A little train station in Sweden
Madrid Airport, Baggage Claim. Only writers, and crazy people take pictures of such places, when time is running short. Ah, but that is how we document life!
The homeless curled outside the Boston Train Station. Life in the fast everywhere, is hardly devoid of those who cannot keep up. 
A sleepy city. Boston, USA, 2010, 3 am.
Now these are lights....the famous Time Square
I woke up to these lights in Time Square. The center of commercial life, a city where hundreds of languages are spoken and no one has a real home....
Did you think that my adventure would end simply because I acknowledged my disorientation and embarrassment?
That is over simplification of my vida loca ….that seems to be centered around travel. So, here is what followed after I got off at Madrid.
The following was written--where else? on the plane, when I finally sat down, after a crazy day.
“Now finally in my seat. I have to write about my adventure today. I think I travel so much that I am getting over confident and make mistakes now.
On my flight from Madrid to Boston, I had an 18 hr layover. Iberia!! I realized it only after I clicked, ‘buy the ticket.’ Luckily I have a very good friend in Madrid who generously asked me to stay over, the night. She gave me clear instructions (email) on how to get to their place, since the couple works till late.
With my broken Spanish and some disorientation, and since I had checked my bag in all the way to Boston, I headed towards the city. On the way, I met interesting people. The most memorable one is the young woman from Paraguay. Slightly plump, gorgeous brown skin, beautiful long hair, dyed blonde.
From my limited understanding of spanish I told her that ‘mis espanol inte ar bra” (oops, mixing with Swedish….) “mis espanol no es bueno!!”
“pero, entiende” but you understand she said.
I was very flattered. She told me which exit to take, which subway to take to get to the city. Although my friend had given me excellent directions, added confirmation is always welcome but weary travelers.
She was kind enough to say that if I did not find where my friend lived, I was welcome to stay at her house. She also told me that she had been in Spain for over five years, had two sons who she had left behind. The boys are with their grandmother. She decided to walk out of her marriage after years of physical abuse by her husband. Spain, like to many other destitutes, was a refuge, a hope for bringing in some dough. Though the country is not doing financially well presently, to those living much below the poverty line, especially in Latin America, Spain is symbol of a better life. A combination of poverty, aftermath of colonization and being in the whirlpool of globalization millions today are left with no choice but movement, at the expense of security of relationships, family and a feeling of a home. Language proficiency, is the only tool they carry with themselves. Sometimes even missing that, people are on the move, in the hope of a life that allows them the dignity, all cultures think should be granted to human beings.
I arrived without any problems at the metro station that E, my friend, had asked me to come out at. Even though her place was very near to the metro, no one could help me towards the building. I stopped at a convenient store, run by a Chinese family. And yes whatever little miscommunication we had, we had it in Spanish. No questions asked. Except ‘no hablo ingles” “do not speak english”.
This to me is a great revelation of our times. Our looks and ethnicities will reveal little and little as time goes on. We may then be on the path to being free of prejudice?
Finally, I got connected to my friend over the phone. Her husband came to pick me up. She and I sat till late that night chatting.
We continued our chatting the next morning, but it was rushed. I had to catch my flight. She made an awesome sandwich (special spanish cheese), and packed olives and dried fruits for me to take with me.
Two metro changes and we were at the airport.
FROM HERE ON...IT HAS TO BE IN THE PRESENT SO YOU CAN RUN AT THE SAME PACE AS I DID.
After E left, I stand at the customs. The officer is talking non-stop--in Spanish, -even though I understand bits and pieces, I cannot not pay attention. Really tired. ‘Zapatos, Zapatos’ he says. I take off my shoes and place them in a tray.
There is this ‘really blonde’ girl behind me. She shares that she is from Holland and was in Spain to learn spanish.
From customs to the plane, it is a rushed 45 minutes ‘commute’.
Three floors up, a turn, then three floors down, then transit /shuttle train, then three floors up, and then a mile run….. On those moving belts…..
Finally I get there, hand my boarding pass and am told that I need to rush. A man asks if he can get some snacks, since the food service is much reduced now. Even though this is an international flight, I think the long walk to the gate makes one ravenous. He is told that those snacks could cost him his flight.
I point at a que and asked “Boston?” He nods. I take a deep breath, stand in the que and try to get a few bites of the delicious sandwich E packed for me.
Now I can rest.
At my turn, as I extend my boarding pass, they direct me to stand in the adjacent line.
I switch. Here I am asked, “Boston?”
‘Yeah’
But that one left.
I knew I did not want to spit out the delicious sandwich, so I quickly gulped before I opened my mouth..."What?"
I blinked my eyes as if that was the equivalent of clearing my ear wax...'What?
‘Yeah, it left.’
But they made no announcements.
No, they don’t.
I rush to the counter 50 meters away. About 20 people are waiting-for the same reason. But for other destinations.
‘We cannot change it here’ says the lady with the ground staff. “You can go to information. But the next flight to Boston is tomorrow. You can go to New York.”
‘No, I cannot allow that, tomorrow will make me late for the conference & New York is not right because my next flight is from Boston.’
I take a few seconds, ‘When is the next flight to NY?”
“At 5 pm”
“3 hrs!!’ I think.
Time to make snap decisions, ‘ok, Let me take the flight to New York.’
‘No, we cannot do that. Not here, you have to go to information if you want to switch to other airlines, and downstairs to the customer service if you want to change it to NY’
‘’Please,please, I have no time.”
“No we cannot do it here”
I rush to the information, only 50 meters away.
‘You need to go back to Iberia’s ticket center.’ It is 2:10 already.
“Where is it?”
“You need to exit again. Get back to the area where you checked in’ This means another 35 min of run.
As I am rushing, it strikes me.. , ‘Wait, my luggage is checked to Boston. Ok, what do I do?’
I must remember to state that as I reroute my ticket. I end up at the ticket counter. Lucky to be the only person there.
“No, please go to the counter behind us.” Sure, when it seems too easy, know that you are not in the right place.
I rush to the next counter. The que is about 20 people long.
I ask the couple at the back to let me go ahead of them. They do not mind but there are others. I beg and two other men let me go ahead. A German family has missed their flight to Frankfurt. They let me go ahead too. An Italian-speaking-African-origin woman, allows me to move ahead as well. The last one, a Spanish speaking man, shakes his head (I still love the language and the people). Later I find out that he cut the line too.
Anyway, at the counter, the woman asks curtly, ‘ Why are you late? You had a long time in Madrid. I cannot believe you are late.”
I have learnt to calm others down. Have done it on many occasions. And this one calls for another act of calm-brave-forward thinking.
“Mira Senora, I need to know what to do now. I need to be in Boston tomorrow before 6 am, when I catch another flight”
“I can only give you the ticket to NY because there are no seats on NY Boston. But you will have to pay.”
“Ok.” I sigh, and “Another thing I have my bag checked to Boston”
“But this ticket says it is till Madrid.”
“Yes, but I went back and asked them to check it to Boston. They gave me another tag. Now what I need to know is will my bag arrive in Boston or NY. If Boston then I need to call my friend to ask her to pick up it. Or ask them to deliver it to my friend’s house or may be I can pick it up when I catch my flight to Texas tomorrow?”
“Show the tag please.”
For the life of me I cannot find the tag. I had showed that earlier, when I got my boarding pass.
“I can’t find it, but can you please find it from the old tag where my bag is?”
“No, not without the tag”
“I do not have it, I had it this morning.” I look for it again, and then look up at the counter with a disappointed look in my eyes, but keeping the calm, “Ok, so, how do I locate my bag?”
She tells me that it need to go 3 flights down.
It is 3:22 -the flight takes off at 5 pm.
“Senora, shall I buy the ticket or locate my bag first?”
“Well, I do not know”
“Could you please ask the baggage section to locate it and then bring it to the check in?”
“No, they cannot do that.”
“Well, it will take time. Will you please reserve the seat?
“No, I cannot do that.”
“Well, I need to pick up my bag. What do you want me to do?”
“I do not know. You have no time.”
“Can you please make sure the plane waits for me while I get my bag.”
“Well, no I cannot do anything. All you need to tell me is whether I check you in or not.”
“Well, what is the point of checking me in if you cannot stop the plane.”
“Well, you tell me.”
“Ok, check me in, without my bag and then I will get my bag.”
“Well, but I suggest that you find your bag first. You have no time. The plane takes off at 5 and the check in closes at 4:00.”
‘And why did you not say this before?” I want to say, but remain calm and run three floors down, from one gate to another. The people at lost luggage take about 10 minutes. It is 3:45 already.
I rush down. The baggage claim has found my bag but it is at Sala 11 (gate) belt 6. Between getting the bag & boarding the plane I need to buy the ticket. And check in.
The lady at the baggage claim is kind and thoughtful. She tells me to buy the ticket. She ‘thinks’ she has located the bag. “Go buy your ticket and in the mean time they will bring the bag out.”
I go two floors up and run to the ticket counter.
“Ok, Senora, am ready to buy the ticket”
“130 Euros.” I make a face but this needs done. Regrets, remorse and self-criticism can happen in the 8 hr flight.
“What now?”
“Check-in” But have no bag with me. A short run about 20 meters away.
There is a long que. I ask the attendant there to help me. He does not understand English very well. And reminds me that its past 4, I do not have my bag and that he cannot help me. Then he looks away.
All I want is someone to stop the plane for me while I get my bag. He looks away.
A reminder to myself: Breathe, breathe, breathe.
As I run under the dividers, jumping the line, ---I announce in a loud, but apologetic tone, “I’m very late, the flight takes off in 40 minutes and I have to get my bag and check in, and it is at least a 30 minute run from check in to the boarding gate.”
“I need your address in the US-- muy importante ok.”
I rummage through my bags and bring out the sheet with my friend’s address.
3:55 pm.
Phew, checked in! Now two flights down - to Sala 11.
I go two flights down, run to the belt. They cannot find my bag, they say it will come in 10 minutes.
10 minutes? It is 4:00 pm!
But I look up & there is my bag. Miracle, Miracle!!
A deep breath. What next? To check in!
Two floors to the check in. The man sees me, takes my request first, checks-in my bag, hands me the baggage tag. I ask him how to get to get to U74. Twice.
I cut the line at the customs. People are watching, I know half of them do not understand what I am saying. I say it anyway, as I take my shoes off “I missed a flight this morning, as I am walking I am taking my shoes off, with one hand I grab four trays, drop things in the trays, rush to the other side & put my shoes on.
“Is this your bag?
“Yes!!”
(There is a bottle of water in your bag.)
I take it out, frantically take a sip. Drop the bottle, put my shoes on, get other things and run three floors down.
Then waiting for the shuttle to the terminal it hits me I need to call my friend who was coming to pick me up at Boston. Another passenger informs me that I may not be able to call.
I push people out as I run out the shuttle. ‘Pardon, pardon’, carrying my bag up the escalator. Three flights up.
4:28 pm. The flight leaves at 5 pm.
To the gate U74. I am huffing and puffing. The guy checking the boarding pass does not know much english. I need to make a phone call.
I know I am all grammatically wrong. “es neccisssito, por telephone, muy necessito.”
He asks another person and I am directed to the pay phone. Which I know is more time consuming since pay phones work differently everywhere. My ph from S has stopped working. I try it again and realize that its working but low on battery. So I ask/look for a socket.
I plug it in, call my friend. Leave her a message both on her cell & work phone.
‘Please, please hold the plane for me’ I say to the hostesses standing at the gate.
The women are kind and tell me that I needn’t rush, I am in time.
‘Really?’ I finally exhale.
I have forgotten how to say I need help, or I have a request in Spanish. I remember bits and pieces from so many languages.
I keep wanting to say, ‘ke kopha thusso’, (Swana).
Jag behovar hjalp, (Swedish).
I am inside the airplane now. Need to put my bags up, am too short. I stand on my seat and throw the bags up, and the old lady next to me on the other side of the aisle claps her hands. ‘That was really nice.’ she says in her North American accent.
I ask for a glass of water. Finally sit down and eat the delicious sandwich. Now, I can afford the calories without any guilt.
Delicious!
Do not think it is over yet.
8 hrs of flight. I do some work on computer. Some reading. Finally, get out at NY.
I plug in my phone again and call my friend. She hasnt been feeling well and apologizes she cant come to NY.
“God M, I did not expect you to, it is too far.”
“Are you ok?” a lady in uniform asks me.
“Yeah, just missed a flight so am disoriented.”
“Don’t worry,” she says in her hispanic accent, “aaverything happens for a razon.”
I just gotta smile at that.
Long que at the customs. But I have forgotten everything. The landing card, the customs declaration. A mexican sounding man in uniform, points me to the counters where I can write properly.
“Here, we are civilized here.” he says.
I look up, too tired to complain. I take a shuttle to Port Authority. The familiar names come rushing back. Manhattan, Port Authority, Laguardia, ….
About 20 minutes and I fall asleep. I have not slept properly for nearly 30 hrs now. And this time zone change has not been very helpful.
I wake in the middle of Times Square. Ah the lights, only Las Vegas can match that. Really great. It seems like it is day light. Almost like some summer mornings in Sweden. And definitely brighter than many winter mornings of Sweden.
I take a few pics. Next stop would be the bus station. I need to find out where the Grey Hound station is.
Call M. And let her know that I am taking the bus. The bus leaves in less than forty minutes. Lucky I got there just in time.
I meet an Armenian lady, Lucie, she introduces herself. She sees me search desperately for a phone and offers her phone for me to use. Am always amazed at the kindness of people around me. Strangers who are only too willing to help.
Why does that change when we know someone, as if we sort of come to a restricted self and want to limit the amount of generosity we offer?
She also gives pain killers to a guy who is standing in the que. Generosity come right from the heart.
In the bus we talk about many things. But soon both of us fall asleep.
When we part, she introduces me to her relative, and I take it at face value. She is hoping that the man will drive me to the airport. ‘Hey, I never expected that’ I tell her. ‘But am glad that you tried.’
This is after I spoke with M and realized that she was really unwell. There is no in her coming to pick me up. It is past 3 in the morning and my flight to TX is at 7:40 am.
I hang out at the station. Meet this woman from Punjab who is working at the Macdonald’s. I recognize her from her real-gold bangles that every indian woman must don. She shares much information. About those people who try to move to many developed nations in the hope of getting a permanent travel document and enhancing their lives. Tells me about her time in the US--11 years now.
Sort of sad to see her at this hour at a place where she is not recognized as a matriarch but as a part of colorless red and yellow world of Macdonald’s where she could be Mexican or Indian or Latin american in general.
She speaks with an elegance that I have not heard in a while. She gives me her number. I take it out of courtesy, knowing fully well I will never connect with her.
I walk up to the train station which is half a block away. The city looks even more beautiful, worth comprehending in the wee hours of the morning. Like any city, there are homeless wrapped in sleeping bags on a bench outside the train station.
At the station, I ask the only man sitting there if that is the place for shuttle to the airport. He nods.
I over hear him talk in Hindi. When he puts the phone down, I start talking to him about India. He has a masters in Managememt. Is a bengali but grew up in the North of India. We chat about authors, cultures, and love of India. We part without any special exchange, emails or phone contacts. I have done that too many times. But there is a feeling that we talked about meaningful things.
‘Intellectual conversation’ he says, “thank you for that.’
I know what he means. Reminds me of a short story I read years ago about a computer programmer in Bombay, who gets a ride in the back of a pick up truck one rainy day, overhears real people’s conversation --and smiles for the first time from his heart.
I arrive at Houston, dead tired. Now to wait for another flight to a smaller town in TX for my conference. My friend comes an hour early and leaves me a message on facebook.
I try to connect, call her, she hurriedly comes to pick me up. Takes me to her lovely home. Feeds me. I am ready to sleep. I cannot, even if try stay awake to go to the Key note that evening.
She has to leave since she is one of the organizers.
I take a warm shower. Shortly after I get done, S my friend’s four year old son comes in with his father. I am awake now, I am too tired for a key note, but for a child….???
My batteries seemed charged, and I am back in the center of everything...where everything is play.
I smile back at the last 40 hrs and feel like singing….‘Its a wonderful world!!”
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