Alas, under the chauffeur-ship of my dad, we were off to the Houston airport, International Terminal D, and in an instant I was on my own with nothing but a giant backpack and empty passport. Finally … the adventure was about to begin.
Even amid an endless security line and a woman behind me who, under normal circumstances, would have been quite possibly the most annoyingly impatient jabbermouth complainer I have ever encountered, not even Debby Downer herself could ruin the natural high of anticipation fueling my impenetrable mood of elation as I contemplated the adventures ahead.
As the security line inched forward at snail’s pace, I occupied my time firing off last-minute emails and fielding calls from friends and family wishing safe travels. Not having a cell phone or 24-hour access to the Internet are scary enough prospects as it is, even in the comfort zone of home. Add on not having either in a foreign place, and it is down right frightening. In true addict fashion, the fear of going without ignited a last-minute binge, or fix, if you will. I think I may have sent more emails in that 30-minute span of time than in the six months I have owned the iPhone.
My bags cleared security like a champ and I quickly replaced my oversized shades and trendy hat (purchased specifically for the trip … totally Euro chic). Upon picking my things up off the belt, one of the security guards looked at me and said. “Hey! You know who you look like? … You look like Britney Spears!” I kind of nodded and smiled and he then followed up with, “I bet you get that a lot, huh?” I smiled again and said, “Sometimes,” and attempted to move on discreetly, but he took my sheepishness as a sign that I was really her. He then bent down to my eye-level for further evidence. Slightly more convinced, he asked hesitantly, “Wait, are you REALLY Britney Spears? Are you really her?”
Meanwhile, I am cracking up in my head because yes sir, Britney would totally travel around by herself with a backpack the size of a small toddler (insert sarcasm here). As I hoisted the huge bag on my back, I smiled one last time and shook my head, “No no” and proceeded up the escalator without looking back. Admittedly, I was a little flattered and contemplated whether or not the resemblance was with vintage Britney or crazy, post-children Britney (hopefully the latter), but also a smidge concerned at the hiring standards of our international airport security guards. Clearly, not the sharpest of fellows. Interestingly enough, however, this, “You know who you look like” scenario would soon become a reocurring theme in the proceeding days.
Following security, I arrived at the gate with ample time and spoke briefly with Saumya, who would be arriving in Ibiza earlier than me on Friday morning with her boyfriend Nick and our mutual friend, Sagar. She would text me directions for how best to get to the hotel (bus or cab) and I would meet up with them there after my arrival at around 5:30 p.m. With all plans set, I boarded the plane, now three flights away from destination uno, a small island off the coast of Spain, Ibiza, pronounced (i -bee-“th”-a).
The first and longest leg of the trip (9 hours) had me on British Airways to Heathrow Airport in London. Let me just say that British Airways has got it figured out. This being my first real international flight (Mexico doesn’t count), I am obviously green in what to expect. Maybe most airlines are equally accommodating, but I have to give kudos. I have never met nicer stewardesses or gotten better service on a flight ever in my life. Add on a three-course meal, free booze, a viewing of my favorite movie, Twilight, and an empty middle seat beside me to boot … I could have gone another 9 hours and been perfectly content. Can Continental, US Air United, Frontier and all the other national airlines please consult BA for a lesson in how to properly treat a passenger? Thanks.
Upon arriving to Heathrow, the local time was around 7:30 a.m. (1:30 a.m. Houston time). I did not sleep on the flight and still had two more flights ahead. After navigating to my next terminal via bus (Heathrow is gigantic), I have to say that I was hugely disappointed to find that my seatmate on the 5-minute bus-ride between terminals was not a fantastically speaking Brit filled with fun English pronunciations and phrases like “litrally” and “bloody hell”, but rather a middle-aged American from Dallas, Texas returning home from business in Paris. SERIOUSLY! Come on! I did not fly all this way to talk cattle and oil with “Dad”. Needless to say, after establishing that yes, we were both Lone Star blood brothers, I immediately feigned sleep and made a beeline for the bus exit upon our arrival to Terminal 3.
The layover in Heathrow was around three and a half hours where, again, I did not sleep, but rather people-watched for the duration attempting to guess the nationalities of the travelers rushing by. The flight to Barcelona was a short, uneventful hour and a half jaunt wherein, I once again did not sleep. It was now around 9 a.m. U.S. time. Another two-hour layover of waiting ensued before boarding the last leg of my trip -- a half-hour flight to ….IBIZA!
For fear of missing the boarding call and now running on the adrenaline of being so close, sleep was not an option. By 4:15 p.m. I was in the air, at the very back of the plane surrounded by a group of 17 rowdy Romanians on their way to Ibiza for a bachelor party. After establishing that I looked like Britney Spears (it must
be the hat!), and despite the fatigue of not sleeping setting in, they managed to keep me entertained and we discussed our plans for the crazy weekend that lay ahead on the island. A cocktail and some interesting tidbits about the background of Pacha, a famous club in Ibiza that was named after a famous ruler, and a quick lesson in the similarity of the Romanian language to Italian, the plane was soon descending over the beautiful Mediterranean Sea and down to Euro Trip stop numero uno. Negative 24 hours in sleep and officially in Ibiza, a town that makes Vegas look like child’s play … the fun was about to begin …Next time:
No comments:
Post a Comment