 |
 |
|
SPAIN Stricken by the flu during my first trip to Barcelona in 1989, I then fell victim to the wrath of Murphy's Law. When my plane landed, the grey sky opened and released torrential rains. I boarded the wrong train from the airport to the city center and took hours to ultimately find my way. And because a huge international auto show had come to town, it seemed that every hotel room had been booked. Traveling with very little cash and without the benefit of credit cards (back then I had more enthusiasm than financial good sense), I dragged my weary butt along the back lanes of Las Ramblas, looking for a suitable dive in which to lay my head. One hotel clerk after another shook his head and delivered the bad news in Spanish. "Lo siento, Señor. No tengo." Dripping wet, I walked into a decrepit hotel and secured what might have been the last room in Barcelona. It was Saturday afternoon. Despite the sneezing and the achy head and muscles, I planned to hit the town later that night. But first, a nap was in order. I woke up 40 hours later. During my lengthy flu-ridden siesta, I vaguely recall having hot and cold flashes. Tremors. Weird dreams. I'd heard voices. Fearing that I'd contracted a tropical disease from a recent excursion into the jungles of Thailand, I reached into my bag and swallowed the malaria pills I'd been neglecting. In my wallet I found five U.S. dollars. I needed cash. But this was 1989. ATMs had yet to expand services overseas. Internet cafes did not, to my knowledge, exist. And, of course, I had no credit cards. But the one smart thing I'd done before departing the States was to leave $1,000 in emergency cash with my good friend, Cliff Rallins. Were I to find myself in a situation like the one I was in, Cliff would wire me the necessary funds. Unfortunately, I do not speak Spanish. Fourteen years ago, it was difficult to find anyone in Barcelona who spoke English. After asking the desk clerk where to find a Western Union office, I stumbled through the streets of Barcelona on a fruitless mission. Ultimately, I found myself at the U.S. Consulate. Back then, Americans who needed emergency money were allowed to call a friend or family member in the U.S. That person would then send funds to a Washington address and the cash would be forwarded to the Consulate and collected the next day by the needy traveler. As Murphy's Law would have it, I couldn't reach anyone. My mother, father, sister, brother, even my ex-girlfriend couldn't be reached. Remember, it was 1989. Nobody had a cellular phone. It was then that I decided to go home. My around-the-world airline tickets had been purchased in advance from Qantas and Air France. The two remaining segments, Barcelona - Paris and Paris - New York, had open dates. I called Air France to book the flight that afternoon. I would fly into Paris and depart a few hours later (or so I was told) to New York. For some reason, the Air France agent said that I needed to show up at the city ticket office. When I did, I was given bad news. According to the agent, my flight from Barcelona was scheduled to arrive at Paris Orly. The connecting flight to New York departed from Charles de Gaulle. Because there wasn't enough connection time, I would have to spend one night in Paris. I had $5. I was sick. I begged the ticket agent for help, but there was nothing she could do. Then, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I swung around and was greeted by the smiling face of an American woman. Having heard my dilemma, she said, "You can stay at my apartment in Paris for the night if you like." Kinder words were never spoken. I thanked her profusely and waited for my savior to collect her own airline ticket. But Murphy's Law was working overtime. The woman, a student on holiday, had flown from Paris to Barcelona on a "25 and under" fare. She was 25 and about 300 days old, she told the Air France agent. But the agent claimed she needed to be "under 25" to qualify for the "25 and under" discount fare. An argument broke out. In the end, the American woman was denied. "I'm sorry," she said, turning to me. "I don't have enough money for the airline ticket. I'll have to take the train." I thanked her for the kind offer, hobbled back to the hotel, and presented myself to the desk clerk. With a lump in my throat I told him that I could not pay my hotel bill. I explained my sad story and he was moved in a way I had not predicted. He yelled at me in Spanish. "Please, please," I said. "I'll leave you my camera." Begrudgingly, he accepted. I collected my belongings from the room, turned over my 35mm Minolta to the clerk and asked for directions to the nearest metro station. Alas, Señor Murphy's Law delivered a decisive blow. In broken English the clerk told me that a general strike had been called. City trains and busses were not running today. A $20 cab ride was the only way to reach the airport. I had $5. I was sick. For the first time in my adult life, I almost cried in public. The desk clerk thrust his hand in his pocket and pulled out $20. "I promise to mail it back to you," I said. But he shook his head defiantly and motioned for me to leave. The ride to the airport cost exactly $20. Because I hadn't eaten in 2 days, I was forced to spend my last $5 on a Wendy's hamburger, Coke and fries. But what would I do when my plane arrived in Paris? How would I get from Orly Airport to Charles de Gaulle? Would I be allowed to sleep in the airport? I pondered these questions while standing in line for my flight. Above the clatter of voices in the departure lounge, someone suddenly shouted my name. I spun around. Froze. There, right there in front of me, like an angel on a mission of mercy, stood the American woman from the Air France office. She smiled and told me that a travel agent had sold her the appropriate "25 and under" ticket. Together we boarded the flight to Paris. Upon landing, we took a series of buses to the apartment she shared with two women. One roommate happened to be out of town. After sitting down to great conversation and a delicious home-made meal, I was directed to the unoccupied room and soon drifted off to sleep. The next morning my good Samaritan gave me a few French coins, wrote down directions to the Paris metro, and sent me on my merry way. I followed her directions to the airport and flew home. click here for more images of Spain Next stop: Barcelona, Spain. |
