In Transit

At Heathrow now, absolutely crowded and bursting with people. With 6 hours before my next flight I probably could have made it into the city for lunch, but somehow got turned around and ended up in a terminal where I can't seem to find the exit. At any rate, I'll save my trip to the city for my next layover. I imagine my lack of navigational aptitude is due to the way cars drive on the wrong side of the road here. At least the toilets are clean.

I just bought a newspaper (The Times, after picking up the Guardian and putting it back down.) I haven't read it yet but seeing as it is now 11 a.m. and my flight doesn't leave until 4:30 I have plenty of time.

My plans for Barcelona, I suppose, are to arrive this evening, find a snack, and settle into the hotel. There wasn’t much sleep on the plane and I'm quite exhausted. Tomorrow I can start exploring what I learned is a fairly small city, at 100 sq. kilometers. That would make walking from end to end about 6 miles or so, I think?

I'm not quite comprehending that I will be in Hong Kong later, or even Shanghai. This is the last time I'll hear so many English speakers for quite a while. And not only speaking English, but in that pleasantly sonorous accent. I could listen to a Londoner yapping into a cell phone for an hour just to hear the accent (which is what I'll be doing for the next few hours, as personal space is rare in Heathrow.) As crowded as it is here, it must be virtual desolation in comparison with what I'm bound to experience in China. For now I will savor the clean toilets and later have some fish and chips for lunch, or something.

Now on the flight to Barcelona. The wait in Heathrow was purgatorial. It was basically the equivalent of being locked in a shopping mall, breathing recycled air, watching tourists grab at duty free perfume and muffins. I must have gotten up and changed my seat fifteen times over the course of the few hours, for some reason or another. The seats were uncomfortable, hard plastic benches. But I am being too negative.

I listened to a man and two young kids (nephews?) playing a game of "rate how hot that girl is." The kids were apprehensive, their uncle was deeply interested. I ate a steak and cheese sandwich and drank a coca-cola, which made me feel too American. I watched the salesman at a "Caviar and Prunier" shop for a bit, wondering what that stuff is. I purchased a memory card for my camera and a filter for a lens. The airport was as diverse as Dulles and stayed crowded the whole time.

The flight to Spain was quite empty in comparison, I had the whole back of the plane to myself which is fortunate because I probably smell like a toilet, from farting and sweating and rubbing against pedestrians all day. I haven't slept adequately and on my schedule, it is noon thirty the day after my last sleep. Exhausted and stinky.

Getting on the plane the stewardess asked me in Spanish if I would like a newspaper, which I would have, but I had no idea what she said and turned down the offer. So my language skills will be tested.

I was thinking about how Hunter S. Thompson is always quoted as saying how life "never got weird enough for him." I wonder if that's because he never went to China. I haven't arrived yet, but I can previsualize the strangeness. In London, the airport had nary a sign with Chinese characters on it. How can I expect anything different in China? I will have to rely on little two-tone pictures of airplanes with their nose pointed upward, pictures of suitcases, pictures of men and women with circular heads separated from their shoulders. I will be stupefied by voices in a foreign tongue sailing out of public address systems.

I have no such thing as a strict itinerary for my stay in Barcelona, just a vague idea of a few neighborhoods the guidebook designates as interesting and a few museums and the beach. Perhaps when I arrive, I'll be too tired to go out so I will sit in my room and do a bit of planning.

I read the British newspaper while waiting this morning. A few interesting stories held my attention, and then later, they were repeated almost verbatim on the television BBC news. How different from American media where no one will agree on anything enough to report the same story. Curiously, the entire news broadcast featured a man superimposed on the screen translating the story in sign language. How long before America slips into that level of "accessibility" I don't know.

8:00 p.m.

I arrived at the Hostal Opera after an effortless airport exit, but a demanding metro journey. After descending underground, I had to traverse no less than 9 or 10 sets of thirty or forty stairs with my 50lb luggage. Just when I thought I found the right train, there was another corridor and stair set. A variety of escalators are missing from the Barcelona Metro, so far. I believe with all my struggling, someone may have attempted to open my bookbag, as the zipper was undone once I finally got on the train. Nonetheless, the system runs smooth and without the bag to lug, it should be fine.

After retrieving my luggage at the airport, a strange guy with dirty hands asked me if I spoke English, and started telling me a story about how he was trying to get to Ireland but was at the wrong airport, and how he didn't have any cash, and he wanted to know about where I was going, etc. I wished him luck and walked off.

The room at Hostal Opera is Spartan, a tiny bed in the corner of a shoebox sized room. It is only a stone throw away from the metro and the bustling Ramblas, however, and should be a great base for exploring the city. I spoke Spanish with some degree of success while checking in. To my delight the bathroom is large, with a regular toilet, and a shower. For the price, I don’t think it can be beat.

I must say that after spending 19 hours in transit, I will prefer to come directly next time. What could have been just an eight or nine hour flight has been a fatiguing trip.