Last night we completed the police report filed with the help of Barcelona’s Boys in blue, some wonderful guys at a station nearby. They were great; that is – understanding, helpful and kind. Thanks Vincent and #411…
Today, we headed to the airport, where our plans unraveled faster than a good dream. The airport, metro and placa Catalunyo were filled with a straight, unremitting rain that drenched our suitcases and ourselves.
The airport was full, REALLY full. We’d gone early to give some time to the security strike we’d been notified about. John went forward to get his stolen passport handled. NO, the assistant informed us – “nowhere can you use this documentation in this airport. No where!” After much disbelief, (the police had assured us that we were going to be fine on Vueling) she made John change his flight to Tuesday – three days from now.
That, she said, would give him time to contact the embassy in Barcelona, if they will help him. He has a paper copy of his passport page, with the number and photo, but that is all. If not – then what? She shrugged. There has been a lot of shoulder shrugging going on today. Read further. It gets richer. She wouldn’t quite let him off the hook on the price of the ticket either. He paid extra for this privilege, peeling his, Elaine’s, and our tickets off separately.
Bye, John – Adios and good cheese to you! We left him to find a hotel and to tackle his problem by himself. We still had a flight to catch.
We reached the security line as planned, across the airport, and the guard refused our tickets, saying the flight had been cancelled. WHA???
The line – I may be able to include a photo here of a courteous but baffled lot. For some reason- no one told us – there were lots of flights cancelled. Ours was only one of many, we’re nothing special, after all.
When they finally got the counter-staff settled into their places, we moved more quickly and found out that our flight had indeed been cancelled, but – hold the phone here – she could get us on another flight — oh hooray! We can meet Brother Bill after all, and no doubt the hotel will be fine with a late arrival. We don’t have to meet Bill’s son in Genoa until tomorrow, we said.
The flight, she said – was to Venice.
Wha??? Venice? What then? Maybe, and she shrugged, “maybe you can find out there what they will do to get you to Milan.” Huh? Moving along quickly, she shrugged a couple of times more, and said that she couldn’t tell us, because she didn’t know. Why was our flight cancelled? The strike. What strike? Weather?
She shrugged – it really was no concern of hers.
We now are sitting in a lounge which will only let two of us in because they’re crowded, and Lew is somewhere attached to a workstation. We have tickets to Venice, but no tickets to get to Milan… This is just too funny.
In Milan, Bill has gone off to sleep at the inn where we are supposed to be, and our future looks indeterminate. We’ll be somewhere, for sure, but where, and on what official ticket? Who knows? John is stuck in Barcelona without papers, and we are in an airport without the proper papers, and it all has a slightly hallucinogenic quality, squirmy with odd lighting.
At least I can speak Spanish, so people are happy to talk to me. I wonder just where we will wind up? Together? In Different countries? We think about being airport rats, and living here. It’s not comfy on this couch, and there is little place to sit, but we could make it work – it has sinks, bathrooms, even a massage parlor. Coffee, a Starbucks, a croissant or two, and great shopping. Important cell phone hookups. It’s bright as a jail, and no mood lighting but I suppose we could get used to it.
Without our full pod of Lavezzi, we scattered lot send our best wishes.