"Bet we could pop in for a beer before shipping off," I joked, settling in for a bit of sleep before our 4:30 am exit from Buenos Aires, and South America. We had gone back to the Hotel Carly because you can't beat the price, and again had a street-facing room. Mid-week,and the bars were hopping.
At 4:15, as we stumbled into the cab, I resented being right.
On top of being our first continental hop since beginning our tour, the journey from South America to our final destination in France was extremely delicate, owing to an exhausting number of transfers and very little leeway. Our reluctance to break it up over a few days is owed principally to the cost of staying ANYWHERE in Europe for less than $100. We plotted the course and hoped for the best; it did not go smoothly.
You don't want to hear this, but I think it's important for you to be made aware: For you, dear reader, to understand that while we are truly relishing our wonderful adventure, it is, in all respects, exactly like a job some days. Sometimes, you feel productive, your colleagues appreciate you, you get a long lunch, and you go home happy. Other times, you're hit with crippling period symptoms and violent diarhea owing to the empanadas you ate for dinner because you only had 20 pesos left, and the wine cost half.
Actually, that hasn't really happened to me at work. Yet.
The day got worse. South America decided to be covered by some supernatural continental fog that day, and our delicate timing was compromised right off the bat by a two-hour delay in Buenos Aires. When we did lift off, it was actually to Santiago - right next to the Pacific, where the next flight was to take us into Madrid. "Why're we going backwards?" asked D-man. "Oh, probably to take advantage of a cheap charter," I dismissed.
I resented being right. Again.
Comet Air. 12 hours. NO distractions WHATSOEVER. No map. No peanuts. No televisions. Just a few incredibly sullen flight attendents and a few hundred incredibly obnoxious South American passengers (they make for a tough crowd. I think it's an instinctive sense of entitlement.) I would go on expounding the badness of this flight if only for one singular redeeming grace; they were on time.
Having witnessed two oceans thus far, we hoped the trip through Spain by train would be straightforward, if tedious; it would take three different trains to do it, and we would have to first activate the Euorail passes we wisely purchased BEFORE entering the land of "What the hell do you MEAN, it costs 20 euros for breakfast." But the train station nearly destroyed me from the start. We had been travelling (read: visiting toilets in all kinds of places) for 24 hours at that point and now NEEDED to catch the 10 am train to San Sebastien, or else we would be stuck in Madrid for a day. And this, to me, was a fate worse than death. I have no choice but to add,it that at this point, I had lost it. I was Arthur Dent, the Earth was destroyed, we were on the Vogon ship, and if you haven't any clue what I am talking about right now, PLEASE STOP READING RIGHT NOW, and RUN to the library/Chapters/wikipedia to inform yourself on the Guide, because I just cannot fathom having people appreciate my total breakdown at this point if they don't even CARE where their towel is.
And also because I'm going to keep the analogy alive: We stood in two lines between 9:00 and 9:30, turned away each time by enormous, ugly Vogons for being in the wrong, unmarked queue. Unfortunately, BOTH THESE CLERKS also neglected to tell us that, even when we did get into the right line we would need to have taken a NUMBER to get service. So when we DID get through the right line, with 17 minutes to spare, WE WERE NOT SERVED. The Vogon in front of us told us to take a number. He would not entertain our pleas.
And here, a strange intervention. Our of nowhere, a blonde-haired German angel, perhaps sympathetic to her fellow travelers, produced the NEXT NUBMER TO BE CALLED. She didn't need it, and could we use it? A glimmer. The Vogon still waited a few more minutes before slowly advaning the number dial and contemplating us, once again. I held my breath, and D-man crooned "don't worry. We're gonna make it." "I know, but we have to activate those passes. That kind off stuff always goes wrong," I whined.
I resented OPENING MY STUPID MOUTH AGAIN.
"Didn't they come with a slip cover in Canada? They require the appropriate folder to be valid," said the Vogon in rapid-fire Spanish even though he knew we didn't speak it. And at this point, although I know it wasn't compassion that drove him, he clearly had had enough of us, and, snorting (as well as having an interminably long banter-fest with his boss), he thrust the tickets at us and dismised us.
Three minutes left.
We made the train, and the one after. Thirty hours on the road, and the end was near. At the next transfer, a strike meant we had to take a bus to our final stop, St. Jean Pied de Port, but we got onto it and enjoyed a VERY blurry view of the incredible Basque region before arriving, in pieces, at last. Our luck held just long enough for our innkeeper to take great pity on us and give us a room we had actually only reserved for the following night - even above a rich couple from Paris, who had seen the room but were looking into alternatives. I loved her instantly. The bed was blissful; the sunset reviving. 45 hours after departing Buenos Aires, we walked through the door of our temporary home, satisfied at an impossible job impossibly well done.
