My Life: A Parody

Trisha suggested that my first trying hours here were to be looked at as an adventure more than a setback or hardship. And this is true; how delightfully, wonderfully, happily boring it would have been to have seen my luggage spat out onto the conveyor like all the others. No no, that would not do at all. However, it is still only a story of lost luggage, so I’ll attempt to dramatize it for you as best I can.


I disembarked from the cramped British Airways flight with the combination of pain in my backside and wide-eyed excitement that can only come from twelve hours of travel. I slung my backpack over my shoulder for the nine hundredth time that day (or had it been two days?) and made my way down the ramp into Madrid-Barajas airport. My fellow travelers began making phone calls and arranging meetings the moment we were out of the plane; I had no such phone calls to make, I knew. There was nobody waiting for me in Madrid except for the hot Iberian sun that shone outside the airport’s giant windows and a country full of unknown possibility.

Step one was to follow the signs toward Baggage Claim. The signs were easy enough to follow as everything was listed in English first, then Spanish: a sign that Spain’s tourism industry was alive, thriving, and slightly overbearing. The signs were misleading, however, as they led first to the green-sleeved immigration officials that are the Guardia Civil. As the line crept forward toward the plastic strongholds which could deny me entry into this country, my travel-weary mind began to race with worry: “Do I look like a terrorist? What does a terrorist look like? Should I try to look less like a terrorist? Wait- won’t that make me look more like a terrorist?” My worries were, of course, unfounded. The agent barely looked at my passport long enough to stop telling a joke to his companion.

My first obstacle was hurdled and now Baggage Claim truly lay ahead. A series of signs and information screens led me to Belt 8. Everyone took up positions around the belt, some vying for optimal location while others nonchalantly chose spots along the line, creatures of eternal patience. I was somewhere in between, waiting in some places and then finding myself pacing along the line like a chained animal- an analogy not far from the truth. I was trapped until my luggage came out, bound to it by an invisible tether.

But no matter how much I tugged on the tether from my end, my suitcase did not show. Others had gotten their luggage and were making their way toward taxis and hotels and beds, but a handful of us were still left waiting, staring at the empty belt passing before us. Occasionally we’d look up and smile weakly at one another, the international sign for, “Let’s try to stay positive even though we’re probably screwed.”

And screwed we were. Eventually a veteran traveler told us that he had spoken to the authorities and that our luggage was still in London, or possibly Pakistan. All we had to do was fill out a claim form and move along; the proper authorities would take care of everything shortly. Had we not been mentally crippled by half a day of travel, we may have realized that, in our entire lives, we had never known the proper authorities to take care of anything shortly. But, mindless airport sheep that we were, we signed the forms and left. Tether cut, energy depleted. I caught a cab.

The cab ride was paradoxically short and expensive (almost 30 euros) and had I the energy I might have argued with him. Instead I shelled out the colorful bills and made my way down the Camino de Vinateros, searching for number 97. It wasn’t long before I was standing in front of a grated door, staring haplessly into the reception area. Carlos, the doorman and the man who was to give me my key, had already left for siesta- probably only ten minutes ago- and I would have to wait three hours for his return.

Panic set in. My fuel of intermittent sleep and airline food was not enough to get me through this. My personal defenses were crippled and I suddenly felt vulnerable and alone. I had no personal effects save for my suddenly very heavy backpack, and to make matters worse all the money I had in the world was in my pocket! Too any bored mugger I must have looked like a fat, three-legged zebra calf.

Suddenly I was suspicious of everyone. All of the teenagers and kids were obviously thugs, but what of the old lady walking the dog? Brilliant cover. Let her pass you by and WHAM! - the dog’s on your throat and granny’s making off with your laptop and money. Stranger still, nobody was even speaking English! It was some sort of gibberish with a lot of th’s. Oh, I was a long way from home indeed, and for the life of me I couldn’t remember why that ever sounded like a good idea.

Carlos eventually arrived with muttered apologies for being late and an envelope full of keys. I gave the apartment a cursory inspection and promptly collapsed onto what I assumed was my bed, exhausted.


So there it is, Day 1: The Melodramatization. Hey, things can only go up from here, right?