I had about a 12-minute wait at Cambridge Rail Station for the first train in my desperation connection to Stansted Airport. As I caught my breath on the crowded platform after speeding back from the center of town in the rain on the bulky mountain bike (with the not-so-aerodynamic metal basket mounted on front), I realized I still had more frantic scrambling ahead of me. I thought about using the payphone to call information and then Ryanair to let them know I was on my way, but figured I'd probably get routed to some call center in India and I'd just be wasting my time. Instead, I focused on finding some water to quench my nagging thirst.
I didn't see any drinking fountains around, so I got in line at a platform sandwich stand to buy a bottle of water. The line moved quickly, but service ground to a halt when a batty, middle-aged woman (probably a rocket scientist from the University) immediately in front of me got up to order. She stared at the various options in the display case as if she had just thawed after a millennium trapped in ice and baguettes were a completely novel innovation. After a couple minutes of utter indecision, she finally picked something and the clerk started to wrap it up. At this point, I glanced at the platform clock and noted my train was due in three minutes. Pushy American, I am.
As the clerk handed the sandwich over, the woman then decided to open her purse and dump out a handful of coins on the counter. She seem incapable of deciding whether she should use some silver 5p coins or copper 1p coins. I really wanted to just holler out, "One bottled water!" and toss over the 1£ coin. After the woman separated what appeared to be the appropriate payment, the clerk shook his head as if she was missing a coin or two. One minute until my train.
The lady fished around and handed over another coin, the clerk smiled, and she was finally on her way. As I stepped up to the counter, the clerk attempted to open the cash register to deposit the woman's coins, but the machine wouldn't open. He pushed a couple buttons - still no luck. As I started to verbalize my well-practiced phrase, "one bottled water," the clerk suddenly bolted from the register and disappeared out a back door. He suddenly reappeared next to me in front of the order counter and mumbled, "I have a problem," as he abruptly reached over me and pulled down the coiled metal grille over the front of his shop. Nice communicator. Store closed.
At that moment, my train pulled up to the platform next to me and quite likely saved me the disgrace of a fully-public and amateurish karate demonstration on the closed metal door of the sandwich stand, with the accompanying barrage of vulgar American English never before heard by these high-brow English folk.
The timing of the train connections was as scheduled; I arrived at Stansted Airport 30 minutes prior to my flight. Unfortunately, check-in for the flight closed a few minutes earlier. They wouldn't budge and let me check-in late. Instead, they routed me over to a separate ticket counter to pay the missed flight idiot penalty and get a reservation for the next outgoing flight. I seemed to remember flight options from Stansted to Sevilla being very limited - like once a day in the evening. I wasn't inclined to hang out at Stansted overnight and all day Saturday, so when they offered to put me on a flight to Granada, Spain, that would be closing in 10 minutes, I quickly asked for a map of the country and made a snap decision that Granada and Sevilla looked relatively close to each other. A quick bus or train ride, I figured. Although I'd be arriving around 11:30 PM, I rationalized that if there weren't transport options that late, I could always wait/sleep out the night at the airport.
They told me I had to hustle to the gate if I wanted to catch the plane. The security line was slow, and I happened to get in the line of some touchy-feely screener who seemed overly focused that my family jewels were securely packed away for the flight. I got past that clown and sprinted down the terminal, weaving through crowds of people with my suitcase. As I got near the gate, I could tell from the mass of people standing around that boarding was delayed a few minutes. I took the opportunity to locate a nearby internet kiosk, dropped in a couple of 1£ coins (rip-off!) and logged into my e-mail as the PA announced initial boarding would begin. I fired off a shot-in-the-dark message to Mom, asking her to attempt to notify Kelly that I wouldn't be meeting her at Sevilla airport as we had previously arranged. Sending the e-mail was frustrating and nerve-wracking, since the screen would turn black for a moment after every keystroke (I won't hesitate to say that the machine performed like a typical Dell). After I hit "send," I remembered that I had Kelly's cell number in an old e-mail. I frantically searched and eventually found the contact number, but didn't have anything to write with. I quickly pulled out a coin and started etching the number into my boarding pass, but mid-way through the number, the computer completely crashed (with several minutes of paid internet time remaining). Again, I wanted to drop-kick the machine, but the final boarding call lured me away.
I scrambled to the gate and onto the plane, wondering if I just made a difficult situation worse. Where the heck was Granada anyway?
Several hours later my plane landed at tiny Fredrico Garcia Lorca Granada-Jaen airport, about 40 minutes from the city of Granada. Although the airport was clean and bright, I quickly learned it had no internet access, and that it didn't stay open all night. The final bus of the night to Granada would be leaving in 15 minutes. I ran and located a payphone and made contact with Mom, who had located Kelly's home telephone number in Sevilla. I dialed Kelly's apartment, and apparently just caught them after they returned from...I'm ashamed to say...waiting for me at Sevilla Airport. Me missing my original flight already fouled up the plans, but losing my hosts' contact cell numbers really compounded the inconvenience for everybody. (Mom had sent an e-mail warning to Kelly, but Kelly didn't have access to the message prior to needing to leave for the airport. Obviously, e-mail is not the ideal mode of communication for emergencies).
Bewildered Kelly asked where I was, and proceeded to notify me that Granada was a minimum 3.5-4 hours from Sevilla by train (oops). She and Sebastian quickly switched to "crisis-management" mode and raced to provide me with times of the next available trains and buses leaving Granada for Sevilla. At that hour of the night, there were no options until the next morning.
As I dashed off to buy a ticket for the last bus into Granada, I stopped by the Hertz car rental desk and asked what it would cost for me to rent a car for a few hours and drop it off at Sevilla Airport. About $300 bucks. That's about what my truck back home is worth.
As the bus into town entered Granada City, I struggled to read the Spanish roadsigns. At one point I saw an arrow and the word,"Ferrocarrille," which sounded familiar. I pulled the cord and got off after the bus pulled off to the side of a busy urban boulevard. This wasn't the first time I had arrived in an unfamiliar foreign city at night, but this time I didn't have anywhere in particular to go.
I pulled my suitcase across pavement cobbles about a half-mile to the train station, which I wasn't surprised to see was closed for the night. I found a city map display on a street corner and located a hostel about a mile across town. I navigated through some sketchy streets over to the hostel entrance, only to be told the place was fully-booked for the next several weeks. By then it was about 1:15 AM, and I decided to head back to the train station and find a place to wait out the night.
Granada seemed to have a booming night-life with people out at all hours, so I felt reasonably safe parking myself on a public bench and reading my book under a streetlamp. I figured I would be safer moving around, so I alternated every few hours between two benches a couple of blocks apart. I even dozed off for short periods of time, although I sat upright and my rest was the "sleep-with-one-eye-open" kind.
By 6:00 AM, the sky was light and I strolled around the city a bit, noting the contrast between the city at night and in daylight. I made my way over to the train station and bought a one-way morning ticket to Sevilla along with a big croissant for breakfast. From then on, my trip was smooth-sailing, and I could once again start to enjoy it as a mini-vacation, as it was intended.
Open-air urban camping in Spain! I sat most of the night on this bench, situated between two apartment buildings.
This bench was about a block away from the train station, and obviously outside a bar that had closed down for the night. That didn't stop some locals from setting up a table nearby do play cards, smoke and drink beer until around 3:00 AM.
In the morning I was able to see some of the nice streetscapes of the city. Lots of flowers and citrus trees. At night, graffiti seemed to be the public artwork of choice.
I didn't realize until I was leaving that the world famous palace and fortress of Alhambra is located in Granada. I'd like to go back to the city someday to spend more "quality" time - maybe even sleeping indoors.
I woke up a bit delirious after a snooze on the train and wondered for a second how I ended up in San Francisco.
Farmhouse ruins amid thousands of sunflowers en route to Sevilla. On the far left there's a peek of some olive trees which covered many of the hillsides in the region.
A fun and memorable (although maybe not so healthy) breakfast at the neighborhood chocolateria: Handmade Spanish churros with thick chocolate dipping sauce, outstanding Spanish (machado) coffee, and fresh squeezed orange juice.
Legs of cured Serrano ham (jamon) are a staple in the Sevillian diet.
Most bars and restaurants appear to have racks specifically designed to hold the cured ham leg - hoof and all - for easy slicing. The black-foot hams (as opposed to the white-hoofed legs) sell at a premium since the pig is reputed to eat only a specific type of acorn, which turns the hoof black.
Various types of chorizo sausage in a shop window.
It was impossible to pass by the sign in the window of this bar without thinking, "would I attempt to eat those?"
We had to take advantage of the limited window of availability while this local delicacy was in season. These garden-loving gastropods appeared to have been boiled or sauteed in a garlic & butter sauce.
Sebastian was a pro at getting the "meat" out of the shell. I usually had to resort to poking out the edible portion with a toothpick. The snails tasted similar to mussels, and the occasional pockets of sand were reminiscent of those gritty pieces of clam they sometimes slip in clam chowder. At least I hope it was sand, and not Corry's slug bait.
