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]