I’ve never considered myself particularly unlucky. If anything, I’m usually surprised by how well things tend to work out. For whatever reason, though, the past couple of weeks have been a series of face palms. Again and again I have reprimanded myself for allowing misfortune to befall me -abroad no less. Perhaps it would be helpful if I started from the beginning…
I lost my credit card. I know, I know. One of the first rules of international travel is to do everything you can not to lose that precious piece of plastic. It truly is your lifeline. And this particular lifeline got airline points and had no international fees. My mom had gotten it for me last month because she “supposed I was responsible enough to have it, which [I] clearly was not.” A mother’s shaming knows no bounds — it can be felt across oceans. Trust me. Not to worry though, I came equipped with two cards, so I am now guarding this one with my life. So far, so good.
The next misfortune started out in a Mexican restaurant. We had intended on going out as a group for dinner but decided on splitting up since it was difficult to find a place that could seat eight people, especially on a weekend. The owner had just brought me a very large, very delicious-looking burrito, and I was so excited about it. But ah, this is not a happy story………… I was only able to finish about half of it before dumping the whole thing in my lap/on my shoes. My dark-wash jeans were stained with guacamole and salsa, and my shoelaces looked as though they would never recover from the monstrous onslaught of ground beef. Indeed, they did not.
I, of course, tried to make the best of this unfortunate situation by optimistically purchasing a pair of those black flat sneakers that everyone wears here, but alas, those brought me pain as well — in the form of incredibly large blisters. Each day I hoped they would get better, but each day they multiplied and grew progressively worse. So much worse, in fact, that by the time we got to Spain this weekend, I had resorted to padding my shoes with napkins to keep the blisters (or open wounds, really) from causing me to do something rash, such as insisting that someone chop off my feet.
It must be obvious, then, why I caved and bought white flip flops out of a display case at our hostel in Barcelona. Although this probably does warrant some scoffing, they were only 8 euros and include a small but stylish Brazilian flag on the straps. (I didn’t ask why. They could have had pigeons on them, and I still would have begrudgingly whipped out my credit card. Anything to ease the pain.) Plus, they’re not that bad for a hostel purchase. Especially since my feet appear to be moving into an early stage of recovery…
This brings me to my final major misfortune. I admit that I brought it on myself, but I still could not help but wonder if the universe was pitted against me when I left the check-in desk at the Barcelona airport, having just been informed that I had chosen the wrong return date for my flight back to Denmark. Instead of booking the 10:20 am flight on Sunday, I had mistakenly chosen the 10:20 am flight…. the next Friday.
What ensued were two of the most anxiety-inducing minutes of my life. I practically ran across the check-in area until I found the smaller booth labeled “Ticketing,” and I prayed like I’ve never prayed before that the lady behind the partition spoke English well enough to understand how badly I had messed up (and how badly I needed to be on the flight boarding in a little over two hours.) She was one of those people who looks perpetually on edge, which I’m sure caused my blood pressure and heart rate to skyrocket.
I won’t describe the whole encounter, but I will say that she found me a seat on that flight, and with some crazy stroke of luck, I ended up being assigned the one next to Kathryn and Cassidy.
Maybe my luck is changing.