Our Trip Ended In An Amazing Race Style

Day 14: Mallorca – Barcelona – Frankfurt – Singapore

This entry is dedicated to all those who are working thanklessly facing tired and at times hostile travellers every night and day at the airport when things don’t go as planned.  Now that I have had a taste on what’s behind the scene having missed a connecting flight and lost a luggage, I salute you all.  May you see beauty in life and forget those angry faces or voices before the sun rises every morning.

Mallorca

My initial intention was to publish a day-to-day account of our journey to Spain completed with a special photo collection every Sunday, starting next Sunday.  Then I stare into day 13.  It’s nothing like the rest.  Maybe it is a good idea to document day 13 first with the little photos we took that day.

Our return trip was supposed to be straightforward.  Turn up at the new Barcelona Airport terminal, T1, before 7pm and take the Lufthansa flight to Singapore via Frankfurt.  The day started like every other day, bright and sunny, blue sky and the gentle breeze from the sea or the mountain or the city.

No.  Come to think of it, our day started with some drunk guy or guys yelling and banging doors at our corridor in the wee hours of a resort island where parties go on every night.  We were at the main island Mallorca.  I can’t imagine what Ibiza, the party island right next to Mallorca, is like.

Throughout the trip, we stayed at four-star hotels.  They are not that expensive.  The price ranges from 70€ to 120€ (1€ = S$2) a night.  But Mallorca is special.  The whole island is like a resort for the Europeans, mostly British judging at the menu items displayed.  They even have my favorite Steak and Kidney Pie.  The whole island doesn’t speak much Spanish.  Mostly English.  When we conversed with the locals in Spanish, they were pleasantly surprised.

So we dropped a star and stayed at a three-star hotel in Mallorca because accommodation seems expensive and hard to come by in an island resort that seems to be so popular amongst the Europeans.  There was no air-conditioning, no hairdryer, and no hand soap.  A basic room in a dorm style, long corridors full of rooms, full of young teenagers in beach wears.  Guys in shorts and nothing on top would pass by the hotel lobby and said “What’s up ladies”.  The girls would just toss a “I don’t care” look.  Youngsters at the balconies would yell at the pedestrians calling names and talking rubbish.  You get the picture.  I felt like I was back in school.

We have decided to sleep in and have a relaxing morning.  To pack up and to enjoy the sun.  Our flight from Mallorca to Barcelona via Spanair (Spanish budget airline I think) was at 2pm.  We took a nice drive from the beach town Malaluf, down the highway (there is only one in Mallorca) and into Palma, where the airport is at.  If you read the entire list of flight departure and arrival like I do, you would notice a long list of all the major capitals in Europe.

Barcelona

Not planned to stay at the brand new Terminal 1 for four hours during our transit, I proposed to get out of the airport and have our third attempt to visit the Picasso Museum.  I am a man of determination.  When we first arrived at the doorsteps of the museum, it was closing in less than an hour’s time.  The second time it was closed.  Most museums close on Mondays, so we’ve learned (after which, we dedicated Sunday to be a mindless museum clawing day).  I was thinking of a third time charm.  Let’s go.  It’s Amazing Race time!

There is no train station in Terminal 1, so we took the transit bus to T2 – the terminal where we first landed in Barcelona.  In a hurry, we nearly boarded the bus that was heading into the parking lot instead.  “This bus is heading to a parking lot.  Do you want to get to a parking lot?” asked a black man wearing an airport tag by the bus stop.  “Not really,” I replied.  “Then wait here for the next bus,” he pointed at another bay.  I wonder if his job is to stand at the bus stop prompting travellers not to get into the wrong bus.  Anyway, we chatted and he has a cousin living in Singapore.  “You should visit Singapore one day.  It’s as sunny and warm as Spain and Singapore is a beautiful country,” I said.  “I will, one day,” he replied.  “Take care,” I said to him as we boarded the transit bus.

OK.  The distance between T1 to T2 is nothing like our Changi airport.  It was more like a 10 minutes bus drive!  Once we were in T1, we felt at home.  We took a long walk through the flyover, reached the station, paid 5.60€ for a pair of tickets, and boarded the train.

I reckon the train only departs every 30 minutes, which is a shame.  My hope of stepping into the Picasso Museum dwindled as the clock ticked.  Out of nowhere, while we were waiting for the train to leave the station, a black man appeared with two pieces of luggage, sat opposite to us, and said hi.  I said hi thinking if I should continue to say something meaningful.  He took out his Blackberry and I stopped there.

Out of nowhere, during our train ride, the black man opposite spoke, “Are you a Malaysian?”  “No, I am a Singaporean,” I replied.  “Ah, but you don’t have the lah behind every sentences like the Singaporeans do!”  I thought the Malaysians do too.  OK.  It’s a small world.  He too stays in Singapore and he works at the banking industry like us!  The conversation turned lively.  Before we reached the city center, he looked into yonder and said, “Your bank is doing well.  Unlike mine.  I pray every night that I will still have a job tomorrow.”  I replied, “Well, it’s a global economy.  Even our people are losing their jobs.”  Really, he asked.  Yes really.  Somehow, inside that train, looking at the bright and sunny day outside, the global economy downturn seems to be so far away, seems so … nonexistent.

We ran out of the platform ready to dive into the Metro (underground transport).  I have even memorized how to get to the Picasso Museum.  Looking at the huge clock hanging at the center of the station, we did a time check.  Duh!  We would run out of time.  So I suggested having tapas snack with agua con gas (sparkling water) at the same restaurant we had our first meal in Spain, the same place where the waiter taught us how to order sparkling water in Spanish, and from then on, everywhere we went, we ordered agua con gas.

Tapas y Agua Con Gas

As seen in the picture on top of this post, Cynthia was happily eating Tapas inside a restaurant.  Tapas come in small portion.  Like the one you see in the picture above is diced fresh tomato and cheese soaked in – I think – olive oil.  What you don’t see is another dish we’ve order – chopped octopus and crunchy vegetables also soaked in what appears as olive oil.  Ordering tapas is easy at the bar (which is the cheapest way to eat by the way as you pay more siting at a table and even more siting at a table outside).  Just point at the sushi bar like container (see picture below).

It was a strange feeling retracing day 1 of our trip on the last day of our holiday.  It was as though the holiday never ends.  It just goes into a loop.  And it was a nice feeling.  Still is.

Barcelona Terminal 1

Going back to the terminal was a whole lot faster than getting out of the terminal.  The train departed the moment we dived inside helped.  The transit bus that is timed with the train ‘s arrival at T2 helped too.  In no time we were back inside the airport, shopping.  According to what we’ve read, this new terminal is the largest infrastructure project in Barcelona for the last 20 years!  And I wonder, would centuries later, the future generation turns this huge infrastructure into a tourist spot?  Like the monuments and Cathedrals.  Further I wonder, would what we build today stand the test of time like those made in stone hundreds and thousands of years ago?

Zara (pronounced as Tha-ra by the way) is popular in Spain.  I was crazy over Zara.  Cynthia was infested by my zest over Zara.  And there is, of course, a Zara inside the airport.

Pretty eh?

I wanted to get rid of all the Euros (bad idea by the way as you later on will see, we didn’t even have enough money to buy water in Frankfurt) so we blew them all inside a gift shop.  We took a tad too long and the departure gate was opened by the time we finished our shopping.  Learned from previous experience that the gate could be far.  And we re-checked the gate number again as the airports in Spain have the tendency to change the gate without public announcement.  At first we were puzzled when we saw a question mark behind the gate number stated on our boarding pass.  Now we know.

Running like mad couple, we arrived at the gate that displayed the Lufthansa logo and the destination Frankfurt.  I almost knocked onto the tall stern looking German at the gate when he said, “Hola, [something in German I reckon], and Good Morning.  This gate opens in a few minutes.”  He reminded me of a Terminator.  I stepped back, looked behind us, and saw many pairs of eyes staring at us, waiting to board the plane.

Awk-ward …

Frankfurt Airport

We hate the airport.  Nearly missed a flight on day 1 as we didn’t anticipate the airport is so darn huge.  On paper, from the time our plane (from Barcelona) scheduled to land to the time our connecting plane’s gate scheduled to open was 15 minutes.  How on earth do people manage to get out of the plane even if it lands on time, run across the long hallway, go through the queue of passport check, and the pretty tight security check in 15 minutes, I have no clue.  Apparently our plane did not depart Barcelona on time.  It was a terrible flight.  On our left, a white gentleman in his forties accidentally knocked over a beer glass and splashed beer onto Cynthia’s jeans.  On our right, a Spanish lady incessantly recited Lonely Planet in English.  She was reading it loud to her friends, page by page.  And they were heading to Borneo.  Where is Borneo I asked Cynthia.  Somewhere in Indonesia she replied.  Respect.

Before our plane landed in Frankfurt Airport, a stewardess announced that those who were heading to Singapore would be re-booked to Bangkok.  Worst still, this national flight would not have a gate for us to get off the plane and instead, we would be shuttled by a bus.

Everyone ran like crazy the moment the bus arrived at the terminal.  I guess there must of lots travellers taking connecting flights.  Flights are so connected, now I know.  Any delay in one flight triggers a whole new set of trouble for the downstream connections.  Mind boggling to even think of the people involved to deal with this day in day out, all the travellers and luggage affected, and the travel insurance claiming process that follows.

We dashed out of the gate expecting that someone from Lufthansa would guide us on our next step.  None.  So we ran and ran, towards the gate that was departing for Singapore.  Hardly a breath I have, I asked Cynthia what the rationale is to run to a gate that would be closed very soon, that our luggage were still in another plane.  “Don’t think, just run,” she said.  This Amazing Race was for real.  We did want to go home as planned.

So I ran, and walked, ran, and walked for what appeared like an eternity.  I really should have physically trained for this trip.  By the time we arrived at the gate, a short stern looking Lufthansa officer told us that we were re-booked to Bangkok based on the ‘next available flight’ policy.  We didn’t want to go to Bangkok and take a Thai Airway to Singapore!  “There must be another option,” I asked in desperation.  “Yes, Singapore Airline.  But it has departed just 1 minute ago,” he shrugged.  Maybe it was German humor but I so didn’t get it.  Resigned to fate, I was looking at him printing two new boarding passes and torn them into pieces.  He printed another pair of boarding passes and again torn them into pieces.  All of a sudden, he slided our old boarding passes to his colleague who was furiously handling similar cases, worn his suit, together with his supervisor, and left his post.  They simply called it a day there and then.

Looking back, I tend to think that he was buying time for us to board the next direct flight with Qantas instead.  I tend to think that all people are good in nature.  While waiting for our surprisingly lengthy paperwork to be completed, we made friend with a Spanish couple and had a chat with an Indonesia family.  And I chatted with those who were left behind.  You would be surprised that some of them would have missed their flight had I not chatted with them.  “You are heading to Bangkok?!  The gate is over there, not here, and it is closing!  Run!”  Looking back, I was quite relax the whole time and cracked a few jokes here and there.  Like how much I love German sausages that even the stern looking German officer couldn’t resist to smile.

So we were issued a voucher to exchange for our boarding passes at the Qantas counter.  Where was it?  A different terminal he said.  Uh-huh.  I shook his hands thanking his help.  He smiled and waved goodbye while our Amazing Race continued.

The Spanish couple and us stuck together.  Picture this: a terminal like a ghost town.  All the gates were closed.  The security officers were packing their bags ready to go home and they didn’t even care if some unauthorized personnel were pacing around the terminal, or sleeping inside the terminal (that thought did cross my mind).  It was as though the moment their official hour was up, they just shut down and go home.  I love that work culture.

The direction was vague and there was no sign directing you from one terminal to another.  Twice we got lost.  We stopped a cleaner for direction.  We stopped a group of three officers heading home for direction.  “It’s a big airport and don’t get lost!” said one with a smile.  We have even found another officer standing inside a dark hall facing the gigantic window and we asked her for direction.  What was she waiting for?  I have no clue.  As I looked through the glass windows while four of us were running inside a dark corridor, I pointed at the moving monorail train outside and said, “Look, we should have taken that instead.”

We reached the Qantas counter and the charming Spanish couple and us continued our lively conversation exchanged contact information.  For a two hours difference between the Lufthansa flight that we were meant to take and the Qantas flight, we thought we had ample amount of time.  The paperwork surprisingly took a long, long time.  And there was a long, long queue.  It was as though this Qantas flight is collecting all the poor souls who have missed their connecting flights.

We barely made it but we did.  Hooray!  And this entry ought to end here.

But it doesn’t.

Singapore Lost and Found

When we stepped into the Lost and Found department at the Singapore Changi airport, someone was screaming at the officer.  Really screaming, calling names short of vulgarity.  He was an European with a foreign accent.  His partner was there too.  The yelling and screaming and the unreasonable demand just went on and on while I was logging a report as one of my three luggage was missing.  I wanted to tell him that these officers have nothing to do with his lost luggage.  I wanted to tell him that I too was tired after a long flight from the other side of the world.  I wanted to tell him to let the officers do their job they best in doing.  I wanted to tell him that in Singapore, you can trust our efficiency and integrity.  I wanted to tell him to stop yelling at my people in my country or feel free to leave my country right now.

But I didn’t.  As I had no idea why he was so angry.  I could guess but that’s not good enough.  Painfully I kept quiet while smiling at the officer who took care of my case and asked, “Do you get this kind of situation often?”  She smiled and said, “Yes, a couple of times a day.”  Wow, I respect them immensely for putting up with some of these unreasonable people on a daily basis.  How do they find the strength to go to work everyday?

We took a taxi with two luggage re-tagged with the “Rush” label to the Qantas flight.  We missed the luggage that we had lost.  Something of high sentimental value was inside.  Something of high monetary value was inside too.

Crashing My Own Gate

“Do you have my key?” asked Cynthia when we were inside the taxi just 1 km from our home.

Oh no!  Both of our set of keys were inside that one lost luggage!  I know what you are thinking.  Well, if not for my crazy third attempt to visit the Picasso Museum, I wouldn’t have checked in that luggage.  My intend was to travel light.  This is an Amazing Race.  Intuitively, I called my sister and my brother-in-law and got a number of a locksmith at my area.  With no disrespect to the locksmith profession, I have this crazy notion that all these locksmiths belong to a thief guild or something like that (too much computer gaming).  Basically, I was calling for help to pick my own locks, to break into my own home.  And these locksmiths work in an interesting network.  I called one and got a number for another locksmith.  I called the new number and got another one.  Finally one arrived to saw my padlock away and pick my front door lock.  It was an eye opening experience to see fire sparkle spraying everywhere as the electric saw met the pad lock.  And how easy it was to pick my front door lock.  For S$70, I was happy that I didn’t need to check into a love motel with Cynthia in Singapore.  It would have been an interesting experience though.

30 hours since I woke up on a Friday morning in Mallorca, I was dead tired.  As a ‘professional’ blogger, I published an entry I drafted on the plane.  Third draft in fact.  I rewrote that three times.  By then, Cynthia was ‘unconscious’ in the bed while I switched on the TV and watched the playback of the F1.  No, Button didn’t win.  What a disappointment.  What a crazy day.

The Next Day

The Airport called and told me that my lost luggage was found and it was on its way via Singapore Airline.  It would be delivered to my doorstep after it has cleared the custom (I love Singapore).  I bought a new padlock and it says: hardened – anti-sawing, anti-picking.  Do I really want one that is … that hard to break?!  And would we still fly Lufthansa or would we pay 50% extra for Singapore Airline direct flight?  Amazing Race is an unique experience that I don’t mind having once in my life.  Just once I hope.

And of course, I would write a letter to Lufthansa commenting on the unrealistic connecting flight timing and the need to upgrade their planes to the Asian standard – one that comes with in-flight entertainment, eye shade, toothbrush, toothpaste, and more.  By the way, Qantas appears to have improved a lot!  And I shall stop here before I turn this entry into the length of a novelette.

Wait, I still want to visit the Picasso Museum one day.  Maybe after we have toured the rest of Spain.  And the loop continues.

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