So, as I've stated in earlier posts, I've never been to Italy (see blogpost, "Send me to Italy!"). I have, however, traveled across Europe several times in the past. It was during my last romp across the pond that I received a good lesson in self-determination and personal wherewithal.
It all began when I was stranded at the Madrid airport. The British Airways baggage handlers had chosen to go on strike, effectively shutting down flights all over the world. I was at the end of a whirlwind tour through Europe, which had started off in London, then off to Barcelona with a brief stop for debauchery in Amsterdam, and finally settling down in Madrid. I was completely broke, and had almost maxed out my 'just for emergencies' credit card buying beer and souvenir toreador pants (thanks, Mom!). All I had to do was make it back to London to catch my Virgin Airways flight back to the states the following day. My night's hostel in London was already paid for, and I had 13 cigarettes and a sandwich in my bag.
I got to the airport around 6am, only to find that it was CHAOS. Most of the airlines that flew out of Madrid were either BA or their subsidiaries so no one was going anywhere un
til the strike broke. Some people were yelling, some were sobbing. Others were setting up tiny tent settlements in the corners and drawing straws as to who would be eaten first should cannibalism ensue. I waited in line for 12 hours only to be told two important things by the overworked woman at the desk; that there was no news of when, if at all, I would be able to get to London, and that they would most definitely NOT be refunding my Virgin ticket should I miss my flight the following morning.
I panicked. I smoked approximately four and a half cigarettes. I ate one-third of my sandwich, then decided that I should save the rest in case the cannibals grew restless. I was about to break down and cry when a couple of uppity Brits walked past me, sneering "We should have taken the bloody Eurostar..." (for those of you who may not know, the Eurostar is a train that goes from Paris to London under the English Channel).
It was a eureka moment. I grabbed my bags and my sandwich and ran up the escalator to the Air France desk, where a bored looking woman was filing her nails. I asked if they had anything to Paris. She lazily replied that they had a flight leaving in 20 minutes for 80 Euros. I took it.
I arrived in Paris about an hour later, feeling completely smug. I had left all of those other suckers stuck for days in that airport in Madrid. I had at least a half an hour to make the last Eurostar train of the evening. My feeling of superiority was soon ripped away when I realized that the train station and the Paris airport are NOWHERE near each other. To make matters worse, the subway into the city was down that weekend. Panicking again, I ran outside to the awaiting cache of taxi drivers. Not even trying to speak French, I screamed at one of them that I would give him 50 Euros if he could get me downtown in 15 minutes. I knew it was impossible, but damnit if i wasn't going to try.
Scariest cab ride ever. Screeching through the streets of Paris, sweating profusely in the back seat, I couldn't even look to notice the cafes and amazing architecture whizzing by. The driver got me to Gare du Nord station in 27 minutes, which I'm sure was some kind of record. I now had three minutes left before the last Eurostar departed.
I saw it, waiting on the tracks like some kind of mechanical messiah. I ran up the stairs to the ticket booth just as they were closing the shades on the window. I threw cash at the poor teller and begged for mercy. She scolded me in French for another two minutes, sweat and tears pouring off my face. I could hear the train revving up to leave. She finally succumbed to my plea, sold me a ticket, and yelled "RUN" to me in English. I thought everything would be alright, but then I saw the last obstacle I thought to imagine. Customs.
The train was literally starting to take off. Slowly, the wheels and pistons were gearing up and revolving. I tore off my belt and shoes and threw all of my stuff into the x-ray machine, crossing my fingers that I didn't forget about anything left over from Amsterdam. The security guards waved me through and I ran along the platform, holding up my pants with one hand and trailing my bags and shoes behind me in the other. The train was starting to pick up speed. I made one final push, lobbed my bags into the last open door, grabbed the handle and hoisted myself on board with a mighty whomp.
I had made it. I had defeated the odds. I felt so proud of myself in that moment that I had complete disregard for anyone else and yelled "I F**KING RULE!!" at the top of my lungs. I then looked around to see all the other passengers blinking at me and quickly calmed down. I found a seat, ordered a beer, and lit another cigarette. Then, as I watched the sun set slowly in the distance, I pleasantly finished my sandwich.
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