Air France or Air Farce

While I crave the excitement of travel, I have never found airports to be particularly pleasing.  Sure, I like to boast that I know my way around various International airports like Charles DeGaulle or Malpensa in Milan but the truth is I hate them. I hate the people you talk to behind the counter. I hate the people that sell you food at extortion-like prices and I hate the fact that you’re at their mercy until you get on your flight. I hate packing heavy luggage toward the B gate when your flight leaves from the A gate. I hate worrying about a 25 lb. weight limit on my carry-on when the damned airlines never weigh it. And mostly I hate when you and your traveling companion book seats together but wind up getting seats separated by 10 rows of French. A people which make you feel like you’ve asked them to borrow the very Palace of Versailles when you simply ask them to exchange seats. No offense intended to Air France and the seat-gripping Frenchies, but when people book together, let them sit together. The flight is more than half a day from the United States west coast. It took a polite young American guy to switch seats with me so that I could sit by Carolyn. I was just completely distracted by the guy behind me who has put his knee in my back every 10 minutes since I sat here. Good time for a paragraph break and to describe why I have a hard time with the French.

This transatlantic flight is the worst flight I’ve ever done. No, I’ve never done Australia or New Zealand (countries whose flight times give new appreciation for how big the world really is)  and would probably wimp out entirely considering that my back cramps, knee hurts and certain parts of me beg for preparation H after I’ve landed. I’ve never given birth and I hear from females I know that it’s excruciating pain for a lengthy amount of time – usually hours. I also learned that there is a biological phenomenon that helps women forget the pain they endured during pregnancy. This mental block is to ensure that the traumatizing experience doesn’t hinder them from giving birth again. Transatlantic air travel is very similar to birth. It is agonizingly painful, the food isn’t very good and you finish off the experience with hemorrhoids. As the months after the trip pass, you begin to forget how awful sitting on your butt was. In fact, after about a year, you’ve forgotten all about the pain you experienced last time. The memory doesn’t return until you stare down at your tickets as you begin to board and notice that you’ve been put on opposite sides of the plane.

After experiencing delays at Charles de Gaulle in Paris, we finally boarded our airplane to Madrid running about 3 hours late. This put us in Madrid so late that the hostel gave our rooms to someone else (we were scheduled to arrive at 6). Because of the overbooking, they gave us rooms with a private bathroom at no extra cost. I'm so exhausted from packing my two backpacks around the airports and Madrid metro that I feel like I'm on the Gravitron at the fair and I can't bring my head off the wall. Buenas Noches.

A sandwich called a "bocadillo." This consisted of a sharp cheese much like parmesan and prosciutto on a baguette. 

Dessert in Madrid and made in house by the cook at Museo di Jamon. They call this "pudding" but it's similar to flan except more substantial. The black syrup is honey that has been boiled until it turns dark and becomes bitter. This offsets the sweet of the pudding. Garnished on top are bits of foamy cream.