We arrived in Barcelona yesterday afternoon, but not without several adventures and misadventures along the way.
On Thursday morning, everything went swimmingly. We were packed, the house was in order, and we were given a perfect travel weather day. Evan picked us up on time, packed his small car (including John hoisting our largest bag onto his lap in the backseat) with our luggage, and drove John, Art, and me to the airport. Note: Evan couldn’t easily find his way out of our neighborhood, or to the only airport in town…I hope he made it back!
We leisurely awaited our flight from GRR to Atlanta…sipping really serious Bloody Marys and gobbling down Facebook and email in anticipation of not accessing technology for nearly two weeks.
Our flight boarded easily and on time and we soon were in Atlanta. Upon arrival we found all of the necessary information for connecting and went off to have our last State-side meal (which was atrocious and complimented with bad service, but, whatever). We then enjoyed time and too many glasses of wine in the Delta Club, where I also helped the hospitality by restocking the snack bar and sharing the recipe for a Midori Cocktail on behalf of an Asian man (who was ordering for his wife) to the lovely bartender.
Lightly lit and with great enthusiasm we headed to our flight terminal. Crowded, but calm, the terminal was abuzz with travelers. Soon after our arrival there the Delta representative (who, it turned out was evil) announced that the flight was oversold. We continued to chat and pace. After several announcements, the representative announced that Delta needed three passengers with flexible schedules to give up their seats and take a later flight. John was up and scurrying us to the counter as “we” decided to give up our seats (and ultimately sell our souls…). Dru, our more than helpful representative gave us food vouchers ($14.00 per person, as if you could buy more than a plate of cheese sticks and a beer at the airport on that budget), re-booked us and gave us each $800.00 in Delta Dollars for future travel. Still feeling as though we had won, we examined the tickets and discovered that we needed to be at the other end of Atlanta Hartsfield—no small feat—and in less than 40 minutes. So much for those free cheese sticks and beer. We hustled off to the train and arrived at Terminal T in time to board.
The 11-hour flight was challenging. I lost my vegetarian dinner request during our deal with the devil and had to hope for a pasta meal (which I did get). Crowded and understaffed (the pilot apologized often and profusely for being without one flight attendant who, it seems had been taken ill—leaving her cold behind for me to contract—which I did) the plane made its way across the ocean, to Copenhagen, our newly booked layover destination.
Just as one might picture Copenhagen, we landed in a gray mist at 9:30ish AM local time. We were haggard, disheveled, and exhausted. Shuffling into the airport, I discovered that I could not locate my passport. Trying to appear calm, so as to not alarm John (who had already left us and moved through international security), Art helped me rifle through Men’s Fitness, Food and Wine, Vanity Fair, books on Buddhism, nasal spray and everything else you could imagine I might consider “must haves,” but alas, we found no passport. I calmly, but purposely strode back to the plane and asked all the Danes in sight to help me find it.
“In what seat did you sit?”
“Row 17, I think.”
“We will check. You stay here.”
Smiling and wondrously blonde and high-cheek-boned, the security guy stood with me while several others went on to the Row 17.
“There is nothing there,” announced the gate attendant. “Are you sure it was Row 17? What is your last name?”
“Underhile, U-n-d-e-r-h-i-l-e,” I spelled.
After looking through his records he announced I was in 26E. Close enough.
He returned to the plane.
“No, nothing there, either.”
I made my way back to the terminal, glad to not be in a hurry for our connecting flight and wondering what the process would be like to replace my passport.
As I entered the terminal, Arthur stood to greet me, my passport in hand. It had been in my backpack the whole time, hiding in a crevasse between magazines, books, cough drops, sunglasses, and medications.
We made our way into the terminal and began to scout around for breakfast. At 9:30 AM in Copenhagen, everyone had a beer or glass of wine in front of them! More than a little tired, we found a small indoor bistro with typical Danish fare. John had an open-faced roast beef sandwich and French-pressed coffee. Art had water and French-pressed coffee, while I had a glass of Champagne and an open-faced cheese sandwich. The Dutch are thin and chiseled because they eat nothing hot, nothing cooked, and nothing processed.
The most amazing thing about the Copenhagen airport is its architecture. Austere, elegant, minimalist, and understated, the airport is absolutely calming…a much needed environment to gather our wits and wait for the connection to Barcelona!
On Thursday morning, everything went swimmingly. We were packed, the house was in order, and we were given a perfect travel weather day. Evan picked us up on time, packed his small car (including John hoisting our largest bag onto his lap in the backseat) with our luggage, and drove John, Art, and me to the airport. Note: Evan couldn’t easily find his way out of our neighborhood, or to the only airport in town…I hope he made it back!
We leisurely awaited our flight from GRR to Atlanta…sipping really serious Bloody Marys and gobbling down Facebook and email in anticipation of not accessing technology for nearly two weeks.
Our flight boarded easily and on time and we soon were in Atlanta. Upon arrival we found all of the necessary information for connecting and went off to have our last State-side meal (which was atrocious and complimented with bad service, but, whatever). We then enjoyed time and too many glasses of wine in the Delta Club, where I also helped the hospitality by restocking the snack bar and sharing the recipe for a Midori Cocktail on behalf of an Asian man (who was ordering for his wife) to the lovely bartender.
Lightly lit and with great enthusiasm we headed to our flight terminal. Crowded, but calm, the terminal was abuzz with travelers. Soon after our arrival there the Delta representative (who, it turned out was evil) announced that the flight was oversold. We continued to chat and pace. After several announcements, the representative announced that Delta needed three passengers with flexible schedules to give up their seats and take a later flight. John was up and scurrying us to the counter as “we” decided to give up our seats (and ultimately sell our souls…). Dru, our more than helpful representative gave us food vouchers ($14.00 per person, as if you could buy more than a plate of cheese sticks and a beer at the airport on that budget), re-booked us and gave us each $800.00 in Delta Dollars for future travel. Still feeling as though we had won, we examined the tickets and discovered that we needed to be at the other end of Atlanta Hartsfield—no small feat—and in less than 40 minutes. So much for those free cheese sticks and beer. We hustled off to the train and arrived at Terminal T in time to board.
The 11-hour flight was challenging. I lost my vegetarian dinner request during our deal with the devil and had to hope for a pasta meal (which I did get). Crowded and understaffed (the pilot apologized often and profusely for being without one flight attendant who, it seems had been taken ill—leaving her cold behind for me to contract—which I did) the plane made its way across the ocean, to Copenhagen, our newly booked layover destination.
Just as one might picture Copenhagen, we landed in a gray mist at 9:30ish AM local time. We were haggard, disheveled, and exhausted. Shuffling into the airport, I discovered that I could not locate my passport. Trying to appear calm, so as to not alarm John (who had already left us and moved through international security), Art helped me rifle through Men’s Fitness, Food and Wine, Vanity Fair, books on Buddhism, nasal spray and everything else you could imagine I might consider “must haves,” but alas, we found no passport. I calmly, but purposely strode back to the plane and asked all the Danes in sight to help me find it.
“In what seat did you sit?”
“Row 17, I think.”
“We will check. You stay here.”
Smiling and wondrously blonde and high-cheek-boned, the security guy stood with me while several others went on to the Row 17.
“There is nothing there,” announced the gate attendant. “Are you sure it was Row 17? What is your last name?”
“Underhile, U-n-d-e-r-h-i-l-e,” I spelled.
After looking through his records he announced I was in 26E. Close enough.
He returned to the plane.
“No, nothing there, either.”
I made my way back to the terminal, glad to not be in a hurry for our connecting flight and wondering what the process would be like to replace my passport.
As I entered the terminal, Arthur stood to greet me, my passport in hand. It had been in my backpack the whole time, hiding in a crevasse between magazines, books, cough drops, sunglasses, and medications.
We made our way into the terminal and began to scout around for breakfast. At 9:30 AM in Copenhagen, everyone had a beer or glass of wine in front of them! More than a little tired, we found a small indoor bistro with typical Danish fare. John had an open-faced roast beef sandwich and French-pressed coffee. Art had water and French-pressed coffee, while I had a glass of Champagne and an open-faced cheese sandwich. The Dutch are thin and chiseled because they eat nothing hot, nothing cooked, and nothing processed.
The most amazing thing about the Copenhagen airport is its architecture. Austere, elegant, minimalist, and understated, the airport is absolutely calming…a much needed environment to gather our wits and wait for the connection to Barcelona!
