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Friday, March 04, 2005 According to the local media, on the day before my return Madrid suffered through the coldest weather seen in these parts in 105 years. Newspaper stories featured arty photos of local fountains covered in icicles, something I've never encountered during my five years of coming and going here. And yes, it's been chilly. Until I compare it to the brand of winter in the part of the world I just left. Then the local version barely qualifies. The sunlight here burns through the early morning cold, giving the air a quality that hints at springtime's approach (this while the locals walk around with shoulders hunched, sporting winterwear). All of which is to say the breezes wafting through the portals at the luggage carousels, post-flight in Madrid, had a little bite to them. All fifteen or so of my fellow-passengers waited there with me for our luggage to appear, pacing around, talking into cellphones, one or two retreating to the designated smokers' prison for a hit of nicotine. Ten minutes of waiting became twenty, patience gradually gave way to muttered complaints. At the 25-minute mark, I walked down the concourse to the Spanair baggage window, mentioned how long we'd been waiting, asked if they could look into the delay. The 20-something speaking to me switched to English, his tone slightly condescending, looking up what might have happened to my monster wheeled duffel, apparently ignoring the idea that no one else's luggage had appeared. Until another passenger -- an older, physically heftier Spanish male with an insistent air -- appeared at my side, wanting to know where our bags were. The 20-something switched back to Spanish, his attitude sobered, he promised to get some information. When I first arrived in Spain five years ago, long waits at baggage carousels were normal. Long, long waits -- 40 minutes, 50 minutes. An hour one time. With Madrid's higher international profile and growing popularity as a tourist town, details like that changed. Attitudes shifted from those of a latin backwater with a 'mañana' attitude to more first-world efficiency. If my fellow-flyers this trip were any indication, locals have gotten used to that kind of improvement -- this group did not take the mass disappearance of luggage well. A lot of the Spaniards in the group were world travelers, loudly ridiculing an airline that could lose an entire flight's bags, which had the 20-somethings behind the Spanair counter looking nervous. Until one of them fielded a phone call saying the luggage had been located -- not left behind in Frankfurt as they'd been fearing, but here in Madrid, where it had all been sent on a leisurely tour of the city's fine airport. (Now that I think about it, I've gotten used to my luggage appearing almost instantly, post-flights, no matter where I go -- an event like this one gives me an opportunity to appreciate how much I've come to take for granted in the part of my life lived in transit.) Five minutes later, everyone's bags magically materialized on a nearby carousel. I grabbed mine, headed to the Metro and home, where I dropped luggage, grabbed schoolbooks, sprinted to language class, arriving just as it began. The story since then, drastically oversimplified: classes, studying, sleeping. Writing, eating, strolling around the neighborhood. A trip to see 'Finding Wonderland' yesterday. (Loved it.) Thinking about my little life, about all sorts of as yet unanswered questions about where it's heading. (Boring stuff I'll get into another time.) Settling into a version of normal existence or what passes for that when I'm in this part of the globe. Normalcy -- an elusive, unbelievably subjective concept. But something to shoot for. Madrid, te quiero. rws 9:14 AM [+]
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