Spring Break 2010

Like most college students, at the thought of spring break, I had pictured at least one trip to Mexico, some sunshine and adventures best not remembered. Like a word association. You say "peanutbutter", I say "jelly". You say "spring break", I say "Cancun, anyone?" Or at least I would have any other time. But this year, when school let out for two weeks, I was in Spain. And I was itching to leave.

As much as I love living here, Burgos can get a little too Spanish for me sometimes. It's a small city and it's not nearly as diverse as Boston or New York, for example. It can--and does--get a little monotonous sometimes. So when the itch to get out hit me, it hit hard. And I didn't want to go just one place, everywhere appealed to me.

So one late night, the following itenerary laid itself out:

April 2nd to 5th: Paris, France

April 5th to 8th: Brugge, Belgium

April 8th to 10th: Amsterdam, Holland

April 10th to 13th: Copenhagen, Denmark

I bought airplane and train tickets, I made a couchsurfing account, and I began a slapdash quest for housing, tourist attractions, and the kind of adventure any jaded university student loves watching indie films about. April 1st came round and I had my suitcase packed with acceptably clean clothes, my camera, and my bible:

The Beach by Alex Garland

My copy of The Beach is five years old, stained and dog-eared becuase I bought it at a garage sale when I was 15 or so. I remember being overjoyed to pay a quarter for it, because it had affected my 14 year old self so much the first time I had read it. It told me that there were things out there for people as bored and sarcastic as I was back then. And since the moment I purchased my own copy, I have never left home without it. From university to family trips to the Caribbean and Europe, The Beach has always had its own pocket in my suitcase. And I fondly re-read it every time and find something that I hadn't noticed the last time. I've always liked how the story seemed to grow up with me.

So at 20, the one thing I knew I had to pack and read on my own trip was this book. And how god damn fitting it seemed to be reading it on my first time travelling alone. Alone and farther than the 4-hour bus ride from Boston to New York. Little did I know I would very soon say goodbye to my copy, but that's another story and shall be told another time. But then, there were a lot of things about my trip that surprised me.

And the first of those things was you get a little funny in the head the second your airplane leaves the ground. You very quickly learn that things will never go remotely as planned or pictured, and you have to stay cool and think on your feet. At 4 a.m. on the 2nd I took a bus to Barajas Airport in Madrid. I arrive at 7 a.m. and promptly got myself lost within its large complex. Great, I thought. My flight's at 10 and I'm going to miss check-in. I looked at my cellphone for the time: almost 8.

Mierda.

I had taken a shuttle from the bus station to one of the terminals, and of course, it was the wrong one. Now I needed to figure out how to get to Terminal 3. After some running around with my suitcase strapped on my back and my scarf choking me, I found the bus stop and waited. And waited. And waited for another shuttle, silently cursing this country's inability to ever do anything at the appointed hour. Finally, the right bus came and as I rode it to the right terminal, I silently willed it to go faster.

I found the Terminal and made a beeline for the check-in desk only to find I was the only one there.

Where the hell is everyone? Have they all checked in?

I turned left and right, looking for someone who looked like they worked there and zeroed in on a young man in a suit. He was giving someone directions. Since he looked like he knew what he was saying, I approached him. At worst, I figured, he was Spanish and I could wave my blonde hair in his face and beg him to let me on the plane. Faced with the possibility of being stranded in Barajas, I was desperate and silly things were ocurring to me.

"Has check in occured?" I wheezed, panting from running at him.

"No," he said, looking at his watch. "It doesn't start for 30 minutes."

I gaped at him.

That's when this think-on-your-feet talent kicked in for the first time. As I gaped at my little Spanish bullfighter, it came to me: Time for a drink. I hadn't had breakfast yet, and suddenly coffee with Bailey's (or vice versa) seemed a brilliant decision.

Twenty minutes, two drinks and about 10 Euro later, it was. With my body feeling slightly like jell-o, I swaggered back to the check-in to find I was one of the first in line. I picked up my boarding pass, found a quiet corner, and sat down. With time to spare, I pulled out my book. I opened its crumbling paperback cover. And as the narrator Richard began talking about the pros and cons of travelling alone, his words more than the Bailey's Creamy had a tranquilizing effect.

Spain stopped existing. I was calm, collected, and on vacation.