After schedule juggling, dates being switched back and forth, and several days of just giving up, Janette finally called with a confirmed date and emailed me the cruise tickets themselves a few hours later. It was a ecstatic moment because it meant I was actually leaving this dump of a house for a few days and getting to where I really needed to be, outside of the country for a while where I could have fun, and try my hand at languages again.
Dobie came through with the flights too, and at a much better price with a much better airline itinerary. I didn't know Air France flew directly to Paris from Seattle and vice-versa. It's good to know because I'm going to use that as my main access route from now on. It's cheaper to fly to Tel-Aviv from Paris than it is from New York, or Toronto. I can give myself three or four days to hang out in Paris then head over there...Nevermind. So our flight itinerary went like this:

07.April.09: Seattle to Paris
08.April.09: Paris to Barcelona
22.April.09: Barcelona to Paris; Paris to Boston
25.April.09: Boston to Seattle (via St. Louis, MO.)

We're making a stop in Boston to see my father and some old friends. More about that later, though.

Everything came through, as was expected, and on a beautiful April morning (after a failed attempt to procure the anti-smoking drug Chantix at my hospital [p]harmacy) we schlepped our luggage to SeaTac International Airport in anticipation of the adventure of a lifetime. Which it was!
08.April.09: Paris.

What about the plane ride over there? What else do you have to say about a 9 ½ hour flight. YOU use your imagination as to how you'd pass that amount of time trying to NOT worry about crashing while on the kind of drugs that DON'T make that kind of thing matter less.

When people go to Paris they usually don't say, “There was nothing to see there.” In our case it was true because there wasn't anything for us to see except Charles de Gaulle airport. A great piece of construction that doesn't afford a view of anything but itself. The same can be said about other airports' locations, but there's something special about Rossy. To borrow from MacFarland it 'insists upon itself'.

We only had an hour to make the journey to our connecting flight. I needed a cigarette. All cigarette smokers agree that the first thing you want after confirming you actually landed and not crashed on the ground is a cancer stick to calm you down, otherwise it's a miserable epilogue for everyone involved. Janette was pissed I apparently promised her I would go to the gate with her, but then she turned one direction only not to find me. I figured she was OK. After all the directions were simple enough for a monkey to figure out. Our luggage went straight to the plane so they're not going to leave without first announcing it through the PA and even in a case like THAT all what we'd have to do is flag someone for a quick lift there. These people want our business and are likely to extend that kind of courtesy. Janette was so angry, explaining that all the directions were in French. That's funny, I thought arrows pointing towards where you needed to go transcended all language (in that sense) creating the international symbols for 'You Go Here', and 'This is where you want to be, and here's where you are now.' It's just something I thought everyone could figure out.

It was well timed that pesach fell on the same day as our departure, still I was amazed at the number of religious Jews on the flight from Paris to Barcelona. And on a warmer note, they were Franco-Israeli Yemenite Jews; originally from North-Africa. They made me fell very much at home, and accepted me as “ha-am”, one of the people. Unlike Ashkenazim who can be, y'know, difficult sometimes.
I was seated next to the middle emergency exit on the plane. It's one of my favourite's because if anything happens I'm either the one who gets trampled, sucked-out with the vacuum, or escapes first “in the event the craft 'lands' in water”.
I never thought I would ever say this, but everything I imagined about Swedish Stewardesses not only lived up to, but in fact exceeded all stereotype and expectations. This woman was drop dead gorgeous. I mean a total knock-out, and because I was sitting next to the emergency exit she occasionally sat next to me. I was tickled. Not because I want to “do” her, but because I'd love to hang out with her. She can fit into a nice looking dress, rake in all the guys, meaning I can have at the left-overs.


08.April.09: BARCELONA

I've only seen palm trees in one section of the world, and so it's nice to see that they're in other places as well. I mean this sarcastically but on the other hand the serious part is due to how I see Israel: 'There's death, taxes and palm trees in Israel.' Those trees hold up well at the airport. Barcelona, no wonder Ben-Gurion had a lot more of them planted there.

Waiting for baggage was fun. I didn't think it was going on the same flight as us, to be honest. There was a bit of a work-over at Charles de Gaulle. Janette had her purse taken from her to be “searched”, and as I took off my shoes the customs officer saw there were holes in them. Not a big deal, unless it's raining out. But the officer thought that perhaps there'd be contraband inside, or perhaps I could be the next shoe-bomber, or something ridiculous like that. So he took them away, AS I WAS RUNNING FOR MY CONNECTION FLIGHT. So I'm standing there thinking $35 is not going to get me to Barcelona, I don't care how accommodating AIR FRANCE has been. How long would it take me to Hitchhike? Would I get there by noon on the 10th?

At the last minute the give me my shoes, which I didn't even put back on. I just ran for the gate with everything in hand; shoes, belt, meds bag, and book bag, all in one, my pants about to fall off. It's funny now, but as anyone knows who has been in this situation, at the time it was a near heart attack.

Back to the Baggage Claim. Everything came with us, attitude and all. Janette and I descended the B-Gate escalator of Barcelona Airport. We didn't have a clue of what to do next. We just stood there like lost children trying to think of what comes after this. She's looking at me with the stare saying, “Well, you're the world traveler, make it happen.” I didn't waste time with stares opting to ask, “Don't we have a hotel reservation?” But I was so jet-lagged which to me is such a ...surrealifying experience; it's the first time you really feel as if you stepped into an entity you know to be real, but doesn't come with all the uncomfortablities with reality.
This meant we had to use the phone. But who do we call? What's the number? If I were awake, and the doors of basic perception were open just a little wider to my traveling companion, Janette (from here on also known as 'The Wife', 'My Wife', there are others and they shall surface later in the report) this would have been a bit easier. My step-mother has a sharp sense of obtaining information. It's based on old-fashioned, New-England common sense: Never leave the room unless you have all the information necessary. Why I didn't use it that day is a mystery.
We went outside looking for a bus, or people holding up the signs asking if we wanted to go to the Renaissance Hotel. We couldn't find anything. This meant we had to ask questions, i.e. talk to people. My official stance on languages is that I have a talent for them, being able to pick one up much faster than most people. That's not just bragging, but it's also been certified and documented. With that said, I never learned Spanish, figuring that if I really needed it I would just pick it up. Turned out to be half-assed true, and before I left the States, tuned some grammar, and learned some new vocab. I thought I was good to go, but of course I was totally wrong.
We went to the information booth and I asked if she spoke English, to which she said, “No, a little.” Like an idiot I said, “Donde esta la staccion para llevar a la Hotel Rennaissance?” She politely noded but didn't understand. I spoke in that shy high and squeaky, but zaftig hush that you use when you're afraid of being wrong in any situation, or the tone reserved for delivering bad news to a potentially violent person.
She understood the words 'Rennaissance Hotel', I'm sure, and pointed us out the door.
After getting a coke, and stuff, I went outside for a cigarette, she came with and we figured we would just ask someone along the way. We eventually were pointed to the right stop to pick up the Shuttle from the airport to the hotel, and didn't see an sign of a shuttle, but did see a number. We wrote it down, and then went back inside to conquer the phone.
Spanish phones (photo suppled later on today), or at least the ones in airports, do offer a menu in English. Not to say that doesn't make them any less complicated when you have a deaf person and a guy who is still afraid of being wrong. We had to go in and change 5 euro note into five 1 Europe coins to use the damn thing. I went to the Information Desk went through the whole miming bit, got back to the phone, and because it was the wife's note, she insited on bearing the weight of the conversation. “Fine.”
To go back, relive and document that failure would humiliate Janette, and so I will skip that. The only thing I can say is that it was funny, and no I didn't do much better. English was fine the whole time.
As we waited for the shuttle from the airport, I noticed the palm trees again, and the bumble-beed zig-zag of Barcelona's Taxis. Without question, the coolest looking of Europe's taxis.