World Travel: Day One — Adam + Tori

I woke up to a notification on my phone from American Airlines: “Your flight from DCA to BOS will now depart at 6:30pm.”

Groggy from the late night spent packing away our lives outside of the carry-on and backpack each, I struggled to remember when that flight was supposed to leave in the first place. “Delayed” appeared in red lettering across my phone. Why would the airline delay a flight by half-an-hour twelve hours prior to departure? Crew swap? Short on planes? There’s no weather in the Northeast today. Hmm…. Track inbound flight: “AA 2127 LGA to DCA. Delayed. Ah, LaGuardia….

I spent the better part of the ride to Nashville thumbing through what was leaving Boston or D.C. bound for Spain or anywhere close. Because we had booked two separate reservations (Southwest to D.C. and American to Madrid via Boston), I hadn’t given much thought to the one hour and eighteen minute connection in Boston. If we missed the connection in Boston, American would be obligated to get us to our final destination. If we didn’t make it to D.C., we’d have to buy tickets at the counter. To keep the risk low, I’d given us over five hours of leeway in D.C. and booked on a reputable airline in a season and time that had minimal weather disruptions. But, now our forty-eight minutes in Boston had my attention. “We wanted an adventure, right?” “I’m fine with a night in Boston if we have to,” Tori replied.

We rolled up to a flurry of activity at BNA: scores of people unloading into the terminal, cranes and construction workers busy in the morning light. As we unloaded our bags onto the curb, we said the last of our goodbyes with Tori’s mom, snapped a photo, and quickly disappeared into security. The whole scene was alarmingly normal. It had been nearly ten months since I had set foot in an airport—back when crews could outnumber passenger loads. Now, being around hundreds of people again felt strange but familiar—reminiscent of earlier times. We made our way to the gate with plenty of time to spare. The best part? I didn’t have to wonder if there would be enough open seats on the plane.

The flight to D.C. was uneventful. We pushed early, taxied, and took off. The morning wasn’t particularly pretty: harsh light and haze. As we accelerated into our climb, I glanced back at Nashville, this time not knowing when I’d set eyes on it again. Then, we disappeared into the clouds.

Just arriving in the main concourse at DCA.

I managed to catch a couple glimpses of the capitol rotunda before our carrier landing in D.C. It’s been a minute since I’ve flown Southwest. After looking over the terminal layout, I suspected we’d have to leave security and reenter in order to reach our next gate. I was right. The haphazard signs led us outside the secure area, through hallways with offices and conference rooms, and through the historic terminal before spitting us out in to the main concourse. Our only saving grace? Chick-fil-A. If you know me well, you know there’s no more fitting last meal in the States. The fact we could sip on tea at a table to ourselves without masks while traveling: heaven.

I noticed other pilots around: in line, at another table, walking to the gate. You could guess who was in between “turns,” who was getting started, and who was headed home. Several of them looked familiar even though I knew I didn’t know them. Maybe it’s just the looks on their faces?

The American Airlines app wouldn’t let us use mobile check in, so we decided to make our way up to the ticket counter early. As we topped the escalator, a crowd came into view right in front of the counter we needed. I searched for the end of the line; it had overflown from the queue and was beginning to meander about the concourse. Lovely.

Forty-five minutes later, we were face-to-face with a middle-aged representative with all the tenacity and vivaciousness of someone who’s been fired from the DMV. She looked at me and muttered something indiscernible. I smiled and handed her our passports. She is not excited that we’re going to Spain.

“Where are your COVID tests?” she barked. Confused, I handed her our CDC cards: “We’re fully vaccinated.” Momentarily placated, she moved on: “What about your hotel reservation?” “I’m sorry?” I replied. My mind went to Boston. Does she know something that I don’t? Are we going to miss our connection? “Your hotel. Where are you staying when you get to Madrid?” “Ah, we have an Airbnb; I have that information,” I replied. “What about money?” “Money?” “Proof of funds. They’re going to ask you when you get there.” Uninterested entirely at this point, she stapled our boarding passes together and pointed toward the gates.

We cleared security for the second time of the day, and I went to save a PDF of a bank statement to my phone when a notification popped up: “Your flight from DCA to BOS will now depart at 6:00pm.” What? I look up the flight plan for the inbound plane from LaGuardia. No delays. Huh. I pulled up the terminal layout for Boston to see where our flights would arrive and where the international terminal is located: opposite sides of the airport. My eyes traced the concourses and hallways for connections; there aren’t any behind security. At least we’ve got time now.

Sure enough, we touched down in Boston right on time. Tori and I were each given middle seats across the aisle at the back of the plane, so we recounted the brief, awkward flight to each other as we paced outside of security from the B concourse to the C. There was a large atrium at the entrance to C. Across the entry, we made out a sign over a hallway that said E Terminal, International. An escalator took us down to another hallway, this one narrower with offices on either side. Still, after each “E” sign disappeared from view, another one appeared. The corridors were quiet: just our roller bags and the chatter of employees on their way out. The signs took us outside onto the sidewalk and around the building. “Do you think it exists?” Across the street, there it is: shiny glass, modern architecture, clean lines, LED lights. We go inside, and it already feels like we’ve left the country. A long, dramatic escalator takes us past ticketing to security. Our flight is about to board. For the third time, we throw our things onto the conveyer belt and pass through screening. Except this time, Tori’s backpack is flagged…and then mine.

The veteran TSA officer was extremely diligent. He quietly took his time examining Tori’s bag, every now and then asking a question. My bag sat on the conveyer belt. I watched as several bags in our lane stacked up while other lanes were being searched quickly. He hands Tori’s disassembled bag back to her in trays. I inform him my bag has been flagged as well, and he tells me to wait where I am before moving on to gather up all the empty trays and wheeling them back to the front of the checkpoint. There’s a line of people behind me now. I can see bags stacked up on the bypass lane at screening; I can also see our flight boarding down the concourse. He’s stacking the trays neatly.

I see him pick up my bag and I nod in the affirmative. Without saying anything, he starts his process again: one bag, two trays. Everything out. Except, I have a lot more electronics. He gives me a patronizing look before saying: “All electronics larger than a phone need to be removed. I’m going to rescreen this,” and disappears.

I trade places with the gentleman behind me and wait. Tori’s still piecing her bag back together in the corner of my eye. Several minutes later, I see my trays sitting on the rollers as people grab their things from either side. I briefly see the dollar amount of everything I’ve packed sitting on the table as well. “Excuse me, my things have come through screening. Can I take them?” He ignores me and continues to ask the rather large man in front of me exactly how many snacks did he pack for this flight. I look at Tori. She’s waiting. Our flight’s boarding. “It’s been screened. If they don’t want me to take it, I’m sure they’ll let me know.” I grab my stuff and find a place to start putting my life back together.

There was really only one way to get everything to fit in a way that you can still access what you need during the flight. I fit it all back in. “Where’s my watch?” I check the normal places. It was with my phone and wallet before; I have both of those. I pull everything back out. He had packed it into a case that I had packed into the bag.

Slightly relieved but mostly frustrated, we join the line to board. “I feel like I need a shower,” I say to Tori. The instructions over the loudspeaker are already in Spanish, but we make out that American Airlines boarding passes need to be reprinted before boarding. An agent confirms this, and we join a longer line. There are only a couple people behind us. The flight’s late pushing back. We exchange our American boarding passes for Iberian ones and head down the jet bridge.

It’s always a relief to see the flight attendants smiling. After all the ambiguity of the day, we finally made it on. We were getting to Spain. I sank into my seat, relieved, content to catch some sleep over the Atlantic.

Tori stayed up the whole night, surprisingly. After dinner, she dug into the new releases. I usually can’t fall asleep on planes—occupational hazard, but this time, under a moonless sky beneath the bright constellations—and with a seat that reclined, it wasn’t difficult.

The sun rose around 1:00am. I could see it coming for a while, first from the far North and then from the East. Tori was starting to drift by now, but I knew we were almost to Spain. I was up. The continent came into view just after breakfast—the cool, misty Costa Verde then the arid inland of Spain. We descended over Madrid before turning toward the field; the city, a labyrinth surrounded by mountains and farmland. The landing was notably smooth; a huge contrast from the day before. We had finally arrived.

After disembarking, I shuffled through my bag and pulled out an itinerary I had printed a couple of days before: reservations, flights, insurance, and most importantly, our exit date from the EU. There was no wait at immigration. A young officer greeted us in Spanish. Tori replied. I smiled and handed her our passports. She asked a few questions in Spanish. Tori, feeling the 3 am jet lag, managed to string together some phrases I didn’t understand. The agent didn't revert to English. She asked more questions, and Tori looked at me. I handed the agent my packet. She thumbed through it, attempting to make small talk in Spanish before stamping our passports and pleasantly waiving us on.

“That was surprisingly easy.” “Yeah?” Pleased, we moved on to customs. Overhead, there was a sign that read: “I have nothing to declare” leading to the rest of the airport. Really? No kiosks? No forms? That was it. Some health volunteers scanned the QR codes to the forms we had filled out the day before and let us in.

Not feeling the 11 am vibe, we found a coffee shop in the main concourse with plenty of seating. “Let’s just hang out here.” We had budgeted 4 hours between landing and our train departing downtown, and we had plenty of time to kill. I tried not to think about the 21€ I had just shelled out for airport breakfast.

When it was time to catch our Uber, we gathered our stuff and began trying to decipher the pickup location. “Terminal 4, Parking Module B.” We walked outside toward the parking just to find a dead end, but when we turned back to the terminal, there was an employee checking boarding passes. I opened Uber on my phone. “Let’s just try it.” We walked up, and Tori spouted off something in quick Spanish, he pointed and let us through. I looked at her wide-eyed. “Okay, then.”

The Uber ride should have been minorly-terrifying, but I was too tired to care. Roundabouts on roundabouts like cells trying to divide, scooters, pedestrians, lanes disappearing into tunnels. Not my problem. I could see the train station towering in the distance and lanes of cars trying to get in. Our quietly adept driver skirted in across lanes while the American Top 40 played on volume 2. Right on time.

My only experience riding trains was New Jersey transit to New York City, so I didn’t really know what to expect on a real train. I found a display that showed our platform number, we ran our bags through a scanner, an agent scanned our passes, and we walked straight down. The train was already at the platform. Each car was labeled with an LED screen. I found ours, we deposited our carry-ons in the luggage compartment by the stairs, and found our seats. They were plush—like business class seats on a plane. The windows were massive. Tori was nodding off and didn’t notice when the train began to move. I was paying attention and didn’t feel it. The acceleration was gradual and quiet leading us effortlessly out of the city.

The cabin was quiet. The door between cars would open every now and then, but mostly it was quiet conversations in various languages. An elderly French couple sat in front of us. Every now and then, I could grasp a phrase, but they were speaking far to quickly and quietly for me to discern much. Across, there was a young family. He was English, and she was Spanish. Neither their toddler nor baby made a fuss.

The landscape seemed familiar. The cars would dip below a hillside and eventually crest a ridge revealing vast swaths of open land, valleys, a barren mountain range in the distance—not too different from California. Orchards passed in an instant. One field to the next, to the next at nearly 200 mph. I struggled to make sense of the different rows and patterns flashing before my eyes, and then it was gone. On to the next village.

The towns came and went: red tile roofs congregated around churches that reminded me of the missions in California and Mexico. It seemed like the old West here—just much older and resilient yet content to exist on its own. I tried to take in as much as I could before drifting into the landscape.

The time passed effortlessly, and we unloaded our things onto the platform in Sevilla. We were 27.5 hours in and only a 5€ Uber away from a shower and a bed. The crowded streets narrowed through the car window. The city grew older as we passed by. We rounded corners on to cobblestone, past pedestrians and little cafes. Old doors stood out—no two alike. The driver stopped when the streets became too narrow for cars and let us out. We walked the last 200 feet to a charming Airbnb host who greeted us and told us a few things I vaguely remember. The whole unfamiliar world we had just dropped ourselves into was a blur, a movie set; it didn’t seem real. I couldn’t wait to wander, to get lost. But for now, a cool shower and some rest would have to do. Besides, we have the whole month.