During the night, the temperatures are dropping so much that I need to get out a blanket from the closet because I am freezing so much. I wake up in the morning and feel kind of hung-over. But I also like the thought of being home again.
I gather the rest of my stuff, prepare my backpack for checking it in – with a bottle of water and 1.5 litres Aquarius and some presents for the family – and close the door to my luxurious hotel room at about 9 in the morning. The bakery is open, I get a coffee to go and head towards Plaza España. It’s cold, I need my jacket and scarf, like Zaragoza is already preparing me for Alemania. The tram is on time and I have to catch a train at the Goya station. What I didn’t know is that the trains there are from another operator, so my tarjeta bus is useless here. Luckily, the service counter is manned and I ask the guy there what ticket I need. When I asked him, he said he doesn’t speak English, but when I tried in Spanish, he suddenly remembers that he in fact did at least a bit. So we get along with one third Spanish, one third English and the rest with hand and feet. Turns out, I don’t need a ticket, I just put my credit card on the entrance scanner. This is just so easy, we should do that in Alemania as well. The next train arrives only a few minutes later, there are just a handful of others getting on board. I think I remembered that it was two or three stops so I get startled a bit when an older couple approaches me and asks if this stop was Delicias. I check, but it’s the next one. And let it be known – this conversation was completely done in Spanish! I wish I could stay longer, there’s so much progress with my language skills here … Understanding and reading is fine, I just need to speak it more. And lose the fear of people asking me something back for which I was not prepared.
We arrive at Delicias, I have to walk around the whole complex to find the entrance to the platform. The train is five minutes late (that’s a first), but it’s still more than enough time to get to the airport in Barcelona. I find my seat and it’s on the same table with a group of Barça fans. They have a game at home tonight, the internet tells me. Luckily they are not in chat with a stranger mode, so I can watch out of the window and suddenly the emotional hangover kicks. Tears are flowing, I am completely overwhelmed when the train leaves the outskirts of this beautiful city and the landscape changes from desert into something more green.
It feels like a very short ride this time and when I arrive at Barcelona-Sants I suddenly have the confidence to take a train to the airport. I’m pretty sure I found the correct ticket, but I prefer to ask an employee who speaks English with the couple next to me. It’s 5 Euro and a bit, a taxi would have cost me at least 40 according to last year’s experience, so I am happy about my choice. But it doesn’t last too long. They announce like 3 or 4 trains on the same platform, we don’t have that in Alemania. So I ask a woman next to me if this was the right train to the airport, but she assures me that it’s not. We talk a bit when she’s asking where I’m from. I ask if she’s from Barcelona and she makes a weird face, saying, „I’m not Catalan. I’m from Zaragoza!“ I have a feeling like someone pulled the carpet from under my feet. How are the odds you run into someone from the city you just left and that you’re about to miss so terribly? In Barcelona at the main train station, not some village 10 minutes away? On the train we talk some more. She tells me about the history of the cintas and we talk a bit about travelling and work. Before we leave, I give her a Bogofans sticker where I scribbled a little „thank you“ on the back.
We arrive somewhere at the airport which looks completely unfamiliar to me. I kind of struggle where to go now. But then the guardian angel from Zaragoza appears by my side again: „We have to take a bus to the other terminal. Follow me.“ The literal magic of this town is a hill I’m going to die on.
The ride to the terminal is horror. We are cramped into the bus, every roundabout causes a mess because people don’t have enough space to counter the movement. But everyone seems to be used to it and so it’s no hard feelings anywhere. The terminal looks much more familiar to me, this is the right place. We check our gates and check-ins and my guardian angel is in a rush to catch her flight to Italy. Or back to heaven, who knows in this case. I already got a message from Lufthansa that my flight is late and when I go to the check-in, the lady tells me that I better not check-in my bag because it’s not clear if I can make the connection in Zurich. You remember that 1.5 litre bottle Aquarius? Yeah, I did, too. I wanted to take it home with me, but now I have to drink it because my bag is still cabin luggage. Cheers!
In front of the security check there is a woman waiting. I ask her if she wants to have the bottle of water I also have in my bag since I would hate to throw it away. She takes it and even if she gave it to the next homeless outside or to her plants at home, I didn’t have to throw it away.
The security line is not as long as last year, we proceed rather quickly. Two young woman ask me if we need to take off the shoes and we talk about every airport having its own rules. I add that I nearly always have to get scanned thoroughly and I don’t know why. We laugh. Seconds later, the walkthrough scanner beeps. The guy tells me it’s probably my watch, so I take it off. But it beeps again and I am asked to step to the side. I have to get on a little podium while his colleague starts talking to me. I don’t get a word. Lady, could you please speak Castilian or English or at least MORE SLOWLY! But she’s just gesturing, I get on that podium so everyone in the security check could watch her touching my bra (the wire probably made the alarm go off), checking my underwear and every single item of my clothes. It’s incredibly uncomfortable. I’ve been to a lot of security checks and I’ve been checked a lot. But I have never beenstanding so much in the spotlight like this time. I know other airports have like a little changing room which is at least hiding your body from plain sight when getting checked, but this is hell. If there had been dollar bills and some music involved, it would at least give a perspective if a change of professions was a possibility, but like this – nope.
I think about getting something to eat, but everything here has either meat in it or they probably accept an organ donation as a payment. I find my gate and also a bag of chips in my luggage which taste heavenly. The airline app informs me that the flight is further delayed. Now we have trouble with the connection – there are 10 minutes left to get on the other flight in Zurich. Impossible I guess. It’s not helping either that the connection flight also says it’s late; there’s still to little time to make it.
It feels like hours when we finally can board the flight, I am one of the last persons to enter. The woman at the gate tells me I have to check in my bagpack and I try to tell her that it was not possible because of the delay. She puts a label on it and tells me I had to ask the cabin crew. The hell I’m doing. This bagpack is not leaving my side, dear friends.
The flight is not the best. We have some turbulences and it comforts me a lot that the woman next to me is having a seahorse tattoo on her forearm. Maybe she’s a colleague from Zaragoza’s guardian angel; I believe I am in good hands. When we are near Zurich, the monitors show that there are only two connections that made it. A list of like 10 flights is shown and passengers are asked to contact the service desk upon arrival. Of course, mine is mentioned there.
When I turn on my phone again, I get a mail that they booked a hotel for me. I don’t want to believe it. When I said, I didn’t want to go home, I meant I wanted to stay longer in Spain! Not Switzerland. I cross the endless halls of Zurich Airport to get to the service desk. There are already lots of people waiting, several flights got annulled, I hear it’s because of weather and a cyber attack on some European airports. When it’s my turn, the lady gives me a new boarding pass and a train ticket. There is no chance to go home today. There is a voucher for 20 CHF dinner at the hotel restaurant and breakfast the next morning. I am tired and hungover emotionally, I just want to sleep. So I cross the other half of Zurich’s endless airport halls and find a tram in the pouring rain. I have no idea where to validate my ticket, so I leave without doing so. If anyone wants a piece of my mind about it, they can have it.
10 minutes later we arrive at the hotel, I step into a puddle and am soaked through when I reach the reception. They tell me where to go for the restaurant. Turns out it’s a seating area with a buffet. It’s a farce. 4 warming pots, at least two contain something meaty, and some salad next to it. No description of anything anywhere. Apparently the declaration of contents or possible allergens is a EU thing, not a Switzerland thing. I am asking a guy who is cleaning tables what the food is. Some chicken in sauce, some minced meat in sauce, some Bolognese and rutabaga in a cream sauce. I hate everything. Not just in this moment, I always hate cooked rutabaga. „Do you have anything vegetarian?“ I ask him. He gives me a disapproving look from my head to my soaked shoes and back again, points to a warming pot with noodles and then to some cucumber and tomatoe slices, „There. Vegetarian.“ Ah, yes, the good old game of „Vegetarians only eat raw vegetables and therefore rob cute little rabbits and that’s why we must hate them“. I give him a look back and he points to the Bolognese: „Also vegetarian.“ Well, ask any person in the world OUTSIDE Switzerland and they will tell you that BOLOGNESE is the freaking godparent of any meat dish, but you do you. Apparently in Switzerland it’s a TOMATO sauce. Since I am not in the mood for cucumber slices and can’t tell what the salads consist of (get yourself food allergies, it’s an endless game of riddles and excitement …), I give the „Bolognese“ and the noodles a try. The sauce is surprisingly fine, but the noodles are worse than every canteen food. They are overcooked like in „overcooked for hours“ overcooked and from the warming dish they started to dry out. It’s Schrödinger’s pasta, mushy and al dente at the same time. I just eat a bit because I only had a leftover bit of the chocolate palmera and some chips today. At least there is bread, but it would have been so much better with some butter and cheese … After this culinary disappointment I go to my room and find that they only have soap there. I don’t have anything left, no cream, no toothbrush, I did bring stuff for exactly Thursday to Sunday morning. I try the hotel app, but nothing happens so I go back to the reception and collect a toothbrush and a „cosmetics set“ (which is a cotton pad, a nail file and a q-tip). So it’s only clean teeth tonight, at least something. I fall into my bed and go to sleep immediately.
