Orientation: Getting to Barcelona

After a few hours of listlessly wandering Heathrow, the gate number for my rebooked flight (I did indeed miss my connection) was finally posted, and right next to it a bit of red text flashed, "gate closing". I didn't have time to ask any one if it was a mistake so I just sprinted through the terminal, hoping to get there before my plane left without me. Red-faced and flustered, I arrived at my gate only to find that I was the first passanger ready to board. I decided not to question my good fortune, and half an hour later I was on my way.

I woke up from my nap to the sound of the captian announcing our decent into Barcelona. I looked out my window, and I could see the jagged pyrenees just breaking the cloud line. For the first time in days, I was excited.

My excitement, however, vanished when, upon arriving at the airport, no one was there to pick me up. Immediately I thought of the movie Taken... I was being trafficked! That was the only explanation, and at any minute I would be kidnapped. I tried to use a pay phone, but I didn't have the proper change. I looked around one last time, just to be sure...
and there, finalmente, stood a friendly looking man with a sign that read "Interhispania" - my study abroad program!

Javier greeted me and proceeded to load my things into a car. Then we were off to the youth hostel where I would meet the rest of the students. While talking with Javier in the care, I became aware of an imporant survival fact: while in Barcelona, your favorite soccer team is, naturally, Barcelona.

When I arrived at the hostel my program coordinator showed me to a room I would share with seven other girls. After he left they all came in, and upon seeing me, became confused. "I don't think there's any room.." one of them cautiously told me. Yeah, no kidding, I thought, looking around, trying to find a bit of floor beneath the tangle of clothes and suitcases. "Yeah, it seems cramped, " I replied. "No - there's no bed for you," Drat. So, I went back to the lobby where my coordinator told me to go to another room that was occupied by seven Germans and a lone American from Southern Illinois. Same issue. I went back down, and spoke with him, trying to convince him that I really didn't have a bed. In the end, I lucked out. He had to book another room, and I landed myself in a spacious, private double.


That night I went out to a tapas bar with some of the German girls I met in my second room.
They were all very nice, and shocked that I spoke a bit of their own language. They bombarded me with questions, "How did you learn German?" "Where are you from?" "Where are your parents from?" "What is your school like?" etc, all in a very pragmatic way. It was nice to talk to them, especially because they seemed genuinely interested, and pretty relaxed.

We got back to the hostel by twelve am, and I went to bed comforted; I was here, and I could actually speak a lot more than I had anticipated. I felt confident and tired, the perfect combination to induce a deep, restful sleep.

Leaving Home

At 7:30, I said goodbye to my family for the last time. We sat an an airport restaurant and I scarfed down the last fresh vegetables I'd be likely to get for 12 hours. My sister gave me a card and my brother gave me a hug, and I couldn't help but try to prolong the moment. They waved to me as I passed through security. I expected to hear the call for boarding at any minute, but it has been hours, and I am still sitting in the terminal, waiting for my flight.

Initially, a delay of two hours was announced, due to bad weather. Then, a further delay was announced, pushing my 8:00 pm departure to 11:45, and making my connection from London to Barcelona a virtual impossibility. The second delay, we were told, was due to the fact that the plane had been struck by lightening. I should be panicking, but I'm not. Airports always make me feel independent. Sitting by the gate, I feel like I'm at the threshold of the world, and, despite the formal bustle and sustained chaos that is unique to such a setting, I actually enjoy the atmosphere. And it's really not that bad, especially when, according to the television in the corner, the Celtics are winning.

I'll take that as a good omen.