We awoke
Sunday in a hurry to pack and leave our hotel. I took the second shower because
I’m lazy and didn’t mind waiting. Phil was impatient to leave, I could tell as
I exited my shower, but I had made sure to give myself enough time to be slow.
I was packing, but Phil left to room to go check out and wait for me
downstairs. The man has a capacity for efficient action and planning like my
father. I got my little bag zipped and locked up and met Philip in the lobby.
We hiked off to Kathleen and Andrew’s hotel to meet the group. While we sat
around talking and waiting on everyone in our group to be ready to leave, Harry
mentioned to us that he had “gone clubbing” with his Spanish hostel mates the
night before. This was funny, but I instantly felt a deep and legitimate
thankfulness that Harry was still safely with us. It’s not that I didn’t think
Harry was capable of keeping himself safe, and it’s true he even speaks Spanish
so that he could communicate with the people he was with, but the thought of
him going out clubbing with strangers in a strange city still terrified
me. I’m my mother’s child.
As they
checked out, Kathleen and Andrew had the unfortunate experience of being
informed that the hotel’s breakfast cost 15 Euros per person per day. They had
each eaten breakfast twice. Kathleen was demanding to see the sign that
informed them of the cost of breakfast; no one had told them about the cost, no
sign was visible explaining the cost, and the hotel had gone out of its way to
make sure it advertised its breakfast. I could see three signs of different
sizes and shapes from my perch on the couch in the lobby. I couldn’t tell
whether the woman behind the desk didn’t understand Kathleen’s forceful tirade
or if she was just hiding behind Spanish and feigning a “Ehhhh… Breakfast!
Ehhh… Ehhh... 60 Euros!” After being
forced to pay, Kathleen returned to our group passionately angry. I love
passion in people. I love to see people fired up about something, though I do
understand that some people can turn passion into bad decisions. Still, I
enjoyed watching Kathleen go off about the stupidity of the breakfast scam,
while I still felt sorry for her and Andrew. Josh, like the rest of us, didn’t
really know what to say, so he offered that we should probably get going to the
subway station.
We
navigated the switching of subway lines, hot tunnels of walking, and even a
period where we had to exit the subway to follow a painted line on the sidewalk
that led us to the next train station. Barcelona does not do public transit the right way. Philip and I are
self-proclaimed connoisseurs of public transit systems, so we like to rank and
qualify all the different types of transportation we use. We’re nerds and we
don’t care. And as far as Philip and I were concerned, what New York and D.C.
do right, Barcelona does wrong. Civil engineers were obviously low in supply in
Barca, but, then again, this city is relaxed and calm, so a few long tunnels
probably don’t bother them too much. In this case, I profess my American
nationality.
We made
it back to the airport with no problems and easily passed through their
laid-back and spacious security area. We got our exit stamps in our passports
from Spanish customs, and I said my final “gracias” in Spain, at least for now.
We eventually boarded our RyanAir flight, just as uncomfortable as ever. They
sold the same items on this flight that they sold on my flight into Spain and
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. I really wanted monkeys to be
involved somehow. There were no monkeys. Hence my disappointment. Of all the
problems I have with RyanAir, their dearth of monkeys is my chief complaint. If
I actually cared about that sad excuse for an airline/company/idea, I would
write someone to add some simian flavor to their flying circus of stupidity.
Man. I hate RyanAir.
Back in
Stansted we were pleased to see that the arrival terminal area was much more
pleasant than the departure concourse. It was still fake and cheap looking, but
it was less crowded. Our group went through customs and the man who stamped my
passport asked me what I studied back in the states. I hesitated because the
question had caught me off guard, and I finally responded “English” as he
watched me with a slightly raised eyebrow and a still, well groomed mustache. He smiled at my answer and as he stamped my
passport he said, “an excellent choice. Enjoy your stay.” The customs area for
declaring baggage was completely empty, not even a single worker could be seen.
We gorged ourselves on Burger King after we got back into the main
concourse. We boarded our bus back to
Cambridge. The countryside was as beautiful as ever, and upon our arrival back
in town, Phil and I bee lined back to Magdalene.
The
college was home. And I was there. I was home. Phil and I went over and knocked
on Cam and Mackenzie’s doors. Cam was home writing in his travel journal and
while we stood talking to him, Mackenzie returned to her room from an outing to
Starbucks. She was short in her answers and until she informed us she had
indulged upon two chai tea lattes, I thought she was mad at us. Turns out she
was just hyped up on caffeine. It was so good to be back with our friends, and
as I had a pleasant Skype session, Renae knocked on my door and my spirit
jumped for joy to see her smiling face welcoming me home. Home. Magdalene, it
seemed really has become home.
Most of
our Cambridge group went out to eat at a Latin restaurant, and I confused our
waitress with American slang as I ordered. It reminded me that even though I
thought Cambridge was home, it wasn’t where I belonged. I went to bed early,
ready for another week of class and at the end of it to make the final trip
back to my place in the world. A place where a waitress knows what I mean when
I tell her that despite the onions on the burrito, I’m still going to, “rock
it.”
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