Long Story Long.

It’s 8:28 AM and I’m sitting here in the Sevilla Santa Justa train station. My hands are shaking, my heart is pounding, my armpits are sweating, and the man across the aisle from me is wearing his chest hair like a winter coat. I can’t believe what I’ve done. I’ve been a responsible traveler for every single trip I’ve made this semester: I’ve always gotten to the buses on time, made it to the airport with time to spare, and found my way around each and every public transport system. Maybe I let my guard down. Maybe I’m getting old. Whatever it is, I screwed up – I woke up at 6:58 this morning, almost in disbelief. My 5:30 alarm that was supposed to get me up, showered, and to the bus stop with time to spare for my 7:15 AM flight was set for the wrong 5:30… 5:30 PM.

After screaming a few cuss words in disbelief, I got up and scrambled around to try to make the train. I’m normally pretty cool under pressure, but I couldn’t have been more tied up in a knot. I couldn’t figure out where to put my toothbrush (just put it anywhere, doofus!). I struggled to figure out what to do with my room key. I even tried putting on my clean underwear over my dirty ones. I eventually made it out the door with my backpack and two very full bags of luggage.

As I hustled to the bus stop, the once-seemingly convenient location seemed miles away. I would try to run, but after about 30 seconds I would get fatigued and have to briskly walk instead. When I got to the buses, some woman tried to insist that I was taking the wrong bus. She was wrong, I was right. End of that story. It’s 7:06 and I’m on the bus.

Once on the bus, I told the bus driver “muy rapido, por favor!” I never thought I’d be “that guy” – the profusely sweating American saying amateur Spanish phrases in desperation. Although the bus map said that there were only two stops in between my stop and the train station, I think it stopped five or six times. We hit what seemed like every red light, and I started to lose hope. We got to the train station at 7:17 AM. My 7:15 train had already left.

“Remain calm,” I thought, “you’re resourceful, and you can figure this out.” I immediately went to the customer service desk and asked if I could change the time on my ticket. “Of course you can!” they said, and explained that I just had to pay 20% of the original ticket. Normally, this would be no problem, but a couple of problems arose. I was very proud of the fact that I had used practically every euro I owned in Spain, and had literally 1 euro and 70 cents. I could have also used my debit card, but I had done a pretty good job of clearing that out this semester as well and had almost all of my money in my savings account. I didn’t have my parents’ emergency credit card. I had one hundred dollars in American money. I had a whole lot of options that were nearly all tapped out. What’s worse is that the next train at 7:45 AM only has first class seats available, which will cost me an extra hundred bucks. I could exchange my dollars to euros, but I only had 15 minutes until the next train came and the exchange safe wasn’t open for another 20.

“Okay.” I thought, “just pay with your debit card and when you get to Madrid, you can add more money into your checking account from your savings. Surely my available balance will be alright for two hours.” So I bit the bullet and decided to try and pay the extra hundred dollars with my debit card. For some reason it wouldn’t go through – I thought that it was because I didn’t have enough money. I asked the lady at the customer service desk if I could quickly borrow her computer to transfer money, but it was a no go. I then pleaded with her to do something else, that I was a poor college student just wanting to go home. At this time it was about 7:35 and I was starting to get a little emotional. She said there was nothing that she could do – that I missed my train and that they can’t help people in my situation.

This wasn’t my best idea, but I figured it was worth a shot – I thought maybe I could go down to the train that had the 7:45 departure and see if there were any extra spots. Maybe another irresponsible college student missed their train too. So, at 7:43 I ran down to try and catch the train, and literally watched as it rolled away like I was in some dramatic scene from a Hollywood movie.

At this point, I was legitimately scared. What was I going to do? I knew that international flights usually only leave once or twice a day, and foresaw myself staying another day in Sevilla. I reverted to the point of practically begging. I approached a woman and tried to explain my situation, but when you’re asking for over a hundred bucks not too many people are willing to comply. It was definitely a knock on my pride to ask for money like that. After asking one woman, I was done with that strategy.

I finally decided that I should try and find some sort of wifi and bring money from my savings to my checking account and I could use my debit card to buy a new and more expensive ticket for the 8:45 train that would get me to Madrid by 11:15 for my 12:30 flight. After asking probably six different people, someone finally let me use the Internet on their phone and I switched money in my bank account to have enough to buy a new ticket.

By this time the train station workers and I were becoming best buds (or worst enemies, depending on how you look at it). I had been back and forth between the ticket counter and the customer service desk at least 5 times. They knew my situation. I knew the prices. It was go time.

Except there was one problem – even with my card having enough money on it, the transaction wouldn’t go through. I couldn’t figure out why this was. The worker was very compliant with me, trying to show me the computer screen that he was working with. He then perked up and told me to check out the screen again. He had found one extra seat in the coach class of the train! It would only cost me 17 euros. I quickly went and received the euros from the exchange bank, ran back to the ticket kiosk and quite literally slammed down my 20 euro bill. He was excited. I was excited. Although it was an hour and a half later than I expected, and cost me a few extra euros/dollars, I was on my way to Madrid and, hopefully, on my way to Philadelphia.

I hadn’t eaten anything yet, and resisted the urge to spend my extra 5 euros in case I had some sort of new emergency that arose. By 8:20, I was sitting at the entrance to my train terminal, ready to promptly board the train and rest a little before literally running through the Madrid airport. I met a woman, Carmen, who was a lawyer traveling to Madrid. We had a good 10-minute conversation before heading to different cars on the train.

It’s now 9:42 AM, and I’m on a very comfortable journey towards the Spanish capital city. The train boasts that it’s literally always on time, and plans to arrive at the Madrid train station at 11:15. From there, I have to take a connecting train about 20 minutes to the airport, where I’ll pray that I get quick security and check-in lines. If you’re doing the math, I should have about 50 minutes to get through everything at the airport. So much for getting there two hours early for an international flight, huh?

Whoever said traveling isn’t fun hasn’t been on enough adventures. Sure, this isn’t the ideal way to do it, but in less than an hour I already have more of a story than some people do in a year. For now, I’m going to try to sit back, relax, and watch this mediocre Tommy Lee Jones movie until I get to the Madrid train station.

Spain has provided me with a lot of adventures; of course I wouldn’t expect to leave without a bang.

Well, that went a little differently than I expected it to. I’ll go ahead and spoil the ending – I’m halfway through my 7 and a half hour international flight back to Philadelphia, and I couldn’t be happier.

The train ride was both calm and chaotic. I went through all of my favorite pictures over the last semester and reminisced. I tried to calm myself and realize that there was nothing that I could do to get the train to the station any faster than it was already going. I listened to some music by All Sons & Daughters to help try to calm my nerves, but it was to no avail. I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to rest until I was on the plane to Philadelphia.

As I was sitting on the train, I realized why my debit card hadn’t worked. Originally, I was planning on coming back the 19^th of May when my program ended. Since my parents decided to come visit, I stayed an extra 3 days. When I notified Visa that I would be using my card abroad, I gave them the specific dates, and my dates had expired. I didn’t see this as a problem, however. I had heard that you could go straight from the train station to the Madrid airport for a small fee and I had a few euros left over from my first money exchange to buy a new train ticket.

To maximize efficiency, I figured that I would know exactly where to go to grab the train to the airport before the train had stopped. I asked the man sitting next to me if he lived in Madrid, and told him that I was needing to head to the airport. He told me no, that he wasn’t from Madrid, but said that it was possible to get to the airport via metro. He started writing out these complicated directions for me. As I saw him do this, I interrupted and asked him, “isn’t it possible to take a train directly to the airport?” He told me that such train didn’t exist. He then explained to me that we were in the southeast part of Madrid and the airport is in the northern part of the city. He said that the journey from the station to the airport via metro would take around an hour.

Heartbroken. That’s how I felt. I could have sworn that there was a train straight to the airport. “Maybe the man is wrong,” I thought, “after all, he isn’t from Madrid.”

No matter what was going to happen, I knew that I needed to get off that train as quickly as possible once it stationed. I pushed my way through the crowds with very aggressive and unsympathetic heaves with my three bags. As I was running through the train station, I ran into my new friend, Carmen, once again. I asked her if she knew where the train to the airport was, as she had told me earlier that she believed that there was a train directly to the airport, too. She told me she wasn’t positive – that I should head out the exit doors and ask someone there. Turns out the first man I talked to was incorrect in his assumptions, and at 11:22 I headed down to catch the 30 minute train that would take me right to the airport.

…Except the next train to the airport left at 11:45. I would get there at 12:15. There was no way that I would get through check-in and security in 15 minutes in one of the biggest airports in the world.

Still, I didn’t give up hope. The man I talked to on the train also had mentioned that I could take a taxi. It would cost me around 30 euros, he said, but it could get there in about 25 minutes. I rushed to exchange the remaining dollars I had into euros, and ran again to the taxi station. I got a taxi immediately, and told the driver about my situation. Rafael was his name. He was very optimistic. Said we could make it there in 20 minutes, no problem. We made it there in 15. At this point, I couldn’t help but smile. Even though I was going through the craziest travel day of my life, I knew that this would be a memory:

“The time I missed my train.”

“The time I got lucky with a train ticket.”

“The time I had a great cab driver.”

“The time I ran through the streets of Sevilla, two train stations, and an airport.”

“The time I fought the clock… and won.”

I got to the airport at 11:55 and was greeted with zero lines at the U.S. Airways baggage check. After a quick scolding from the attendant, I was told that they couldn’t guarantee that I was going to be able to board. That I had to run through the airport, and that the gate would close 10 minutes before departure.

I had 18 minutes, and every single one of them was precious.

At this point, I’m running through security, cutting through lines and taking off my belt and shoes faster than ever before. Sweating profusely (again). Trying to silently communicate with everyone around me that I was in an incredible hurry.

Finally, I arrived at the gate, cotton-mouthed and out of breath. My smile couldn’t have been bigger when I finally boarded the plane, sweaty and tired.

And so my adventure continues. Kansas City, here I come. Unshowered and living in dried sweat, I can’t help but think Julie’s going to hate the way I smell. Especially now that she’s pregnant.

Either way, I’m headed home.

Brad.