I finally have some downtime to recap the trip so far, so here we go.
Amsterdam
From the moment we got off the plane at Eindhoven airport (about an hour and a half from Amsterdam), I knew I was fond of the place. Unlike the ancient layout and ancient-looking grime of Rome, where everything is just kind of mashed up together, the Netherlands is a distinctly modern country. Everything from the toilets to the transportation infrastructure to the perfectly aligned rows of trees in the middle of nowhere suggest deliberateness. And who doesn’t know how much I love order?
We took a bus from Eindhoven to Centraal Station in Amsterdam. From there, most bus, train, and tram lines branch out arterially, creating an intricate web of easy-to-use transport. Somehow, the Dutch have managed to integrate tram, automobile, bike, and pedestrian traffic into their network of streets, and it just works if you’re sober enough to pay attention. We hopped aboard a tram from Centraal to our hotel and checked in to our two private rooms (after four nights in crowded and somewhat noisy hostels).
We spent most of our two days in Amsterdam walking the streets, stopping by coffeeshops, and eating a huge range of really delicious food. I can say confidently that I’ve had some of the best Thai, Chinese, and even American food of my life in Amsterdam. Sadly, the fun couldn’t last, and Wednesday morning came very quickly. Danny and Julie saw me off at the airport, and the eleven week experiment in solitude began.
Barajas
The first thing that struck me about Spain was the airport. Holy. God. The brand new humongous fourth terminal at Madrid Barajas Airport is the coolest airport I have ever been in. It’s difficult to explain what I loved about it so much, other than to say it is a grand model of efficiency and beauty. The ceiling soars and ebbs and flows for a length of maybe eight football fields more than fifty feet above one’s head, lending a completely open feel to the terminal. The floor is alternating grey marble and concrete, and the gap between ceiling and floor is bridged by massive support beams similar to those at Ratner. Only the supports at Barajas are painted purple at one end of the terminal, and gradually go through the rainbow to red all the way at the other side. These beams can be seen from inside (all four floors) and outside, and make the entire airport bright and welcoming.
After clearing customs (ie holding out my passport to collect another stamp), I got to the massive baggage claim conveyers. I mean massive. Normally, it feels like the baggage claims are an afterthought at an airport, and one must fight for front-row access to them. At Barajas, though, there is an entire floor (again the length of the terminal) fitting 20-some claims. There was enough room for every person to have one of the airport’s free baggage carts pulled up next to the belt, load up, and wheel off without impediment.
Back in Amsterdam, I had been planning to check my large suitcase and carry on my handy, go-everywhere, kind-of-large bag. But due to the handbag restrictions in London, I had to rearrange some stuff, carry on my messenger bag, and check the other two. Naturally, my response was to grab the stuff I wanted to do on the plane and my valuables. So, I took a book, a journal, my PowerBook, and my iPod. The thought that I’d left my camera in my now-checked luggage never even crossed my mind.
Now in Spain, as I was beginning to wheel away with my luggage cart, I looked at my bag. Something was amiss. There were several zippers open that hadn’t been when I left then at Amsterdam. I rifled through my bag, and realized that my camera was unaccounted for. Argh. Bye-bye, pictures from Amsterdam. I went to the service desk, filled out some paperwork, and am going to call the airport soon to see what’s up. But, again, argh.
The flight had been delayed, so by this time it was close to 12:30 am. I decided to take a cab to my hotel, as it wasn’t too far from the airport and I would have had to take a 20 minute busride to the other terminals just to wait for the hotel’s shuttle bus. The taxi-ride was quick and easy, with windows down on a crisp, cool Spanish night. I couldn’t help but smile the entire drive along nearly deserted highways. And I have to say, I love European drivers. So confident and quick. Like me, I guess.
Madrid
At the hotel, I felt the first pangs of loneliness and homesickness (home being in Chicago). I watched some Spanish TV, showered, just sad in bed not doing much, and eventually got to sleep with a terrible pit in my stomach.
The next morning, I took the hotel shuttle back to the airport and then took the Metro into the city. The trains were clean and efficient, as they were in Rome. After about 45 minutes, I got to the Plaza de Colón (ie Christopher Columbus), the designated meeting point for the beginning of our trip to Toledo. Only I was three hours early. I just sat in a kind of paseo–a wide, shaded pathway in the median of a wider still busy road–and finished The Shining. With two hours still left, I dragged my luggage around looking for something to eat. I eventually settled on a little ice-cream/coffee place on a patio (the plaza area was very businessy and the restaurants were all pricey and packed with suits). Begin the people-watching, while experiencing feelings of anxiety, excitement, terror, longing, emptiness.
And then, “Do you have a light?” asked a young British accent. I told her I didn’t, and lied that it had been confiscated on my flight the day before desperately trying to keep the conversation alive. She had just gotten in the day before, too, and was a third-year University student in Edinburgh studying in Madrid for the year. She joined me at the cafe after finding a book of matches, and we (well, she, mostly, at breakneck pace) talked for quite a while about things ranging from politics to the excitement of being in a foreign country. She made a trip to the restroom, and I glanced at my watch. 1:07. About 40 minutes until I would head back over to the plaza.
She came back. “When is your bus again?” - “Two. Or, fourteen-hundred.” - “Then you better get going! It’s almost 2:10!” I changed my watch in London, and through some delusion thought Spain was far enough west to be in the same time zone. I could swear I even matched that thought up with reality at the airport, but I must not have. I said goodbye to her, wished her fun and luck, and crossed a million crosswalks trying to get across the really wide streets surrounding the plaza. Nobody at the statue, where we were supposed to meet. Mother fucker. I began looking around for pay-phones to call the directors in Chicago and tell them hi, I am the asshat that missed the bus, and what should I do? But in the search for a phone, I stumbled upon a tour bus, and noticed on closer inspection that it was based in Toledo. Promising. And sure enough, it turned out to be most of the other students from the program. The bus waited another 15 minutes after I got on, as three other people had missed the rendezvous as well. They didn’t make it, and must have found other means to Toledo. Asshats.
At around 2:30, the bus pulled away for the plaza, starting the hour-long bus ride to my new (if temporary) life in Toledo.