SPAIN 2006
Prologue - A
Trip from Hell
It started the
moment we arrived at the Des Moines Airport. At
the United Airlines counter we had the misfortune to deal with one of the most
uncooperative employees I have ever seen.
This man apparently had a bad night or whatever the reason he was so
intractible that we all just stood in disbelief at the sarcastic questions he
was asking us. For some reason he
couldn’t seem to figure out how many bags we had as carryons and how many were
to be checked. There were three of us
and apparently it was something he just couldn’t deal with. We eventually got to take our bags to be
checked in another area but then I discovered he hadn’t given me a tag for my
bag. I walked back to him and he handed
it to me and didn’t tell me why he still had it and what I should do with
it. This little mixup was to hound us
all the way to Madrid.
To Madrid
The flight from Des Moines to Chicago was uneventful and on time, as things
should be. We waited at the US Air gate
for a plane that would take us to Philadelphia. US Air is one of those “partner” airlines
that they all seem to use these days. I
saw a list of United’s partners somewhere and it was a mile long. No wonder there are mixups. Traveling with all these partners is
downright confusing, and US Air turned out to be the worst airline I have ever
been involved with. After a while US Air
flashed a sign with the dreaded words “flight delayed”. The reasons varied from “there’s too much air
traffic” to a “lightning storm”, etc.
Anyway our flight was eventually canceled so we had to scurry around to
find out what would become of us. They
came up with a British Airways flight that would take us to London Heathrow
where an Iberian plane would take us on into Madrid. That
seemed okay except that we would arrive in Madrid 6 hours later than planned, destroying a
good part of our first day in Spain.
The fate of our luggage came to mind.
Would they be able to get the three bags on the British plane before it
took off?
From the getgo we
learned that with British Air we were in the hands of pros. The seats were good, the meals were delicious
(yes, actually delicious), the flight was on time at both ends, the attendants
were great and there were a lot of little, thoughtful things that convinced us
British knew what they were doing. I had
previously asked that they check to see if our three bags got on our flight but
they could only confirm two of them.
That made me a bit nervous, but we made a good connection with Iberia in London and we arrived in Madrid promptly.
We arrived in a
brand new terminal with Euro avant-garde appointments and waited for our
luggage. I was concerned about that
third bag – mine – and sure enough it didn’t show up. So then I had the task of trying to explain
to several different people that my bag didn’t make it. I was surprised to find that very few people
there understood me or even knew a modicum of the English language. They all seemed to point to someone else,
usually far away. After going to 3
different counters, each further away than the last, I finally ended up at the
right counter and praise be she spoke good
English. She seemed to know what she was
doing so I felt better after I left her hoping that my bag would be delivered
to the hotel the next day.
The Puerto del Sol
The “Door to the
Sun” is the center of Madrid and our Hotel Europa is just a short block away. We had stayed there three years ago and liked
the location although the hotel itself was a bit seedy. But not now – there is work in progress and
the hotel is being completely refurbished (unknown to us beforehand). I had requested an inside room facing the
atrium rather than on the outside where the street can be noisy at night. The bathroom was completely redone in modern
fixtures and was quite classy. But there
was one big problem. The room was not
only hot, it was stifling. The window to the atrium was battened down so
I opened it up completely and I was met with the bare bones of an atrium,
scaffolding everywhere, with at least an inch of dust on every surface, no
exaggeration! The atrium was as high as
the hotel and had some canvas sheets at the top but for some reason it was cool
out there and the room began to cool a bit.
But all that dust? There was a
dilemma for you. Open the window at
night to cool things off but coat the room with dust and breathe it all
in. I went back down to the concierge to
ask him what was up with this heat thing.
I had noticed when I stepped into the hall it was immediately cooler
there and it got cooler and cooler as I took the steps down three stories. The concierge didn’t have a clue and probably
faked any knowledge of the heat problem.
This got frustrating. He
mentioned that the heater in the bathroom that dries the towels might be turned
on (it wasn’t). He mentioned that the
late shift guy would bring a fan. That
wasn’t great news but might at least get us through the next two nights.
It was now evening
and we set out to find some Tapas bars.
We walked into one and chose a small table in the back. We ordered beers and the waiter brought them
with some Tapas (hor's doevres). They won’t give you a bill ‘til you
practically walk out of the place or scribble in the air to indicate “bill,
please”. We headed for the Plaza Mayor,
the major plaza of Madrid with imposing,
official looking buildings surrounding it.
We stopped in a very small bar that we had visited three years ago and
chose some Tapas and beer and Sangria.
The place is decorated with all sorts of bullfight paraphernalia. Funny how the same place you liked previously
never reaches that level again. But
Oriette chose wisely and enjoyed her Tapas while I missed the boat by ordering
some tiny shrimp that tasted very veiny and uninspired.
We returned to the
hotel only to learn that the guy with the fan never showed up. What to do with this outfit? Well, as it turned out we gambled and left
the window open and lo and behold the dust that caked every conceivable surface
in that atrium did not move an inch all night and we slept (bareback in my
case) like babies. The atrium was
apparently protected from any breezes, but not from workers. Promptly at 8:00 am there started this cacophony of hammers
striking what sounded like pipes or maybe the scaffolding itself. This of course was an automatic alarm clock
for we didn’t plan to sleep away our visit to Spain, and the matter came to a close.
Diane and I took a
morning walk while Oriette did her toilette
and we soon approached the El Cibeles fountain plaza that I had visisted last
time. Madrileños were everywhere, dressed well, hurrying to work as in
any big city.
On the way back we
found a small restaurant, bistro-type, that looked
promising. We returned with Oriette and
ordered. There are unique choices at
Spanish cafes and one thing they do have that most European nations don’t is
fresh orange juice, right out of the orange done by a little machine that says
“Zumo” on it that spirals off the peelings and compresses rather concentrated
pure Valencia orange juice. The rest of
the meal was somewhat down hill. The
menu implied that an omelette is the equivalent of a tostada but in any event
they put potatoes in it. Not what you
expected but fairly tasty.
The gals were
interested in doing some shopping so we went to an El Corte Inglés department
store, a chain in big city Spain. We
also found an internet café so I sent some messages home and checked on the
hapless Iowa Hawkeye basketball team.
The gals had some refreshments there but the waitress got real snotty
about something and wouldn’t even look at them or give them a bill ‘til I paid
it. A strange way of indicating
disapproval by not accepting their money(?)
Then we decided to
walk the Gran Via to the Hertz Car Rental just to verify the location and to
ask some questions about getting around in the city.
There was a statue
there of the revered Miguel Cervantes in a plaza/park.
People were just
sitting and lying in the sun, soaking up the welcome rays of early spring. We continued on past the Royal Palace and even saw a street
that, except for one letter, matched Oriette’s
name.
Our target for the
evening was Flamenco dancing. The hotel
had a flyer on it and we discovered that there was a good show just a few
blocks away. We headed up that way to
find a restaurant and there was a good candidate just a couple doors from the
Flamenco place. We requested the second
floor seating and our table overlooked the streets. The waiter was a young fellow and seemed a
bit inexperienced. Feeling expansive, I
ordered a bottle of Rioja red but
before it was poured I discovered it was $60 and wanted just a glass. He didn’t quite understand what was going on,
suppposedly, and the next thing I knew he disappeared and Elena came on the scene.
Elena, a blonde
Roumanian in a uniform evoking memories of Johnny, the singing Phillip Morris
boy, took over. She became our waitress
and she was a peach. The wine situation
was straightened out and I’ll be darned if the bill was quite reasonable, even
with the wine. The food was very good
and we heartily enjoyed the meal.
We didn’t make the
mistake of ordering anything with jambon. It is dried, cured ham and is everywhere in Madrid and probably Spain. It
hangs from the ceilings of meat stores and in some restaurants. It has a lot of fat to it and tastes like
what we used to call gristle when I was a kid, a sort of smelly, unpleasant,
tough, fatty meat that sours anything it gets near. I can’t for the life of me understand why it
is so popular in Madrid and elsewhere. If I were to give Madrileños a slice of Amana ham how would they react? Oh well, I’m sounding like a holier than thou
chauvinist American, I guess. But I
don’t like paella either, a statement which is almost blasphemous in Spain. It’s
hard to say in Spanish, for one thing: pah-ay-uh, for another saffron and/or
rice doesn’t do much for me, and finally the mix of
little seafood creatures reminds me of the practically meatless crawdads
grabbed in a nearby creek.
We walked down the
street to the Flamenco place and there was an enthusiastic greeter at the door
waving us in. Everyone in there, the
greeter, the dancers, the audience, the management were
genuinely upbeat and got you excited before the first song. Actually, they had already begun. The theatre was somewhat small but the
dancers transcended that and dished up an evening of beautiful dancing, guitars
and singing. There were women in bright
colored dresses, men in their proud poses, and singers that evoked in a minor
key the Portuguese fada singing.
My favorites were
the beautiful, experienced dark-haired woman with a strikingly blue dress
dancing briskly but with a certain elegant style and the
young, exuberant man with his athletic maneuvers
and well-timed exits. We stayed and
enjoyed it all to about 1:00 am, and so we could now say we had visited Spain and yes, we had seen the Flamenco dancers!
Toledo
After breakfast
the next day we walked our luggage the short distance to the taxi lineup and
the young driver leaped out and loaded our luggage in the trunk in no time. The fare was quite reasonable. When I told him where we were going, Hertz
Rentals, he did a double-take probably because it wasn’t that far away and
maybe because he wouldn’t be making much on the deal but he was such a good,
speedy driver and got us over there so fast I gave him a generous tip and he
unloaded our baggage in a snap and was all smiles.
We talked to the
Dutch clerk at the counter and carefully went over the instructions on how to
get to our car. She was a very
officious, explicit young lady who wanted to direct the conversation to her
satisfaction rather than mine but it fell wanting to this old American. I grilled her several times on exactly where
was she saying the car was to be found and somehow we came to an agreement on
where it might be. As it turned out it
was something like the Keystone Kops, going to the building that housed the
car, going up an elevator, then downstairs, taking a ticket which only lasted a
few minutes and a siren or something might go off and that we had violated
security but somehow we got through the maze of instructions and found our car
and got it the Hell out of there. The
Dutch girl had told us that at one point on the highway circling Madrid we had to take a LEFT turn exit and sure
enough it came up real fast and thank God Diane saw it and told me to turn left
right away and I did and we were on our way to Toledo. It
was a most uninteresting drive to get there, various buildings and businesses
that passed by in a monotonous string of nothingness. I had originally planned for us to see the
windmills that inspired Cervantes to write his classic Don Quixote but based on that numbing drive south of Madrid I was glad we skipped that interlude and
went right into Toledo an hour away.
Toledo was fairly easy to get to but once we were
there we drove round and round trying to determine what the instructions said
about turning here and there and after several mistakes we found the Hostal
Cardenal just outside the wall of the old city.
I took a right at what appeared to be a small parking lot and there was
an attendant with a 4-star mustache guiding us around. He was very officious and displayed a bit of
fakery in helping me to back into a proper parking place. Turns out later that we found out he was not
an official parking attendant but was just a fellow who helped people to
squeeze their car into the vest-pocket parking area for a couple Euros. Officially it was supposed to be forbidden to
park cars there but apparently the local police ignored that and seldom ever
checked up on it.
The Hotel Cardenal
got more interesting as we approached it.
This was early spring but one could see the plantings on the grounds
leading to the hotel that would be more of a display in later spring and
summer. We walked with our luggage a
considerable way and then were presented with some steep steps straight on to
the hotel towering above us. Diane got
creative and took a circuitous route to the right that involved mostly ramp-type
walking with only a few steps every now and then. Oriette and I decided to take the straighter
route which was straight up to the hotel.
Turns out that we later found out Diane had fallen on one of the sets of
two steps and bruised her leg but she didn’t complain right away but later and
we razzed her about it mercilessly.
Being in her lesser years she took the damage in stride.
We liked the hotel
right away; it was the former residence of a Catholic Cardinal and it was very
rustic but likeable and had a rather large atrium at the center of the
building.
Before long we
headed over to the old city of Toledo.
There were a few shoppes that intrigued Americans and we wandered around
a while before returning to the hotel.
It was late
afternoon and we quaffed some fine wine and drinks at the hotel and decided to
eat there. It was upstairs (again) but
the restaurant was first class, not too stuffy, and very enjoyable. The wait staff were
very professional and did as well with their knowledgeable offerings almost as
professional as the French do. With a
few hitches we enjoyed a very 4-star meal.
The next day after
breakfast we headed back to the entrance to the wall of the ancient city and
began to investigate the museums, shoppes, convents, and cathedrals. We were enjoying the day, the weather was
fine, the cobblestones and buildings were quaint and we saw several paintings
on our way down to the cathedral.
The streets were
very narrow and the cobblestones were treacherous, particularly as we wound our
way downhill among the buildings. We are not the type who buy
silly trinkets but we did make an exception and bought a couple of mouse pads
that displayed some interesting historical meaning. We continued on and found ourselves in a
small plaza and it was here that we headed across the plaza to scope out some
stores and shoppes.
Unfotunately there
was a deep depression in the midst of the cobblestones along the street in
front of a shoppe and Oriette stepped in that hole, fell and broke her kneecap
and bruised her face in the bargain.
We were so
surprised how suddenly this all happened.
A local called their equivalent of the 911 but it took quite a while for
someone to come. The streets were so
narrow the ambulance couldn’t make it all the way up the narrow street so the
driver had to bring along his small stretcher on wheels and finally got us
along with her into the ambulance.
The ride to the Toledo hospital was as hair-raising as any I have
witnessed. They say that Spain has the most car accidents per capita in
any place in Europe and I wouldn’t argue with them. This driver was a maniac and didn’t slow up
for anything or any one. Even if there
was a car sticking out into the roadway our driver wouldn’t slow and would buzz
right pass people along the side of the road who, if they made a slight change
in direction suddenly, would later make a visit to the morgue. But somehow we got to the Toledo hospital but therein lies
a tale.
As you check in to
the emergency desk, you find out quickly that no one in an administrative
position at the hospital knows how to speak or recognize English. It was the most awkward position I’ve ever
been in. The clerks looked at me
stolidly as though I were from Mars. I
couldn’t imagine why this would be so since Spain is reputed to be one of the most popular
places for tourism in the world. Surely
they would come up with someone who could converse a bit in English. Not!
We had to go to
the waiting room to wait until there was some word about how Oriette was
coming. Finally we heard that she was in
the Trauma area and we could visit her.
She was doing okay, they had put her leg in a plaster of paris cast and
so she was very immobile. Up to that
point we had been very frustated trying to find out what the status was and how
would we deal with the travel necessary for Oriette’s recuperation. The young surgeon who came to talk to us
spoke excellent English! I could have
kissed him I was so happy. He was very
good at explaining what was going on, but I like an idiot happened to bring up
the fact that Oriette had not remembered exactly what had happened when she
fell forward on her face and I just mentioned that to the surgeon and he felt
they should refer her to a brain doctor (neurosurgeon) just to be safe. I was immediately sorry I had mentioned that
but better to be safe than sorry but it cost us more than two hours more for
the neuro fellow to give her clearance on that.
By the time we got
out of the hospital it was near midnight.
All along this time I was worried that there would be some big hassle
before we left about the charges for the trauma treatment. It never came. We left the hospital in the ambulance and
nothing was said! And we have heard
nothing since. At the accident scene
earlier the local shop owners had told us we should stand up for our rights and
not have to pay anything since the hole in the street had been there for months
and they had complained about it to city hall but nothing ever happened so we
shouldn’t have to pay anything. Whatever
the Spain medical situation is, we were never
charged for anything anyway so it’s probably because their health coverage took
care of such things and the locals as well as us
Americans really didn’t know what to expect.
In America, I assume a Spanish visitor would be
slapped with a bill before they ever got off the premises (our wonderful health
care system in action).
During our wait we
had discussed various options on how we would best get home. The surgeon had mentioned it would be much
better not to do the surgery in setting the bone in Spain but rather to get home and have it done
there. All sorts of scenarios entered
our minds and we mucked around various possibilities. Our car was back at the hotel with all those
steep steps up to the hotel building facing us.
I once thought it would be better just to take the ambulance back to the
hotel and rather than face those steps just drive directly to an airport hotel
and try to get a flight out the next morning.
But I had pretty
much changed my mind by the time we got there at the hotel. The ambulance driver was willing to help and
I went up the stairs to get someone from the hotel to help out and they picked
Oriette up and scooted her up the stairs to our room in no time. This was a Thursday night and the only
thought in our minds was to get back home as soon as possible. We got to sleep late that night, of course,
but I was absolutely determined to get up early to call the airline. At 5:00 am I was alert and ready. I called United and luckily (?) there was a
flight at 1:00
pm or so that same
day to get us back to the States. But
the clerk told us the good news – we wouldn’t have to pay the $200 penalty a
piece for changing the plans, but the bad news – we would EACH have to pay an
extra $467. Hey, this is the American
way. They gouged us in the name of free
enterprise. They profited from our
misfortune. They knew how desparate we
were and saw $ signs in their eyes.
Well, we of course took the offer.
I hung up the phone and told Oriette and Diane we had 15 minutes to
leave the hotel. Diane did a double take
but found out I was serious. And funny
thing, we did get out of there in 15 minutes, Oriette with a stiff leg in a
cast and all.
Well of course
there really wasn’t that much time. We
had to do our thing in the A.M., we had to get something to eat, we had to get
Oriette back down the steps, we had to drive back to the Madrid airport which
was at least one hour and probably two altogether, and we had to return the
car, etc., etc. and we would have to be there by 11:00 am to check in.
I greeted the
concierge with the news that we had to carry Oriette down the stairs to the
car. He was the night clerk and didn’t
speak any English and had no idea what I was talking about. I waived my hand in the air like an airplane
and he didn’t have a clue. I pantomimed
carrying her down the steps and he looked at me as though I was loose from the
insane asylum. Luckily the day clerk
arrived who knew some English. He
started with some joviality but quickly his visage turned sour as he heard the
news that he was going to have to do something.
Well, it wasn’t all that bad and the two of them got her down the stairs
in no time. I of course was not involved
other than giving instructions and moral support since I passed 70 some 3 years
ago and didn’t want to sacrifice my life in the bargain.
So off we sped in
our rental car toward Madrid. It really wasn’t a
bad trip back to the airport at all. We
had plenty of time except that we had to do some frantic things in the airport
to make people understand what we were trying to do. The cast on Oriette’s leg required that her
leg be pointed straight out and so any move for her was extremely cumbersome. I did have a problem returning the rental car
and got all mixed up on the location but luckily the attendants got me
straightened out. So by golly it began
to look like we were going to get back home in one piece afterall, so to speak,
but little did I know …..
The flight from Madrid to Philadelphia was a true United (not a partner) airline and the Madrid airport supplied a wheelchair for Oriette
that had an accessory for her leg that enabled it to be supported straight out
(with the cast). This was fine but when
we got on the plane it was clear that no one had a clue as to how Oriette was
going to be able to actually sit in a seat.
Picture someone with a stiff leg like that trying to sit in a seat in
tourist class. Bulkhead seats might be
available but as we were waiting the head flight attendant started barking out
orders. She completely lost her cool
when facing this situation. She
mentioned to me more than once that “I
had a problem” and the second time she said that I shot back that “No, YOU have a problem!”). After that, things seemed to fall into place,
but not because of her. It turns out
that two kind gentlemen, very frequent flyers, gave up their 1st
class seats for Oriette and Diane (Diane had to be with her to attend her
needs, etc.). The two gentlemen ended up
in a three tourist seats row and I was assigned to that same row. My ticket was for the very middle seat in
that row, the worst possible seat for anyone traveling that far over the
pond. Even yet, the one gentleman kindly
offered to sit in that middle seat and for a moment I almost accepted but then
thought better of it and decided I could at least spare him that final insult.
It’s strange, but
giving up the offer of a row seat and sitting ramrod straight in the middle of
3 seats for hours over the ocean didn’t seem bad at all. I was happy that Oriette and Diane were
treated so kindly. We were in Philadelphia in no time. The next leg, from Philadelphia to Chicago, was for partner US Air, and they did
assign a wheelchair for us along with 2 men and a woman to help us. But the wheelchair had no option for resting
the leg in a straight forward position.
In order to ambulate properly, Diane had to loop a blanket around
Oriette’s leg and hold her leg up straight as we navigated through the
terminal. The three US Air people did
help but one of them took the role of team leader and something one of the
others said caused him to completely lose it and he argued heatedly with the
other guy while the woman chided him, saying “please don’t argue in front of
our customers!”.
We waited at the
gate for a couple hours and as it got closer to the takeoff time, true to form
the dreaded notice came, “flight delayed”.
A quick trip to the counter and we were told our flight would be on an
aircraft that was late leaving Chicago to come here to Philadelphia. It
was getting late in the evening and a cancellation loomed. I frantically tried to call the airline to
see what was going on but that didn’t work out.
Good grief, were we going to have to deal with navigating Oriette from
the terminal to a Philadelphia hotel and then the same in reverse in the
morning? I decided we would have to gut
it out. As it turned out, miraculously the
plane from Chicago finally arrived in time, a couple hours
late, but at least we wouldn’t have to stay over and would get as far as Chicago.
Getting on the
flight for Chicago, the attendants were not sure how to
handle Oriette’s situation. Finally they
decided to put the three of us in bulkhead seats that allow for extra leg
room. This was okay although it would
have been preferable to use 1st class because it would have more
room yet. Some of the folks up there
were even ready to swap seats with us but the attendants waived it off and we
sat in the bulkhead area. Oriette’s leg
had to be propped up on pillows and she was right next to the aisle so that
when we reached Chicago everyone on that plane filed out past
Oriette and I winced every time I saw someone come close to her leg as they
went past with their carryons.
Fortunately they were all very careful and her leg was untouched.
So we did reach Chicago and there WAS time, barely, to catch the
plane to Des
Moines,
an easy one hour flight. But wait. We were not to get off that easy. Would we now face our coup de grâce? The final insult? What caused the subsequent mixup is not
clear. What we do know is that the
flight number from Philadelphia to Chicago was to continue on to Des Moines.
That would normally mean our plane would land at O’Hare, wait a few
minutes, and then go on to Des Moines.
Well, after we landed everyone filed out of our aircraft but we of
course stayed put. We had even kidded
with the personnel in Philadelphia that we were wondering why even bother to
have that flight to Des
Moines
since we would be the only ones on it.
At the very last
minute before take off, an airline attendant came rushing down the ramp to our
aircraft and burst into the plane and said “follow me, this is the wrong flight
for you!”. Sure enough, the plane we
were on was going to go to DENVER! The attendant, extremely
unnerved, led us to a another gate where a plane sat VERY
full of impatient passengers waiting to take off for Des Moines! We
got on there in time, barely, and finally flew home. What had apparently happened I think was,
because of the delay, the flight number had been changed for some reason to this
other plane that would go to Des Moines full with passengers, but this is only
my theory so I shouldn’t be quoted.
Some of this last
experience had in part to do with the constant put-downs suffered by Des Moines.
The Philadelphia attendants laughed sarcastically because
it’s just expected that no one wants to go to Des Moines.
Had they not had that mind-set, they might have double checked to make
sure that the known flight number was going to Des Moines, regardless of how many passengers there
were, and as a matter of fact the plane was FULL of passengers!
Epilogue
Thus ends the
strangest trip we have ever witnessed.
We were completely exhausted, mentally, by the time we reached
home. Never again would we fly to Europe.
But again, wait! After a while
our thinking began to change. We’re damn
mad that our trip was cut short because of inconsiderate city officials not
maintaining street repair. We’re damn
mad that the airlines couldn’t do anything right and that they took advantage. We’re not giving in that easily. We’re beginning to think that, at the right
time in the future, we may go back to Spain to complete that tour that included
driving north to the ocean and to the national park and to all the other places
we wanted to see. But it would be on
British Airways. Just to be ornery. And just to give a finger to the fate we
witnessed on a cobblestone street in Toledo.
--
Donald Hickman, Clive, Iowa. May,
2006