Sleeping on the Tollway
I'm in Spain, most of the way between Barcelona and Valencia. Two or three hundred kilometres ago I had to stop at a toll both. I was worried because nobody was there-shit, am I supposed to have some kind of toll pass? But a machine spat a ticket at me, so presumably, when I get off this thing, I'll need to hand it in and pay some money. But some of the freewayside service stations actually have motels in them, and I decided to sleep in one of those for about €50. I could probably find cheaper hostel accommodation in Valencia, but the GPS on my Android isn't working properly so finding it would be a pain in the arse... it's worth an extra 20 or 30 bucks not to have to deal with that stress.
I've actually had to deal with a fair bit of stress in the last few days. Travel foo. I've gotten good at letting it roll off the proverbial duck's back: faeriecritter wrote a post that's encouraged me to think ahead and trust that things will work out all right in the end. Really, the worst thing that could happen in each case is that I get to places a bit later than I planned, or that things end up costing a bit more than I'd planned. Annoying, but in the big picture, really nothing to worry about. So I worry less. But having a space entirely to myself for the first time in weeks, and only the second or third time in months, is making me realise that I was still winding myself up.
This motel room has that modern European plainness to it. Everything I would expect in a motel room is here: a nice picture on the wall, next to a flat-screen television that I'll never use, two single beds against each other, and a bathroom. But somehow, it feels empty. I fantasised about there being a bath-I haven't had a bath since I visited paisleychick and kragen nearly three months ago-but the closest thing is the bidet. But being able to lie naked in a room, open window letting in temperate air, and being entirely on my own schedule: wow. And there's a hardcover book with pictures of places this tollway can get you to, like those free magazines they give you on trains. Snow, beaches, castles, aqueducts, palm trees, old villages, men in funny religious garb.
Stressors: Well, my flight was a weird route from Lima to Barcelona via Amsterdam and Rome. Orbitz.com found that doing this, plus booking a flight from London to Atlanta, came to a total less than just flying from Lima to Barcelona by any other means. I've learnt to try crazy shit like that, because it can save me over a thousand bucks, as it did in this case. But since I'm meeting laughingstone and traumentwerfer in Amsterdam this weekend anyhow, I'd hoped I could check one of my bags there. But the woman in Lima said I needed to ask about that when I arrived in Amsterdam.
I planned to do that as soon as I got off the plane, but for some reason, the Dutch immigration people were stopping everyone as they got off the plane, slowing us right down. And then it turned out that they were doing this so they could talk to me-they said the weird route set off profiling alarms somewhere, and they detained me for about 20 minutes, asking me all kinds of question, checking my carry-on baggage. I'm not entirely convinced it was just the weird route that set them off, but whatever-European (and Australian) authorities are so much more respectful than their North American counterparts that I didn't mind cooperating and convincing them that their profiling algorithm needed a tweak or two. The fact that I speak fluent Dutch probably worked in my favour. It was such a pleasure speaking fluently with a stranger... it had been a long time since I'd done that, too!
Anyhow, the airport people said they could try finding my bag, but it would probably take a long time. I knew it would be a pain in the arse to drag that extra bag around Europe, especially since it's heavy and doesn't have wheels-it contains stuff I don't really need in Europe, but postage in Per&uactue; is fucking expensive and I could put it on the plane for free, so I thought it was worth the hassle. And it would definitely be less hassle than missing my connecting flight while the airport stuffed around with it. So yeah. Laat maar. Bugger it.
But there was baggage foo of a different kind to deal with, too: I'd bought some Pisco in Lima duty-free, hoping I could make Pisco Sours for laughingstone, traumentwerfer, halimede, science_vixen and whomever else I might meet in the Netherlands. I also bought an souvenir two-pack of Inca Kola-not everyone likes it (cyan_blue hated it) but it's novel. The problem: there was a security checkpoint in Am'dam I needed to get through, with the usual crap about liquids. No worries, I thought; I could just leave it in a locker and collect it in a week. But no, the lockers I found had a 72 hour time limit. But I actually had time to take a train into Amsterdam and leave it in the lockers there... but no wiggle room, so if there was a problem with the train I'd be in a super rush to get to the gate before it closed. But the trains ran as they should, so it was a hassle-free connection in the end. But I've since heard that the lockers at the station also have a 72 hour time limit. I don't know what happens after that, but I'm hoping traumentwerfer's friend in Amsterdam can rescue it... it was top-shelf Pisco!
Anyhow, the Roman connection was reasonably hassle-free, except the plane out was delayed. But that gave me time to scour for pizza... I was in Italy, so I wanted pizza, dammit! And got it! But the late plane meant I missed the last metro into Barcelona. But that really wasn't a problem, either, since there was a perfectly good bus instead... that ran every 10 minutes, even at 1am. I love Europe.
The problem was, when I got off the bus, I couldn't find the metro station indicated on my directions to the hostel. It turned out that metro station is in Madrid, not Barcelona. Both cities have a hostel by the same name, and for all I know, I booked my stay at the one in Madrid, too. So I wandered around Barcelona late at night, lugging that fucking heavy, unwheeled, falling-apart suitcase along with me, hoping I could find a hostel with accommodation. I did, but my forearms still hurt from the walk.
Tuesday was pretty hassle-free-I met some cool people and explored Barcelona with them. I'll write about that separately. I guess the only issue was the rain, but that really didn't bother me, apart from the fact that the streets were filled with umbrellas at my eye height. But that's a fact of life, being my height. Water off a duck's back. Or actually, water off my hat... which is why I don't need an umbrella. I wish everyone else would just get bush hats too, and that somebody would tell those pushy umbrella salesmen where they could put them.
Oh, actually, I was a little annoyed that you can't seem to get a prepaid SIM card that'll give you data access all over Europe. Lame. The SIM card I got in South Africa three years ago gave me data access in neighbouring countries, and I know similar arrangements are available in Asia, so why not Europe? But I found a SIM card for €20 that gives me unlimited data in Spain, and €20 of credit for calls and SMSes, which are dirt cheap. At that price, I don't mind just buying a new SIM card when I get to Amsterdam and London. The telco is called Yogi or Yoghurt or something. (Mmmmm... yoghurt...)
But the real foo started again this afternoon. One of the cool people I mentioned (an Aussie, but the kind of Aussie who's sick of people asking where she's really from, because her mother is Chinese and her father is Cambodian) was in town for a graphic design conference, and she was greeting her colleagues at the airport. I had to go to the airport to pick up my rental car (no rental car places in the city proper, apparently-well, there aren't really many private cars in the city, either, so I guess that makes sense) so we decided to head out together. But remember that bus I took from the airport? We should've taken that, even though it was more expensive than the metro. The metro was only a metro for a few stops, and then we had to switch to an above-ground train, and all the good indicators to get to the airport stopped there. It took us ages to find the right platform and the right train. And then, the train only went to a point a few kilometres from the airport; from there, you had to get on a bus. But there were separate buses to separate terminals, and I didn't know which terminal the rental car was at. Argh!
I probably should've known better than to arrange a rental car through a site called 'cheap car rental'. It said I should pick the car up from 'Auto Europe Spain', and I couldn't find that company. Turns out that this is a company that works with all the rental car companies, so I had to go to all the counters to see which one I'd been booked with. And it seems the answer was 'none'. I need to get online and make sure I haven't still been charged for anything. Anyhow, this left me to make a second round of stops at all the counters to see what the best car rental deal was. None were nearly as good as what I'd booked, of course. But one of the least expensive options had a free upgrade promotion going: get a sensible compact car for the price of a buzz box that I probably wouldn't fit in.
I like the car I got: a Kia something-or-other. It's got all the gadgets I like in modern cars: my 'phone plays through the stereo via Bluetooth, which also gives me hands-free 'phone use, and the dash has all sorts of useful info, including my fuel consumption. I'm only burning about 5½L of diesel per 100km, even though I was going with the flow of the traffic all afternoon, which was doing the usual European hover between 130 and 150km/h. (The speed limit in Spain is a surprisingly low 110, but they have signs showing where the speed cameras are, and the traffic slows down for those.) The best part: manual transmission! ::bounce:: And it's a six-speed-I've never driven one of those before.
The most stressful hour of the week was before I even started the car, though. I'd arranged to meet my Aussie friend after she'd found her colleague. I'd already warned her that my 'phone was low on charge and that I'd stupidly left the charger and battery back-up at the hostel, so I started SMSing her that I'd wait for her at the info booth until 3pm, and then in the car, in its assigned space (carpark A, level 0, space 60) until 3:20. Of course, the 'phone crapped out just as I was about to hit send. I hate, hate, hate the battery life on my 'phone!
I didn't want to leave her stranded, so I walked around the arrivals gates to try finding her. No luck. So I went back to information, and asked if they could page her. No. What?? What kind of airport doesn't page people?! But they'd only do it for small children and old people. I assured the info desk guy that she wasn't very tall, but it didn't help. So I asked if there was an electronics or 'phone shop in the airport, one where I might be able to just buy a micro USB cable-the car has a USB port that I could charge it off. And yes, the airport has a shop like that-but in the security area, which I needed an air ticket to get to. Next idea: is there a 'net café that I could use-I figured I could find her on FaceBook and try chatting to her on that, in the hope that her 'phone was logged into FaceBook. Yes! In the business centre... for what turned out to be €4 per half hour. It would've been worth it if I'd found her, but it turns out Melbourne has scores of people with her name, and I'd forgotten the name of the private college she'd gone to, so that was no help. All this took over an hour, so I was ready to give up. I went back to the info desk for the fifth time, to ask if they'd spotted a woman matching a fairly distinctive description was looking pissed off and lost (she had jet black hair to her hips), and if so, say I'm sorry, but I'd tried everything I could and just had to leave. Only then did the guy say he had a charger for my 'phone! I'm not sure whether he was just an idiot, or an arsehole! But whatever, it meant that I could ring her. It turned out that she had received my earlier SMS asking where she was, when my 'phone still had some life left in it, but hers wasn't sending SMSes for whatever reason. But she and her colleague were already back in the city, of course. Argh!
Anyhow, I eventually did get on the road. European cities aren't designed for driving, a fact I really like, except when I'm looking for a way to get my bags into the car. Drove around for 25 minutes looking for a park; found one a 20-minute walk away. But it was only €4/hour, so I took the time to grab a sandwich. Ran into my new friend who I'd explored the city with, and she rolled my good bag for me while I lugged around the stupid, heavy one-still made it a lot easier, though! But yeah, my messed up Android GPS proved to be a real headache in the evening, and signs to Valencia were only added as an occasional afterthought for the first hundred kilometres or so. But then I found this tollway, and it's been smooth sailing from there. But I wonder how much the toll will end up being.
I think ranting about this stuff on LiveJournal is part of the unwinding process... I feel better now that I have it out. And it's all the kind of stuff I've dealt with before, part of travelling. There's just been more of it than usual in the last few days. Hopefully I'll get a foo-free period for a while now.
(Update: in the end, the toll was over €40! I'll probably have to pay the same again on my way back, which will more than cancel out money saved by driving an economic car. Ah well. Travel.)