Getting Here

I left a puddle of tears and snot in the middle of Oliver’s non-absorbent wool sweater when we said goodbye in front of airport security. It wasn’t exactly the way I was hoping to leave him—a sobbing wife, a gross sweater and a future drying cleaning bill. I guess not everything goes according to plan.

My flights and trains, however, did go according to plan. It took two planes, one bus, two trains and one taxi to arrive at the hotel in San Sebastian—a grand total of 24 hours from door to door. It shouldn’t have taken so long—you’d think I was flying around the world—but that’s what happens when you try and travel on the cheap. I felt blindingly tired by the time I arrived at the hotel. My eyes felt wind-burned.

My first food experience of this journey took place on the British Airways flight from Newark to London. When I was able to clean myself up from the disaster zone I was—think toddler post tantrum with a runny nose—I decided that a meal might make me feel better. So when the kind flight attendant offered “beef and potatoes, darling?” I accepted.

Like most people these days, I’ve become hyper-conscious about buying and eating local. I realize that while the concept is relatively new in the United States, it’s archaic everywhere else. Accordingly, I feel awkward making a statement like that. Oliver and I were in Morocco this past December and after walking through yet another unbelievably diverse and gorgeous food market, we tried explaining to our guide how the “local” movement was taking hold in the United States. Although he has two masters and is currently working on a PhD, he couldn’t grasp how local/buying local/eating local could be a concept, so to speak. “It just is,” is what he told us, simply, somewhat unhelpfully but very clearly, all at once.

In any event, imagine the horror my hyper-conscious food-mind experienced when I noticed that my one small, measly, slightly stale white role had 26 ingredients and my dessert, the Lemon Ginger Crumb with Curd Sauce, had 74. In addition, the Fresh Buttery Taste Spread claimed to be 44% vegetable oil spread and 4% sweet cream butter, so the remaining 52%? What was it? I was too sad to really care; I just took note and ate it all.

One element I really appreciated on the British Airways flight, however, was the pair of socks they gave me (well, everyone) in a packet with a sleep mask and small toothbrush and toothpaste. I have a pair of Charm’s lollipop red chenille socks that have become my “plane socks” much to Oliver’s embarrassment. In fact, I rarely fly without them. The ironic thing is that the socks were a gift from an aunt with impeccable taste and quite frankly, they are the ugliest things I’ve ever seen. The only reason I mention it is that I liked knowing and took comfort in the fact that someone within British Airways recognized the importance of “plane socks.” Clearly, I was in a sensitive state. (Not to worry—I quickly came to my senses and threw out the plane socks as soon as I got to the hotel).

The book I brought with me, Mary Karr’s, Lit, was too depressive, dark and sad to read (why didn’t I bring something inspiring like Heat?), so I spent most of the journey dozing off or willing myself to stay awake. After incurring a $316 AT&T bill in 13 days in Morocco, I wasn’t about to go phone happy. I successfully memorized the current J. Crew catalogue and was happy to note the small cans of Pringles in the Barcelona train station—they remind me of my time abroad in 2003. We saw more cans of Pringles in those six months than I have ever seen in my whole life in the United States. I also pretended to be very interested in the Disney figurine pens sold next to the Pringles. I had an hour and five minutes until I could get into the security line before boarding the train. What else was I going to do?

The security guard that manned the x-ray machine stopped and asked incredulously if I had knives in my bag. I told him I had four. Without telling me I was crazy, he told me I was crazy and I tried to explain that I was working in a restaurant in San Sebastian and should we call the restaurant for proof? Considering the security line behind him, he told me that he should be taking my knives, but he that he wasn’t going to. I was embarrassed that we had to have the conversation in English. He said, “Next time,” and finished his sentence by shaking his head. I’m guessing that being five feet tall and looking like I am closer to 12 than 29 has its advantages.

Not speaking Spanish, I realized very quickly, makes me feel isolated and lonely. I can’t listen in on people’s conversations like I might do if I were in France. It is one item on a laundry list of items that I wish weren’t the case right in this moment. Like how I have to stop postponing the inevitable, shower, and get myself from the comfort of this hotel to the restaurant in the next hour.