MADRID-MEXICO FOR BEGINNERS
phone rings. The hissing voice tells me: "It's 6 o'clock, sir, have good day "Thank you. I wake up after a night of light sleep, nervous. It took about seconds to find me. I get out of bed, I open the curtains. It's a cold morning sun. It's my last day in the Excelsior Hotel in Madrid. Today I finish a pleasure trip and I must hasten to take the flight to Mexico City, departing at 11 am.
I bathe, get dressed. A little hair fixative to hold 11 hours of flight. Accommodate some magazines on the dresser that I left lying on the ground the night before, when I read an article about the European Community, the take in the briefcase, to read during the flight path. Seeking card which opens the room. Not find it. I remove blankets, sheets and clothing. Nothing. It's 6:45. I can not find out if the card first. I open drawers, closets. Not find it. Lifted a tray with the remains of my dinner last night (the Andalusian gazpacho, club sandwich and pale ale), and there it is. The volume, slamming the door shut. The elevator is on my floor. I hit the button, watch the indicator light stops on the floor above. I watch the red carpet at the hotel, Impressionist reproductions trying to brighten the dark corridors and perceive that smell so characteristic of Madrid, which I dislike. The lift now goes down, but not me. Under the stairs. "Good morning, sir. Do you take you coffee? .- Please. The service in Europe is slow, so that makes me long for a VIP or a Denny's in Guadalajara. "Captain, sorry, I have a bit of a hurry, my flight leaves in a little while and do not bring me my breakfast. The man, fat, gray and red, is annoying and nagging me to wait. In Spain nagging you at the slightest provocation. Anyway, my breakfast arrives. Tasteless cereal, orange juice and coffee synthetic watery. Chewing a piece of bread which has no equivalent in Mexico, for its strength and flavor to carbonate. Through the windows of the hotel observed the avenue of trees and buildings brown and mustard, there are very few people walking. I get the account on there never ordered an omelet. I must convince the waiter that I did not order nor received the English tortilla. The waiter asked me to wait, will talk to the captain. The captain and the waiter very mobile arms, angry gesture. The waiter goes to the box, review papers, back to my table asking for an apology. He signed the note, left the room. Are 7:40. The idea of \u200b\u200breturning to my country makes me happy and nerves at once. I take the elevator, go straight to the stairs. I start running up. I have my plans delayed 40 minutes. I get to the room and introduce the card. Struggle. The door resists. Pinches cards, how not to get normal keys. After a few seconds of fighting, half of the card was quedado en la chapa y yo, aterrado e incrédulo, sostengo la otra mitad. Bajo a la administración, le explico al encargado lo que me ocurrió. El tipo me escucha con atención y con absoluta cara de desprecio me informa que la reposición de la tarjeta me costará 1,500 pesetas, pero que debo esperar, porque el encargado de mantenimiento llega en media hora. -¿Nadie más puede abrir mi puerta?-, -Lo siento, señor, él es el único autorizado para cambiar el cerrojo-. Me siento en el lobby y espero a que llegue el Amo de las Tarjetas. Jugueteo con mi reloj. Lo abrocho-desabrocho en un intento por tranquilizarme, por convencerme de que tengo muy buen tiempo y no hay nada de qué preocuparse. Mi respiración es ahora faster. I still remember packing toiletries along with some gifts that I did not want to put in my large suitcase. Cross leg, cross the other. I light a cigarette. Together with my luggage and tourists spend no compassion or hear about my little drama. At 8:15 I go to the counter and the manager tells me to climb to fourth, that the maintenance worker will be with me in minutes. I climb the stairs two at a time.
When I get to the room, is already a fifty to the blue and gray uniform of the hotel, disarming veneer. The bolt, as they say here. "Okay, who has been lucky, Huh? touch me now come early ... do not worry, man, that one little minutes is the fourth open .. Come on, there is .- I offer a tip that he rejects. "No man, please, it is my duty. Then entered the room and took the pile of magazines, thankfully, is the gift-To keep a souvenir of Mexico, "I say. Thanks me and wishes me bon voyage. I go to the bathroom, I put what remained packed in a canvas bag. By taking a bottle of perfume I slip and break. Click bottle, my 300 francs to the trash. I rush shit. Everything smells like Jazz by Yves Saint Laurent. Pick up the glasses, with courage to throw trash. I check under the bed, I open all the drawers, I must not forget anything. Bag tickets my jacket pocket to make sure that I carry. My passport, where I left off? I reach into the shirt pocket, there it is, I feel the warm plastic. Pick up some coins, banknotes seeking pesos in my wallet, yes there are. Everything in order. He checked his watch: 8:27. Well, that'll take it. I look in the mirror and discover a stain on my shirt. The closer inspection, I discover it's blood. I unbuttoned, and in doing so I realize that I have a tiny cut on the index finger. Must have been with the glass. I lick my wound while I travel in my medicine cabinet a Band-Aid. A priest who does not exist, because then I remember I used the last four days before when I heel blister from walking in Barcelona. With your finger in the mouth, which gives me a look of foolish child, call reception and ask a bellhop. At 8:40 you see a young man of Arab appearance gives me good morning and my luggage fits in your cart. We went down the elevator. 9,8,7 floor. Stops. A pair of American oldies, with a lot of kids, a bellboy and a luggage cart, try to join the decline. Enter, exit, fit, discuss among themselves. Do not know whether to wait for the next trip or embark some now and others later. I cry my watch 8:53. The old men decide to wait. Leave the elevator. I hate them. We reached the ground floor. I approach the counter, I ask myself. The cashier is a young white skin, black hair and blue eyes watching me attentively while I asked my full name. I give, I say that I have quickly that my plane leaves in two hours, I add that I have to spend an hour earlier at the airport. She smiles, says that in a moment everything is ready. Type in your computer, check a card, write something in them. Hear but not see a printer. "Your total score is 12.345 pesetas. I say that is good and I give my credit card. The carefully reviewed, then inserted into the machine that gives authorization. The screen shows a few letters. The cashier turns to me: "You'll have to wait a few minutes, sir, have no line, but I do not delay. Take a seat, "I sit favor., what I have. Another cigarette. The hotel is full of Japanese tourists in shorts and flowered shirts with Americans who come to pay their dollars in this Spain devalued the peseta, the slow service. He approached me a guerita with red and white business suit, who offered me a trip to the Valley of the Fallen and Toledo. Thank you, I explain that I am about to leave, and I hope the authorization of my credit card. "By God, if sometimes it takes a horror, especially when the card is from Latin ...- To hear feel bubbles in my stomach and say that I do not take salt .- The salt? So what is meant by that? - "The bad luck - he explained," so we say in Mexico. Goodbye, wish me a good trip and leaves a group of Brazilian tourists. I'm going to the cashier asked for my card. "Do not worry you, there are already online in a jiffy is your authorization. Take your seat. What I want is to take my plane. I hope to stand up to the cashier beckoned me and asks me to sign the Vaucher. I get the card folded back, I wish you a happy journey and come back soon (All I want good trip, but do not let me go fast.) "Thank you," replied stammering. I ask the concierge for a taxi. Taxis in Europe imported from Lilliput, the driver will battle hard to accommodate my bags. -Have you been charged yet, eh? You do know Mexicans gastar. "I inform you that this is only my clothes and books, I have a great hurry, I should be at the airport at 10 and they are 9:30. The driver reassures me. He says that in 15 minutes we are in Barajas. We started. As in Mexico, English taxi drivers are playful, talkative and nosy. I notice that for every kilo of overweight are paid $ 100. Pale. I have no idea what the weight limit, but I think it would be better to ship the books by mail. The traffic is slow, stops upon reaching the Plaza del Sol "That caught us a jam," says the cabbie. - A what? - A traffic jam, traffic man - Ah, a traffic jam. The taxi driver laughs at the little word, informs me that no problem, yes we arrived on time. A turn of the wheel left the center of Madrid to make a broad avenue that leads to the airport. I tell the taxi driver which line will travel, and after cursing him and fight with other drivers, leaving me in front of the room indicated. I pay. Has no change. All are equal, are a breed apart. No way, stay with the change. Under my suitcases, and look over a very long line, the counter that says Mexico City, Flight 945. Nothing. I despair, I run from here to there, like cockroach persecuted, wonder no one is safe. And I thought that only happened in my country. At last I find the counter and discover that there are other 40 passengers queuing up to register. It's 10 o'clock, and the pound. The line moves quickly. I get to the counter, handed my ticket. I want to stop please. I have only in smoking section. All right. Your passport please. I reach into my shirt and what I get is my passport. It is a mica with advertising of the hotel where I pointed out some directions. What a fool, of course I checked it. The airline's employee looks at me impatiently as I rummage the pockets of the jacket, my briefcase, my pants. I feel the eyes of those waiting behind me. I explain almost shouting to Miss I can not find the passport. He tells me to book my seat, but can not give me the boarding pass without a passport. I get to the side of the line, frantically try to remember where I left off. I was sure I had put on the shirt pocket. Yesterday I saw him, when I used it as a separator of the magazines I was reading ... of course. What a fool you, for sure you left it in magazines. I'm flying to find a phone. Panting, spoke to the hotel, I'll explain. Do not understand my story, repeated two times to different people. I respond that the person who opened my door to my room, left the hotel, back in half an hour, you will be asked to locate my passport between the magazines, which I call again later. My worst nightmare is now reality. A reality of $ 200 more if I fail my flight and took the next. I have dry mouth, sweat profusely and hair fixative is no longer anywhere. I pulled their hair, literally, I am to wait half an hour. The speaker is heard in a while the announcement of my flight. These are 10:35. I go to the bathroom, wet my face, I try my hair, jaw trembles. I can not find a passport I am in great problem. Go to the embassy, \u200b\u200bget a copy, wait a day or two, find accommodation, spend a whole lot. I leave the bathroom. I have heat. I take off my jacket and I am again. Something bothered me in the chest. I I check the shirt pocket: there it is. My passport completely sweaty, made chilaquiles. It out, I check it, I kiss, yes, this is, always was with me, but I take my fucking rush mica instead of passport. I get up, run with luggage, sweat and passport to the counter. The clerk immediately recognized me, I give my passport. Register my luggage, I say nothing of being overweight. Bendigo to the English, God and all my guardian angels for saving me so much trouble. The clerk hands me my boarding pass which took the force. I keep it carefully in my jacket. I row to board. Are 10:50 am. The plane rises at 11:10 while I recline in my seat, relieved sigh. At 12:00 am on flight 945 flying over the Atlantic, while I find hysterical checking all my pockets and my passport rests, damp and folded on the counter number 25, Iberia Airlines, in Madrid. Pinches hurry. 
070496.
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