TORONTO

TORONTO

ARRIVAL: 5:50 p.m., Thursday

Off the plane, then run run run to customs. I’m following a couple who will be going on a cruise through the Mediterranean. I follow them mostly because they look like they know where they are going, but also because the man has a dad-like moustache. Men with moustaches usually know what to do in situations like this.

Run run run to the gate. The couple was in line before me at customs, so they are already there. Moustache Man looks disappointed. I look out the window and the plane, the 5:50 p.m. to Barcelona, pulls away. Defeat.

I like Toronto. We had a lovely time together back in March; I was sad to say goodbye. So when I realize this is where I may be stuck for who knows how long, I’m not too worried. Canadians are nice, eh? Then, with a fellow traveler, destination Perpignan, I wait in line at the customer service desk. The customer service agents aren’t smiley and warm like the people I encountered on my spring break— they are cold and rather rude. They call the 12 of us who missed the flight The Barcelonas, like a bad band name, and tell us we require more time so they’ll have to take customers who have lesser requests first. Over an hour passes and for once in my life, I would give all the Andes in my too-heavy backpack to be on a plane.

After an hour and a half of sitting on the floor and staring at the people already at the desk, destination also Barcelona, trying to decipher their facial expressions—are they laughing because they got a plane or because Moustache Man said something funny?—it’s our turn. New destination: Copenhagen.

COPENHAGEN

ARRIVAL: 10:30 a.m., Friday

The first sight I see is a 7-Eleven. Just like home.

I don’t understand what their currency is but I pay 40 DK for 30 minutes for comfort in the form of Gmail. The program director sent us an email, informing us we could take an 11:55 p.m. bus from the Barcelona Sants train station to Perpignan, making our ultimate arrival time 2:45 a.m., Saturday morning. Five to midnight is good. Hours to get lost and find our way and then because it’s me probably get lost again.

Last summer, I bookmarked a NYTimes article about Copenhagen. Biking and kayaking were among the activities listed on the slideshow’s captions. It seemed whimsical, I think. I like whimsical.

The city’s airport isn’t quite as whimsical as I made myself believe it would be, but it is airy and modern and quiet and clean. Calming, save the fact that the gate for the Barcelona 14:45 flight still hasn’t shown up on the screen.

After a couple hours in the quiet, we realize we are probably in the wrong place. I approach the cashier at the liquor store, a blond man who in other life was the leader singer in a Danish boy band. He smiles. Smiles are comforting. He also speaks English, and tells me where to go to get our boarding passes. Thank you, because I don’t know how to say thank you in your language but I would if I could because you would probably appreciate that.

Passport control is the bridge between the quiet area and the rest of the airport, and the airport transforms into a crowded, but not chaotic, mall. Walk walk walk to the transfers desk. The waiting area is decorated with potted trees, their leaves gracefully falling every few minutes. My computer is dying and if I try to read, my heavy eyelids will fall immediately, so I watch them.

We receive our boarding passes, gate A8.

The gate is mostly empty. Coupled chairs fill the area, dark blue seats with ocean blue backs. No middle armrest, so perfect for pre-departure cuddling. But as of right now, everyone at gate A8 is flying solo today. I like to think that everyone has someone to cuddle with though, or will have someone to cuddle with soon. Maybe the woman with the the-sun-is-in-my-eyes-get-out scowl is waiting to receive a text from her husband, who will be accompanying her on a business trip. Perhaps the bald man forcefully chewing his gum is meeting his long-lost lover, one he hasn’t seen in years, so finally said what the hell, I’m going to Barcelona to fall in love all over again. It could be that the disheveled man staring blankly out the smudged window is nursing a broken heart and is hoping Spain will do a better job than the vodka.

The emptiness, it’s eerie. And it’s 14:15, with no sign of boarding. The gate has changed. A18. Powerwalk powerwalk powerwalk. Flight is delayed anyway.

At a time I don’t remember, boarding begins. To Barcelona, por תltimo.

BARCELONA

Arrival: 19:03 (I think), Friday

Voy a Perpignan. Dףnde estב el bתs?

Lo siento, mi espaסol es muy malo.

¡Gracias!

Over and over again. By 9 or 10, we find out the bus, the one we had been looking forward to as a solid form of transportation, is full. To a hotel for the night.

The hotel across the street is chic, but even if it wasn’t, I would be grateful for its possession of beds. Not wooden chairs or airport seats or cold floors, but actual beds.

But apparently, Spaniards—at least the ones staying here—don’t need privacy. The toilet is secluded in a tiny room with a door, while the shower sits adjacent to it with only a slightly tinted shower door, making your soothing shower a show for anyone to watch. At least anyone for me is another 20-year-old girl, so the lack of privacy doesn’t really bother me. Thanks, locker room showers, for preventing any naked-related awkwardness. Thanks.

I don’t think I’m tired until I put my head on the pillow. It’s almost midnight and we have to wake up at 5:30 a.m. to be at the train station for its 6 a.m. opening. I frantically wake up at 2:13 a.m. and stare at my phone’s clock, trying to decipher the numbers. 2:13… do  I have to wake up now? Oh no, this is still in central time, isn’t it? Wait, what? That makes no sense. Oh, I can go back to sleep. Good.

BARCELONA SANTS STATION

ARRIVAL: 6:03 a.m., Saturday morning

Anticipated departure time: 9 a.m. To Perpignan, por תltimo.