Blog Entry #100: MAD-MIA-YYZ (Madrid to Miami to Toronto and Coming Full Circle)

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The 100th blog should be about Antarctica, the seventh continent on our must-do list (and usually on everyone’s list when trying to recall all seven land masses). It should include mesmerizing photos of sheets of ice that seem to go on forever. Or maybe of Polar bears drowning, but that would be the Arctic, wouldn’t it? Well, we’re closer to the Polar bears anyway. Our centennial entry is one that comes full circle… full circle to North America and the Miami AA airport lounge we have affectionately dubbed “This is Not a Nightclub.” Full circle to family and friends north of the border.


Madrid
At quarter to 9am, we are already on the Madrid metro, ready for two line changes, which translate to carrying our bags up and down a few short stairs at each station. We are streamlined since Paris - a large suitcase, a small duffel, and one (sometimes two for Leroy) carryon each. Line 5 to line 10 to line 8, and we are back at Barajas airport’s T4 terminal in good time and with no indoor flooding. Of course, once on the last subway train with all the other airport-bound travelers, I get a kick out of watching one particular woman who was giving everyone a second lookover, scowl and all. And I thought I had a staring problem. The Iberia lounge does a fantastic job with liquor. Anyone in the mood for three kinds of whiskey at 10am? We make do with the sad-looking baked goods and mimosa (made with cava). Our last pass through security is not complete without the requisite profiling of Leroy, who is once again asked to step aside, take off his shoes, make the “plane pose” for wanding, and take each item out of his carryon for detailed inspection of his deodorant, digital camera, laptop, and Barack Obama book. Without fail, he is chosen and I am passed over. The 9-hour flight to Miami goes pretty quickly, all things considered. Food is decent, red wine abundant. At one point, the flight attendant brings Leroy a glass of vino tinto with a warning - “Shh, don’t tell anyone, this is from First Class.” It is better than what they had given us during lunch. Just another reminder that you’re in Economy with the tart wine and no entertainment system to speak of. Is it better not to know what you’re missing?

Miami
Miami airport is a zoo. We feel surrounded by travel rookies at the bag claim, and it turns out that they are rookies; the anorexic and “Super Sweet 16”-ish high schoolers (or maybe college kids?) on our flight don’t know how to grab their oversized luggage without pushing those of us waiting patiently by the carousel aside or screaming to the luggage guy (you know, the guy who rearranges luggage as they topple onto the belt so as the bag’s configuration is ideal for picking up) “OMG, that’s my bag!” Please tell me I was never this annoying in high school (yeah right, duh). Leroy and I wait patiently… no, that’s not right, we wait impatiently for our bags on the off chance that we need to recheck them while in transit to Canada. We watch as every bag makes its round on the carousel, and as the other passengers start to disperse. My small overnight/duffel bag plops out. Ahh, so we do have to recheck, eh? But soon, the carousel is almost empty, and the international connectors are told that our bags have been sent to our final destination. What of my duffel then, monsieur, I mean, señor? “That’s a mistake. Go outside and recheck it with American Airlines.” Eek, I’m sure they would have eventually seen my lonely bag and sent it on its way, but I’m glad we waited. I suppose it’s really too much to ask of the luggage gods for my bags to make every segment perfectly, from South America to North, to Australia and through Asia and the Middle East, bouncing around Europe with a side trip back to Florida, and on buses, trains, and cabs. I am thankful.

We “follow the yellow dots” as instructed and hand over my diminutive bag to a man drowning in luggage. Bye, bag, hope I see you in Canada. Then, we follow the blue dots and gasp at the security line with no priority lane for elite members. We have been so spoiled. Nothing to do but succumb to the TSA just like everyone else and spend the next 30-45 minutes drowning out the screams of “No liquids! Take your shoes off! Laptops out please!” Once through, we make a beeline for the AA Lounge hoping for some grub, forgetting that the domestic elite lounges are subpar, offering only cheese and crackers and vegetable sticks lined with white scales that look like they’ve been in the refrigerator for a month. I plop my bags on the same chair that I sat on during our layover in Miami on the way to Carnaval in Brasil. Where’s Louis? I think I might be wearing the same shirt even. I use the same computer terminal, and when thirst catches me, I go to the same bar and see our old friend, Ms. This-is-not-a-nightclub. I use our drink vouchers to get two bottles of water, because after all, this is not a nightclub. (If you don’t get it, you’ll have to go to Blog #2, my friend.) Leroy exits the lounge almost as soon as he walks in because he just must have a Jamaican Jammer smoothie. Because of our bag mishap, the security line, some quick phone calls, and a run to the Mexican takeway place downstairs (subpar), our 5-hour layover goes by in a flash.

Toronto
In Toronto, the immigration officer asks where we’re coming from, and I tell her Madrid via Miami. What were we doing there? Round-the-world trip. Why have we come to Canada? To end the round-the-world trip. She asks what our favorite place was, and I’m dying to say something nice like, well, you never know, it could be Toronto! But in unison we say, “Brasil for Carnaval.” What would you say?

All our bags make it, and when we exit the bag claim area, Tita Aura and Tito Jimmy are waiting for us. We feel a bit guilty for keeping them up so late - it is midnight after all. Over email, we offered to take a cab to their place but they would have none of it. I haven’t seen Tita Aura for a good seven years, and it is nice to see her in the flesh. Although Tito Jimmy has been a constant presence in our lives for as long as I can remember, this is actually the first time I’m meeting him! I remember all those letters on onion-skin paper that we used to write them from the Philippines over 20 years ago, and the presents they would send us from Canada. I even recall drawing and coloring a Canadian flag for them by copying it out of the World Book encyclopedia. They live in Etobicoke, a suburb of Toronto which is close to the airport. At home, Tita Aura has presents waiting for Leroy and me, and Tito Jimmy had made a fantastic spaghetti vongole for dinner earlier. You see, Tito Jimmy is full-blooded Italian, and he immigrated to Canada decades ago, but he’s still got the touch. I have heard about his cooking for years, and I’ve waxed poetic about it to Leroy, so we are here, ready to eat like “we’re (still) on vacation” for five more days (that’s when the “lose all this RTW trip blubber” diet starts, by the way). As we get settled, Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert are on the big screen, and oh how we’ve missed that wry American humor, being a part of our world and culture. We are by no means sick of traveling (just maybe sick of cab drivers), but the traveler’s life is a constant comparison of home and not-home, a pervading sentiment of not belonging here but belonging to the world, then wondering where you’re truly supposed to be. No matter where you go, it’s good to feel at home. It is 1am and after we scarf down the vongole leftovers (heaven!), they offer us mango, cake, cherries, bananas, ice cream, something for dessert. We narrowly escape with eating just half a mango.


The 100th blog has no pictures, no sights, no “foreign” encounters. Who could imagine I could write almost two pages on a day that involved 12 hours of flight time and eight hours of dead airport time? Well, when you’ve got 99 entries worth of experience, there’s no doubt. But hey, there’s good news for us… the trip isn’t over just yet.

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Comments

[meli's mom]

"this is not a nighclub"
hey! blog #2 does not have that! what was the title of the blog? i went to the one that was on miami...

[melee]

You're right
Mamu, it turns out that we did not mention the "this is not a night-club" quote. It was in the Admiral's Club in Terminal A. With all the excess drink coupons, the bartender thought that Meli, Louis, and I were making too many trips to the bar, Louis being the third to arrive. So it was to him that she said "this is not a nightclub, this is a VIP lounge," and she threatened to check into why we had so many drink coupons. (We had so many because they gave us more for a longer layover, and when we went to go get food and re-entered, they gave us even more).

[Andrea]

it ain't ova!
That's right. Toronto still has to show you a good time kids! See you tonight!