Getting to Spain

            I sit in the Miami airport at gate D64. It has taken a lot to get me to this point. But finally, finally, I am waiting for them to call my group number. I repeatedly check the time hoping that nothing will go wrong. I still have hours before boarding, but I keep thinking that something will prevent me from getting on this flight to Madrid. Two days earlier, I sat in the Indianapolis airport also checking the time over and over again. My flight to Chicago was pushed back and pushed back until it would have been impossible for me to make my connection. After ten hours of sitting in the airport and after having multiple flight reroutes, they tell me I’m not leaving that day.

            I call Claire, and she picks me up straightaway. The next day, she drops me off with plenty of time to catch my new flight. Instead of flying to Chicago or New York, this time, I get to go to Miami. No snow, baby. The flight is delayed of course, but I make it to Miami. I’ve missed my connection, but at least I’ve gotten on a flight. I stand in line to be rerouted just like everybody else. They tell me I’ll probably have to go tomorrow through London. I sigh and resign myself to a night in the airport, no hotel vouchers for weather. But wait! The lady with the tight pony tail smiles at me, “I think I can get you on a flight to London tonight,” she says to me.
I hold my breath, “That would be perfect.”
She prints off my schedule and hands it to me, “Just go to the desk and they’ll print your boarding passes.”

No they would not. “You’re not on our roster.”
I deflate.
A lady takes my schedule. “Yes, but it says right here she’s supposed to be on this flight.” They confer for a minute or two.
“Sorry there’s nothing we can do.”

            I breathe deeply to stop the tears. I turn and head in the direction I came from. The handle of my suitcase is giving me blisters. Ridiculous. That’s proof how easy my life is. I shouldn’t have anything to complain about; my hands are smooth with laziness. I shouldn’t have worries; I get to stay the night in a warm airport, Miami. But I do have complaints and I do have worries. I rush to the bathroom and hide in a stall. I let myself cry for approximately three minutes before figuring out the next step.

            After four more hours and three more flight reroutes, I am finally settled down in a corner of the airport. My luggage is between my body and the wall, and the leg of an extra pair of jeans is draped over my face to block the fluorescent airport lights. An ad of a young woman smiling with beautiful teeth, beautiful skin, beautiful eyes, watches me through those morning hours.

            I get up around 6 AM. The airport has awoken. I thought about exploring Miami, but the thought of my luggage biting into my hand as I walk down unknown streets and look into the faces of unknown strangers scares me into remaining in my corner.

            But here I am finally. Waiting at my gate. This is it; nothing will go wrong.
“Hello, folks, we have a full flight today. The flight is overbooked by 8 passengers, so we are looking for volunteers to go to Madrid tomorrow at the same time. We are offering a hotel voucher for tonight as well as a $1000 voucher to be put towards your American Airline account.”
A thousand dollars. That could be nice. And my trip is ruined anyway. What’s one more night? I’m an adult; I can stay in the hotel. I’ve been rerouting my flights for days now. But I can’t decide, and like the true adult that I am, I call my dad.
“What do I do?”
“Go for it! That could be a trip to the Dominican or England!”

            But the fates decided for me. They ended up not needing me, but they made me wait to board the plane until the very last to be sure. Everyone glared at me as I finally got on the plane. I wanted to explain I wasn’t the hold up, I was the martyr here.

A martyr. Sacrificing days of my life to the airport. Spending months of my life away from my family and country.

But does a martyr get a thousand dollar voucher? Does a lonely extranjero get to spend months and months soaking up sun with some of her favorite people?

That extra miserable night stuck in the US would have been a business investment, just as these five months spent in Spain are an investment in relationships, language, and culture. Where would I have been able to go had I gotten that voucher? And what will I be able to do with the experiences I will store up while I’m here?