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.