Grandma is at it again, and I am truly beginning to think this is nuts, but let's forget about that and get to the kvetching and kvelling, which is the whole point of this blog.
Let me say that being picked up to go to the airport by someone who drives a way better car than you do is very nice, very nice, indeed. The guy was a frightful bore, pero bueno, he got me th JFK sana y salva, and the mob scene at check in I had been anticipating did not, thank God, meet my expectations. In fact, it took about 2 minutes to check in—I highly recommend terminal 8— and security was pretty quick, too. BUT, as I approached the thingee you walk through, the guy asked me, "Any metal in your body? Knees? Hips?" "Teeth," I replied, and was waved through. (The questions did not please me.) Whilst cruising the lounge, I bumped into the corner of a cabinet or something, which caused a massive amount of bleeding. "OH, ****, I am going to miss my flight because of this." Many paper towels and much embarrassment later, I was given a large, square, blue bandaid (all they had), but then there was Hester Prynne who had it way worse. The bandage, which covered most of my forehead did not stop the bleeding, so more paper towels had to be applied—it is not at all elegant to walk around like this—but eventually (by the nest day) the bleeding stopped.
I think I have discovered the perfect sleeping potion (private consults can be arranged) because I slept the entire flight. The Madrid airport is something else; it requires an entire journey just to get to the baggage claim, where, it turned out, a number of luggages from our flight were not on the designated carrousel (#1), and the Air Tag had my bag thousands of miles away. This baggage situation must be a fairly common occurrence because there is a luggage help desk manned (will I be cancelled?) by about four or five employees who track errant bags. "Your suitcase is in Madrid and will be on carousel #6 in about 20 minutes." Forty-five minutes later it was. Meantime, I had a car booked to take me to the train station and was frantic that la conductora would leave, but I made two calls to plead my case—I do not like speaking on the phone in Spanish—she waited, and was compensated, shall we say, handsomely. Her car reeked of tobacco.
The train ride to Zaragoza was pleasant, the best part being two tiny luke-warm cups of bad coffee, badly needed, OK, not the bad part but the coffee. At the Zaragoza train station there are more taxis waiting to pick up passengers than I have ever seen, hundreds of taxis, hundreds, honestly, a veritable convention of taxis. At the hotel I was permitted an early check-in, a real luxury after a long trip, although the accommodation is far from luxurious. It is extremely modest, in fact, note the quaint entry-to-the-room system:
There is a pastry and coffee shop attached to the hotel, which, for guests only, is open 24/7. I can hardly wait for a cafe con leche mañana. In the meantime, and do not ask how, I dropped a copy of my passport out the window of my roon; it landed on the roof of a farmacia, also attached to the hotel, and was retrieved without too much trouble but with much embarrassment for me.
I spent the day walking about town, hither and yon, seeking out groceries, buying, inter alia, a shawarma (2 1/2 stars), fruit, cookies, bread and butter. THE sight in town is the Basilica pictures of which you can examine at leisure. Let's just say that I find it interesting to contemplate where different religions put their creative energy and to what ends.
As I began out-and-abouting, I discovered that my phone was not connecting to the internet despite there being quite sufficient bar-age. I fiddled with every damn setting, and at last got it up and running.
A selfie:
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