I’m not sure what I was expecting, but standing on the Spain side of Customs and looking back at the doors I just walked through I find my inner voice asking, “That’s it?”
The official asked me a couple questions in clipped Spanish at the intake gate. I mumbled what I thought he wanted to hear and he pounded the mark of a traveled man down onto the virginal uncreased paper of my passport. Pounding force leaving that bruise of red-black ink declaring my manhood.
The Atlantic Ocean behind me, I have reverse engineered The New World. Before anyone notices that I’m not actually the intrepid adventurer that should be standing here I grab my passport and run.
Baggage Claim wound like a snake around and through the pillars supporting the expansive room filled with people and sawdust. No one is speaking English. I can read the screens well enough to know my bags aren’t coming out yet, but as in all airports the overhead announcer is garbled insensible mush.
The whole of the airport seemed to be under construction. The vending machines on the far side of the room beckoned with promises of liquid refreshment. I fished a 5 Euro note out of my back pocket and set off in search of something to wash the particulate from my throat. Standing in front of the vending machine holding my monopoly money like Charlie gripping that fabled golden ticket in front of Wonka-Land, I felt like an ass. The Spaniard laughing at me to my right shared my sentiments. It only takes coins.
Trundling back to the baggage-serpent I resolve to wait in dry parched-mouthed silence until I can claim my bag and get out of here.
Red handbag.
Blue flowered roll-away.
Adidas.
Green Satchel.
If only I knew how to say, “Grab my goddamn bag so I can stop smelling the back of your head” I may have been out of the baggage area about a half hour sooner.
My Adidas bag rolled past with all the patience of a dead goldfish. Hilarious if you knew my goldfish. I watched it disappear through the portal again through the wall of people. I set back to watching the bags roll past.
Red handbag.
Blue flowered roll-away.
Green Satchel.
Wait.
Wait.
Where the hell is my bag?
One more time around.
Red handbag.
Blue flowered roll-away.
Green Satchel.
This isn’t good.
Red handbag.
Blue flowered roll-away.
Green Satchel.
Oh christ. ok, how much clothing do I have in my backpack? none. do i have my passport? yes. do i have my wallet? yes. ok, five more minutes and i go to the authorities.
Red handbag.
Blue flowered roll-away.
EFF-ING Adidas!!!!
The woman reaching for the green satchel never knew what hit her. I’m sure when picking her up off the luggage belt on the other side of the wall, the staff asked her something like, “What the hell are you doing out here?” I derive some small satisfaction when I imagine her answer to be, ” EFF-ING Adidas!!!”
Bag clutched to my chest like a thief on the make, I sprint for the doors with Customs blaring above them. I decided I didn’t want to declare the bottles of whiskey in my bag, as there is NO sane explanation for any human carrying the amount of alcohol I had strapped to me. I made for the door.
Plastic Flaps. Dust. Bright Light. I made it.
“That’s it?”
