Up Up and Away

According to the map, I am 23,500 feet in the clouds, 47 miles away and 26 minutes away
from Madrid. I sit in a window seat with the cover down because it's too friggin bright for my eyeballs. I started my period this morning. By the time I got to the airport, my cramps were a low hum of pain.  As I waited in the ticket and assistance line, my leg started to become numb. What kind of assistance did I need?  Apparently, I was too late to check-in... though I still had an hour before my plane took off. However, the lovely gentleman at the B3 British Airways desk was most kind and got me on the next flight, which was only an hour later than my original flight.
I'm not sure where I got the impression that London people were not friendly, the majority of the people I encountered have been extremely friendly. The flight attendant was quite sweet as I sputtered at the thought that a minuscule sip"organic" orange juice would cost 2.17 pounds. She went out of her way to bring me tap water.

 I thought I'd be bursting with excitement as I'm about to land in Madrid, however, I find myself fatigued more than anything. I suspect I may have overdosed on DayQuil and Advil. Daquil to combat a sore throat, chills, and general aches. Advil to fight off the cramps that were threatening my ability to walk toward my necessary gate.
 I'm in a drowsy fog, and I'm eager to breathe fresh air. My nostrils are sick and tired, of being sick and tired, of all this cold air 'round here. As we get closer to landing I see Madrid is a lot more brownish red than I had expected. From the view of the clouds, it seems the trees and bushes were planted in rectangular patches of red clay. Even the green is a bit brownish... As we head closer to the city I'm relieved by the litany of red rooftops I see. 48 hours late... I've arrived in Madrid!

I'm laying on a twin sized bed in a hotel that looks and feels like a bed and breakfast. Cozy is an apt word for this quaint abode, tiny as hell is also another word that comes to mind... but that just may be my American sensibilities. I've had a mediocre dinner... some kind of beef pie... which was really just bits of beef floating in a dark gravy substance. It was perfectly edible after some lengthy shakes of salt and pepper. I am in London ... not Pairs (though when I booked the flight there were 24 seats available, but, by take off there were only 15 seats available and I was number 18 on the list). Hours later, a ticket agent graciously told me and another gentleman that we could get on the London flight... and to my tattered hearts' delight... I found myself in an aisle seat. The cost of flying free was 31 hours of waiting around Newark airport. After two hours of waiting in line at the U.K border, I found my luggage, hopped into a ridiculously priced taxi and crashed at The Ambassador Heathrow Hotel. I will commence to sleeping off a sore throat. At 4am I'll hop into an uber for half the price of my morning taxi, and I will finally be on my way to Madrid. I wistfully hope the quick glimpses of the royal wedding will prance through my dreams tonight.

Camping in the Terminal

Suffice it to say, I am still in the metropolis called Newark International Airport. My hopes were dashed by the possibility of getting on at the very last second of boarding. It wasn't completely futile, I got to practice my inner goal of patience.

 I wandered around repressing my feelings of devastation, and eventually, I  crawled into an abandoned booth. Wrapping my jacket closer to my body, I shifted around trying to grasp the rarely elusive state of ... sleep.  I have a suspecting feeling that I am a narcoleptic. Breathing the damned air conditioned frost proved to be the only hindrance to my rem cycle.

However, I must have fallen into quite a deep sleep, because when I woke up, I found my abandoned little corner filled with other sleeping occupants. Still drunk off of drowsiness, I return 3 hours later to my little booth and I shall nestle there until my flight to Paris... which I will navigate somehow into Madrid.

Up Up and Not So Far Away

 I'm nervous. As a standby passenger on an international flight to Madrid, I cringe as I see the initials of name by the number 10. I'd originally booked this flight because it looked open. (14 seats available and I was the only standby on the reservation) My name continues to bump down by those who have seniority over me (they have just conveniently booked their entire family as well) I force myself to relax. I repeatedly tell myself that "there is more than enough room on this flight"... a mantra that has gotten me on the preceding standby flights to Newark International. As I navigate through this magnificent and beautiful airport, I lament that I can't partake in the deliciousness of all the exquisite delicacies around me. I am broke AF... and I feel a sore throat tickling me. I'm also freezing... which is why I have a hoody, sweatpants, and a peacoat to help me stave off the air conditioner. I normally would allow myself to whine and grumble, but I'm superstitious that a bad attitude and ingratitude will keep me off a most cherished seat. So despite myself, I repeat all of the things I am grateful for, and I convince myself that there is more than enough room for all of us standby people.