The first time I’m up it’s three AM. Back to sleep. Up again at five thirty. Too early to call about the luggage. They said it could arrive as early as eight AM. I call the baggage department. They say it’s on it’s way to me. “Be patient.” The phone clicks off.
I go back to bed. The next time I can wrench myself out of bed it’s almost noon. Whatever didn’t hurt the night before hurts now. Carli and Baby are up and cheerful. Both of them. I vow not to kill them. Either of them.
Baby is psychic. He plops on my lap while I put on my ugly sandals and looks at me with his Kinkajou eyes and I rub his ears. I feel better and calm down. He knows how to comfort his ladies.
The last thing I hear is “Be Patient.” And the phone clicks off.
At four PM and every time I call them to check on the delivery another woman tells me the suitcase is on the truck and it’s only a matter of time. Hmmm. How much time? More than the eight hours I’ve been waiting? Again, “Be patient” and the phone clicks off.
I get the same thing at six, and eight PM. I get the inevitable “What is your contact number so we can call with information?”
I respond with “I’m trapped in this damn apartment since eight AM waiting for the luggage and can’t leave to arrange for a phone even if I could on Sunday. And the first thing I’d buy was food if I could get out.” Strange, no response from the other end.
Many people would look at a lost suitcase like a blessed event, a message from the universe that permission was given to go out and buy new clothes. However. However, I’m a plus size, a 1X American, which does not exist most places in Europe. We Americans come big, bigger than Europeans other than the Dutch. They’re big too, actually the largest Caucasians on the planet per capita. I’m just chubby. Clothes in Europe are expensive too. I’m totally bummed. Not only can I not replace my wardrobe, if I could it would cost me a fortune. It’s almost ten PM and still no sign of my clothes.
My travel insurance folder says they pay for late delivered luggage. I put in my claim and they check the Iberia luggage office and get the same information.
I call the airport again at ten PM. They cheerily informed me that the truck with my suitcase might arrive as late at 11 PM. I can’t leave the rented apartment in case the truck comes. Carli mans the watch while I take Baby for a walk. No clothes. No food. Maybe I can eat Carly’s dog? I really love Baby, but he’s looking a bit tasty. He must have read my mind as he just left his spot under the table where my computer sits and ran into Carli’s room. There is a little cheese and an apple someplace…
So far, we have spent our entire first day in Barcelona sitting in the apartment waiting for my luggage. Not a wonderful thing to do. I’m starting to boil. They made sure all the business class luggage arrived on time but the lousy back-of-the-bus people got screwed. Sure sounds like a democracy to me. As a matter of fact, sounds just like home in the good old USA.
I’m going to have a cup of coffee, maybe it will cheer me up.
By midnight I give up. Take two tranquilizers and go to bed. Screw it!