shuttle, went to my missed terminal, panicked in a long line and made my mother call the airline to ask about my luggage. They said it would probably be continuing onto my destination. Probably.

I found my flight to Madrid, did not sleep and watched a Pirates of the Caribbean movie as well as the Fantastic Mr. Fox. I read. I got to Madrid, was assured my luggage would be in Granada, and while I waited seven hours for my next flight I wrote this:

It's Friday, August 26th, in some places. The Madrid airport is magnificent and modern, full of glass and silver. The ceiling is waves of wood, undulating roundly over big spiked pillars. It feels, in a way, quite alien. Arriving here was a kind of wonder. As descent began, I opened my little airplane eye and watched as we approached little islands of light. They looked like constellations, like candles in black water.

Our approach came with the first blush of sunrise, the blue wash of early morning spread out slowly, and streaks of orange appeared just as we dipped down into the clouds. Looking at the careful scars in across the flesh of the earth made me think of what strange archeology minded beings might imagine at uncovering our bones between these geometrical imprints. What would they learn of us from the structures of our busy ritualized lives?

High up above the ground, through the thick glass and breath, the world looks like a soft place, a spongy glowing labyrinth, the lamplight looked inviting in circle shaped lots. Even the pavement, glowing with the barely born sunlight and stained with condensation seemed to roll out like a blanket.

And then the plane touches town and there's a rough, shaky whirring, the wings come into focus, glistening steel and you are in a world of hard places again.

The airport in Madrid.

And on and on. I finished Ham on Rye and read through three quarters of One Hundred Years of Solitude. I could not sleep on the horrible chairs.

I caught my last flight, with roomy chairs and an empty seat between myself and the small woman in the window seat. I dozed off and was chilly. We arrived in Granada before I knew it, in a little airport where the passengers simply walk down the plane steps. My luggage did not arrive on the conveyor belt. I spoke to a woman, waited in a line and spoke to another woman. She took my information and said it would be sent to me in a day or two. I felt dirty in my three day clothes and no way to change.

A short squat man drove me in a white taxi drove me through the winding streets, past the trees and faded billboards, and brought me to the school. I checked in with a man who seemed afraid to speak Spanish to me and used his hands a lot. He gave me a bag with ham sandwiches, water, juice and an apple. I found my room, found Santa Cruz classmates, bought tomorrow's outfit, had dinner, met too many people to remember, strolled through town and then came back and showered.

Me in my new room. You can't see much but, well, there's not much to see. That bed is looking amazing right about now, though...

I guess this did end up rather long but let me tell you, it was a very long two days.

Tomorrow I have an exam at 10am to determine my Spanish level. We'll see.