Stuck in Spain, Part II

Continued from this post.

I'm sure you have all been on the edge of your seats wondering how this story will end. And I'm sorry to keep you in suspense for so long, but I have learned a little secret about my life: I can barely live without internet. And another little secret? For some reason my internet at home seems to go down every weekend. I know. Talk about frustrating. I have almost gotten to the stage of wandering around with my ipod trying to find an open signal so I can check my email.

Anyway. When I left off last, I had just left Meribelle's information booth to walk over to the pay phones to call my sister. Just as I was about to sacrifice some of my remaining Euros to the cause (thankfully a few had fallen out of my wallet into my bag), Meribelle came running up with a handful of coins. "Here," she said. "Use these." I refused, telling her that I had several Euros that I could use. "Oh well," she said. "Take them anyway. If you don't use them you can bring them back."

This woman must be a saint. Or an angel. Or both. I hope her place is reserved in heaven. I put several Euros in and began the first of many 2 Euros/minute calls to the US. And wouldn't you know it? Just as my sister answered and I started frantically explaining to her what to do about the plane ticket, watching the seconds tick down and putting in another Euro every 30 seconds, some man comes up to me and starts speaking to me in Spanish. I shot him the can't you see I'm busy and I don't speak Spanish? look and kept talking to my sister. And then. AND THEN. He started asking me in Arabic for money. Or maybe it was English. Or maybe he was still speaking Spanish. I couldn't really tell at that point. I looked at him, incredulous that he would be asking me for money, and a little bit disgusted that he would interrupt this incredibly expensive phone call to beg. "I don't have any money. No. Not any," I told him, almost laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

By this time it was getting late and I was getting desperate. "I think there is a Western Union nearby," I told my sister. "Let me run out and see when it closes and I'll call you back with the info." So I ran out of the station, across the huge parking lot, crossed three streets, and went into the Western Union. Unfortunately, that one was already closed, but the one down the street "stays open until 10," said the man at the counter. So I went to the one down the street. "Tu hables ingles?" I asked hopefully. When the man at the counter shook his head no and said, "Espanol? Francais?" I looked at him closely and said "Arabi?"

Success. He was Moroccan. After finding out that they close at midnight and I don't need a Western Union code or anything, yes my family could just send it online, yes it transfers immediately, and yes I'll be right back, I ran back to the station and called my sister again. "Ok, they have a Western Union and you can just transfer the money. I need 50 Euros. Thanksifitdoesn'tworkI'llcallyouagain" I said and hung up before I had to put in another Euro.

I checked with Meribelle to make sure my luggage was still ok in her information booth and then ran back to the Western Union. The time was 8:30. My bus left at 9:00. I still needed to get the money, run back to the station, pay for my ticket, and get on the bus. And maybe, I thought, the adrenaline pumping, just maybe, I'll make it.

I burst into the door of the Western Union and ran up to the counter, panting. The man was chatting with someone else. I started tapping my toes in impatience. He kept chatting (I'm assuming it was a customer). Then he looked up at me and said "Just a minute." "I'm sorry, but can you hurry?" I asked, my panic overruling my manners. "My bus leaves in 20 minutes."

When I had almost exploded from the pumping adrenaline, he turned to help me. "Do you have the confirmation number?" he asked. "What? What confirmation number? Can't I just give you my passport?" "Nope. I need the number," he said. Desperate, I saw the green phones lining the wall. Pay phones. The kind you pay after you call. I left the counter and ran into an open booth. Broken. I tried another booth. Also broken. I paced back and forth waiting for a working booth to become empty and then ran inside to call my sister and get the confirmation number. Busy. I called again. Busy. I called again. Still busy. I tried my mother's number. Busy. "They're on the phone with each other!" I thought frantically, as I dialed my father's number. "Dad. I need you to get ahold of mom and tell her to get off the phone with Jocilyn. I need the confirmation number!!! My bus leaves in 12 minutes!" I shouted into the phone. My father, ever the calm one, said, "Can I transfer you some money?" Yes. Yes. Transfer me some money and I'll call you back in exactly one minute.

I rocked back and forth in the booth for exactly 55 seconds and called him again. "What's the code," I asked. No time for pleasantries, my bus leaves in 11 minutes. "I'm still waiting for the page to load!" he said, exasperated. "Can't you get on the bus and pay them in Madrid when you arrive?" "I'll try that. If I don't call again that's what I did," I said and ran out of the booth, out of the store, and across two streets.

I forgot to pay for the phone call. Realizing that my honor was more important that making the bus, I ran across two streets and back into the store. Interrupting the customers at the counter, I said, "I forgot to pay" and shoved 20 dirhams at him (about 2.5 dollars), even though it only cost 4. As he was fishing in the cash register for change, I said "Never mind!" and ran out of the store, back across 3 streets, across the parking lot, and into the station to try and buy a bus ticket. Panting, sweating, and almost hyperventilating, I watched in horror as the bus tickets man, on the phone, started pulling at least a week's worth of receipts out of his drawer and setting them on the counter, all the while talking rapidly in Spanish on the telephone and occasionally glancing at the man who I assumed he was helping. 4 minutes left. 3 minutes left. The man is still on the phone, spreading out the receipts, and I am about to miss my bus. With 1 minute left before 9, Meribelle walked into the office. "Did you get the money?" she asked. "No," I panted. "I want to know if I can get on the bus and pay in Madrid." Finally the man hung up and Meribelle spoke to him. My rough translation: "Has the bus already left?" Checks his watch. "Yep." "Can she buy a bus ticket and pay in Madrid?" "What is her problem? She has been in here 5 times already and she doesn't speak any Spanish and I don't speak any English." "Her wallet was stolen!" At this point everyone in the office turns and looks at me and they mutter a collective sigh of pity. I nod pathetically. "No she can't. But there's a bus at 10 pm."

Meribelle turns to me. "There's a bus at 10." "There's a bus at 10?" I almost melted into a puddle of relief and sweat. "What am I running for? Will he reserve a place for me on the bus? I will run and get the money and come right back."

With a promise that he would hold a seat for me until 9:45, I ran back to the Western Union. Again. The man looked up as I burst into the store again. By this time I think he had gotten used to it. Once again I went to the green telephone booths and sat in one. I called my sister. "Mom is at the Western Union. They wouldn't let me do it online. She had to go in to the store. She should be there now."

Call #2, this time to my mother's cell phone, met with success. "Do you have the confirmation number?" I asked. "You don't need it," she said. No. No, I very much need it, thank you very much. Confirmation number in hand, I told my mother, "Tell Jocilyn to try and find the cheapest option for getting a new flight, please," hung up, and walked over to the counter. My new bill for the calls to America were still covered by that 20 dirham bill I had shoved at the owner, so he took my confirmation number, looked at my passport, and gave me the money. Thankfully I had a few dirham left (I had taken them out of my wallet when we reached Spain) and I had them changed to Euros (the Western Union/pay phone center/internet cafe also happened to be a money change place, conveniently). And then I walked back to the port (no need to run this time). And yes, throughout this whole process I thought about the horrific memory I have of that time my parents were visiting and we were stuck at the airport in Amman. Definitely not something I wanted to repeat in at least 3 lifetimes.

I got my bags from Meribelle (and asked for an evaluation form so I could tell her supervisor that she saved my life and needs a raise--she just laughed and shrugged like it was nothing), bought my bus ticket from the bus ticket man (he still couldn't speak any English, and I still couldn't speak any Spanish) and I walked out to find the bus. After getting back almost to the Western Union and sure I had missed it, I walked over to some people standing at a stoplight. "Tu hable ingles?" I started, but then stopped. Arabs. Great. They speak Arabic. Thank goodness for all of these Moroccans in this border town! They had no idea what bus I was talking about, but motioned to a bus station another block away.

Nope. I knew that wasn't the right one because that was the bus station I had used several days before. Panicking once again, afraid that I would miss the bus after all of this madness, I headed back to the station. Passing some guys on the way who asked me in Spanish if I needed help (they must have seen me walking back and forth), I just asked them in Arabic if they knew where the bus to Madrid was. I guessed right, they were Arabs, and they pointed me to the bus.

Phew. It was only 10 minutes late. At 10:12 I had loaded my luggage, sat in my seat, and we were on the way. I was exhausted and hadn't eaten since breakfast, but I was too worried about paying for another plane ticket and getting out of Madrid to be able to sleep much. I drifted off into a nightmarish sleep, dreaming of me running back and forth and never getting anything done (or was that reality?), until we pulled into Madrid.

5:50 am. NO WAY. I took the 10 pm bus and still made it to Madrid before 6 am (they told me the 9 pm bus gets to Madrid at 6). I grabbed my luggage and ran inside, found a pay phone, and called my sister. "I'm in Madrid. Did you buy a ticket? I think I'm going to make my plane." "Yes. I did. It leaves at noon."

"Ok. I'm going to the airport now. If I call you from there please try to cancel my ticket." And I ran outside to the taxis.

"Airport," I said, as one taxi driver motioned me over. "How much?" At this point, I was willing to pay anything, but I only had 30 Euro left. "27, 29 Euro," he said. I pulled my money out to make sure I had enough and jumped in.

Sure enough, it was an 8 minute ride to the airport, and sure enough, it cost 27 Euro. I will never pay that much for a taxi ride again in my life, but it was totally going to be worth it if I could make my plane and somehow get my money for the other ticket refunded.

I grabbed my suitcase and started running into the airport, naturally slipping and falling to the pavement (I had been on a bus all night, ok?) and getting a nice green bruise to show for my pain. The taxi driver looked worried, but I just got up and kept running into the airport.

I found my line and looked at the people. 6:10 am and 14 people in front of me. I turned to the man just in front of me. "Me. Flight. Siete," I said, trying to make him understand. I pointed in front of him. Thankfully, he understood, and told the rest of the people in line (after I struggled with the next four, who obviously didn't understand what I wanted at all) to let me cut in front of them. I have no shame in times like these.

I checked in, grabbed my ticket, and ran to the boarding area. When I got to my flight, there were still at least 50 people in line. Great. There's still time to find a pay phone and have Jocilyn cancel that flight. 5 minutes of searching later (and after asking an employee who thankfully spoke English), I found the phones and called my sister. "I made it. Please. If you can cancel the flight, please do. Thank you." Thanks for staying up until almost midnight to call Expedia for me. Thanks for not thinking I'm insane (although that thought apparently cropped up, as was mentioned in the comments in my previous post).

I walked over to the boarding area, got on the plane, sat down, and tried to dry the sweat off. The 12 hours of adrenaline rush was a little too much for me, and after I ate my hallal breakfast (I keep trying different special orders to find out which one is best, but I think it depends on the flight. Mostly I just like being served first, let's be honest, especially if I'm sitting at the back of the plane) I fell into an exhausted slumber.

When we landed in Rome, I found the next boarding area, sat down, and forked over the money to check my email. "Flight cancelled" jumped off the page at me. It was from my sister. "Dear Breanne, I'm sorry this was such a mess for you. I called Expedia and they said since it was booked within 24 hours, the ticket is 100% refundable. I cancelled it and got all the money back. Hope you have a nice flight. Jocilyn."

I love Expedia. And I love my sister. And I love Meribelle. And that German couple. And all of those nice people who helped me through those manic 12 hours.

Lessons learned? First of all, I need to learn Spanish. Second of all, don't miss the train. But third, I learned that people are good. It's something I don't always remember as I face ridiculous political situations every day. The past 6 months have been hard, very hard, and it is easy to think that everyone in the world is selfish and mean and only cares about land and money. But this experience, as crazy and expensive as it was, was, I think, God's way of telling me, "Breanne, people are good. They are so good. Look at all these people who helped you, went way out of their way to help you, just because they are good and you needed help."

So yes. I'm glad it happened. I went to Spain to decompress, to be reminded of my temple covenants, and to come back to a fresh start in Jerusalem. And you know what? It worked. Al-Hamdulillah.

Stuck in Spain and Other Mishaps

To my dear, faithful blog readers (all 3 of you), I must apologize for my long hiatus from the blogging world. 2 dreadful months of a lingering sickness and a freezing cold apartment (during which most days I was too cold to even wash my dishes and postponed the necessity of using the toilet until the morning because the toilet seat was too cold) are now over (al-hamdulillah!) and a 3-week stretch of internet-less travelling has passed, leaving me with about 100 blog posts to write.

And the topic that gets the honor of the "first post after the break" is, naturally, a story of terror and triumph in Spain and Morocco.

The rest of the stories about my awesome and crazy trip will come later, but suffice it to say, I took a trip to Madrid to go to the temple (and decompress from my stressful life of checkpoints and conflicts) and got back a little more than a week ago. One day after I got home, one of my sisters came and visited me (which was awesome, by the way), which is why I'm just posting this now.

Anyway.

I was in Spain for a week and thought, when am I ever going to have another chance to just zip on down to Morocco? I have been wanting to see how the North African/Moroccan-French Arabic is different than Egyptian, Jordanian, and Palestinian, and this was a perfect opportunity. So I bought a round-trip train ticket to Algeciras in Spain (unfortunately I missed the cheap flights because my trip was so last-minute, making for a lot of time on trains in Morocco and Spain!), took the ferry across to Tangier, spent two crazy days in Morocco, and then left from Assilah in northern Morocco early Monday morning to catch a train to Tangier, where I would then catch a ferry to Algeciras and make my 3 pm train back to Madrid, where I would spend the night at the airport and be on time for my 7:10 Tuesday morning flight.

It was a perfect plan. Unfortunately, it was too perfect, as obviously I still haven't learned my lesson about time in the Middle East. Time in my world is very rigid and structured...a bit like a wooden fence. It can bend a little in the wind, but if I think it's going to take me 15 minutes to do something or get somewhere, I only plan for 19 minutes (and sometimes, I only plan for 14 minutes).

Time in the Middle East isn't like a wooden fence at all. It's more like a pan of jello spilled out on the floor, or an open field of weeds, or maybe like an abandoned apartment. If your ticket says the train will come at 11:40, it just might not come until 12:30. Don't start worrying until it hasn't come at 3 pm. Or maybe 4. If it's going to take you 3 hours to get somewhere, plan for 8, just to be safe.

Naturally, my train from Assilah to Tangier was an hour late, putting me at the port station in Tangier just after 1:20. I had met a nice German couple travelling back to Spain at the Assilah train station, and since we were going to take the same ferry, I asked if they wanted to split a taxi to the new port station, about half an hour away from the train station (the ferries from Tangier take you to Tarifa, Spain, where you have to take a bus to Algeciras, or you can take a bus from Tangier port to the new port and go straight to Algeciras). I argued the driver down to a fair price and, only slightly panicking, jumped in with the German couple. We drove to the new port and I ran in to get a ticket on the hour-long ferry ride to Algeciras, thinking that the train station is right next to the port, the ferry trip might take 50 minutes instead of an hour, and I just might make my train. I rushed down to the ferry with the German couple, getting on right at 2 and expecting the ferry to leave immediately.

30 minutes later, we were still sitting at port, and I was almost over the edge. There was no way I was going to make my train. And then the German guy, seeing my agitation, said, "You know that Spain is an hour ahead of Morocco, right?"

Nope. I'd forgotten that vital fact. "Oh well, I guess I missed my train already!" I told him, feeling like my hopes and dreams had just been crushed by a wrecking ball. "What's the use of being stressed?"

It was great that he told me this because we waited another 30 minutes before the ferry left the port. Yep. What's the use of having hourly ferries if the one scheduled for 2 doesn't leave until 3?

Well, I clearly had nothing to stress about (except $50 wasted dollars and no train to Madrid until the next day, with the fear of missing my flight, paying an extra $2-300 for another ticket, and missing my sister's grand entrance at the airport where I was supposed to pick her up the next day), so I actually got to enjoy the ferry ride and the DOLPHINS. Yes, friends, I saw 4 dolphins. It almost made it worth the missed train.

When we landed in Spain, the German  couple kindly offered to ask several people what my options were, since they knew Spanish (and unfortunately, my Spanish was better than most peoples' English in Spain...which isn't saying much!). After talking to several different officials about train, bus, and rental car options, they told me that basically I was going to miss my flight in Madrid the next morning because the earliest bus got there at 6 am. And my flight left at 7:05.

After thanking them for their generosity (and trying not to despair), they left for their bus and I went back into the port station to try and use the internet to see if I could change my flight for as cheaply as possible. I walked up to the 2nd level to an "internet code machine," deciding that as poor as I was, I could fork over one Euro for an hour of internet. I dropped my coin in and waited for the slip of paper to print out with the internet code, but unfortunately it made the printing sound and no paper came out. I set everything down and rummaged in my bag to grab some tweezers to see if I could pull the paper out (because I was way too cheap to put another Euro in!), but to no avail. The paper was stuck.

And my friends, if I could go back in time and warn my past self about future events, I would say to myself at that moment, "WHERE IS YOUR WALLET? Did you leave it on top of the machine? Do you have it with you?"

Unfortunately, such a warning is not possible. I walked over to the other side of the building to try and use the internet code machine over there, tried to connect to the internet, walked downstairs to talk to the woman at information, and walked back upstairs to try again to use the 2nd internet code machine. As I reached into my purse to grab yet another Euro, wincing at the hit my pocketbook was taking, I realized the awful truth: MY WALLET WAS GONE. I must have left it on top of the machine. I ran back and checked the entire room, emptied everything out of my purse and backpack to check for it there, and ran downstairs to ask the information lady (seriously the only person in the whole port who spoke English) if I had left my wallet there.

"Nope."

At this point I was on the verge of panic. "Is it ok to cry now?" I asked myself, but held myself together. "What should I do if I think my wallet is stolen?" I asked her. "Go report it to the police," she suggested. After several unsuccessful minutes of trying to find the police (and just as unsuccessful communication with the shop owners near where the police office was supposed to be, as I had to say 'policio' at least 8 times and write it down before they knew what I was talking about), I found the office and walked in. "Tu hable ingles?" I asked, using the only Spanish phrase I know.

The officers looked uneasily at each other before saying, "Little." And then they said something in Spanish that I assumed meant, what do you need?

"My wallet was stolen." Blank stares. "My wallet," I said, motioning to my purse. "Stolen. Money. Gone. Visa card. Gone. Money. Money. Gone," I said, while motioning with my hands and willing them to understand.

More Spanish. My translation/guess: Your money was stolen? "Yes, yes," I said. "Si."

Ten more minutes of trying to communicate, and I left the office with a form in Spanish that I had no idea what to do with and more panic than I knew how to handle. Is it ok to cry yet? I asked myself again. Not knowing what to do and just trying to find someone who spoke English, I went back to the information booth.

"Hi again," I said. "I don't think you can help me, but I don't know what to do. My wallet was stolen, and I need to call my bank and cancel my credit cards. Also, I need to get to Madrid by tomorrow at 7, because my flight leaves then, and I don't have any money because it was all in my wallet..." At this point my voice cracked and tears started to stream down my face. "I'm sorry," I whispered as I turned away. "It's ok, it's ok!" she said as I took some deep breaths. "Is there anyone in Spain you can call?" As I sadly shook my head no, she said, "The American Embassy?"

YES!!! Why didn't I think of them before? I'm sure the American Embassy can somehow solve my problem. At the very least, they speak English! So she called the embassy from her phone and connected me with the duty officer on the emergency line, since it was after hours (and this was definitely an emergency!). After explaining the situation to him, he said, "I can connect you with your parents in America, if you want, and they can call your bank and cancel your Visa cards and send you money from Western Union."

Brilliant. After thanking him profusely, he connected me to my parents' home phone. It rang, And rang. And rang. And then, the worst sound ever: the answering machine. I hung up, took a deep breath, and asked the woman to call the embassy line again. "I'm so sorry," I said. "There was no answer. Can you connect me to another number?" This time, I used my dad's cell phone, because he always answers his phone. Always. Naturally, when I heard his answering machine message, I was on the verge of a breakdown. I hung up and turned to thank the information woman and instead broke down in tears. "Oh honey," she said, "Come inside and sit down." She opened up the door of her little booth (barely big enough for two chairs), had me sit down, and poured me a drink of water. "None of them answered!" I managed to say in between sobs. "We can call the embassy again," she said, "Don't worry."

This third time, I swore to myself, was the last. If no one answered I was just going to go and spend my last few Euros (that had fallen out of my wallet into my purse) to call from the pay phones. So when my sister answered, I started crying again. "Jocilyn," I managed to say. "I'm having a little bit of a problem." Deep breath. "My wallet got stolen, and I missed my train, and I'm going to miss my flight, and I'm stuck in Spain, and I need you to call the bank and cancel my cards and get me a new flight and wire me some money from Western Union." It all spilled out in a rush.

My sister, a little overwhelmed by it all, told me that she would call the bank and then I should call her right back to arrange the details of a new flight. I'm not calling the embassy again, and the pay phones cost two Euros a minute! I wanted to say, but I was so happy to have reached someone, I was willing to agree to anything.

Still sitting in the information booth, I thanked the woman profusely. "What's your name?" I asked. "Maribelle," she replied. Dear Lord, please reserve a spot in heaven for this woman for her kindness, I thought to myself and, leaving my suitcase and backpack in her tiny booth, I walked over to the pay phones to call my sister again.

[To Be Continued]