24/25 June bonus edition

It was never going to be an early night, but I had no idea it would be 3am before I took the pillow and sheet out of my locker and tossed them towards the top bunk, took my shoes and socks off and climbed up feeling hot and sticky and dirty and wanting to brush my teeth, but wanting more not to disturb the gals I was sharing a room with – and the sink is right there in the room.

The flight was supposed to leave at 9:45pm, but the plane didn’t arrive until just after that. It was an impressively quick turnaround and we were taxiing down the runway only 50 minutes late. Clearly we were not going to arrive by 11pm. But we were back on the ground at 11:38.

An hour later everyone is waiting at Baggage Carousel 10, which has still not started moving. A uniformed Iberian Airlines representative appears carrying a stack of pink forms. Complaints Forms. There is not going to be action for at least another twenty minutes. People take the forms and start scribbling. A group gathers around the official, it swells to about thirty people, looking more like a mob and starting to act like one. I wander over out of interest. One young man quietens the crowd and speaks on their behalf. A complaints form is not a solution. We need to know we will be compensated for our inconvenience. How can we fly to our next destination with no bag and no guarantee when it will arrive? I understand you can’t promise us anything and so could we please speak to your supervisor.

Agitation increases, everyone starts talking at once again and Official Representative offers Lost Luggage forms to those who cannot wait.

Here is my moment of salvation. I cannot – in good conscience – fill out a complaints form, but I will happily fill out a form saying my bag has not arrived – just like when I arrived in Madrid ten weeks ago! And I will leave the airport with just a backpack and bumbag.

I will not have to follow GraphGuy’s suggestion:

I look forward to hearing how you somehow encouraged help for the 750 meter cheese and grain mill journey 😂. There was this old guy on a motorized scooter who seemed a bit bored…scooter had a basket so I pretended to faint …

But before I get to that point, there’s a bus to catch. I ask a security guard where to go and follow his directions as if I’m on autopilot. A few minutes later he swings by and assures me I’m at the right bus stop. The sign is saying +20 so I ask if the bus will be here in twenty minutes.

Más Señora.

Of course, the plus means more!

Lucky I have already messaged the hostel to say I am still coming, but will not arrive at my expected time. (I had given myself a two hour buffer in case something cropped up, but even that was not enough)

The bus fills up, with lots of people checking it will stop at Cibeles, which gives me confidence I will not be the only one disembarking there.

I need not have worried. The place is fair humming. This is Madrid, even if it is a Monday night/Tuesday morning.

My map directs me down the strip of garden in the middle of the road, but I opt to cross to the busier side of the street where there are many more than just two guys sitting on a park bench.

Then there are no more photos, because I have to turn off the main busy road onto a narrow street that I am telling myself is definitely-wider-than-an-alley, and I feel my heart pounding a bit harder.

Especially when a car with loud music blaring screeches into the street. “Uber” painted on the door, offers some unfounded relief!

Greater relief halfway along the street when three policemen emerge from a building and stand around chatting.

Then I catch up with the Uber car, which has got stuck behind a rubbish truck stopping every few metres for bin emptying (maybe it IS an alley and not a street).

Two corners to go and the first takes me into another busy-ish street. That is to say, if I were out walking at home after 2am and I saw half a dozen people I would consider it to be busy.

One last turn. Into another narrow street. My eyes scan for building numbers or the hostel name. No luck – it’s going to be at the other end. At least there is a doorman standing outside a hotel partway along. Then I spot the sign and when the door buzzes even before I hit the bell I heave a huge sigh of relief.

I’m going to be in bed by 2:30.

Only I’m not.

I’m sent up to floor 3, room 37, bed 1.

Have you ever tried to find a bed in the dark? My eyes adjust to the black and I can make out there are two empty beds. I’m going to have to turn on my torch (carefully covered by my hand to reduce the glow as much as possible) to discover which bed is mine. Hmmm. 6 and 8. Number One is occupied.

I trot back downstairs.

The receptionist is bemused and we go back upstairs for her to verify my story.

We go back downstairs. She promises to find a solution. I suggest taking Bed 6 or 8, but their occupants will be returning at some point. She has no idea who is in Number One.

There is only one option. I’m put in a female-only room with four beds. That sure beats sharing with seven guys.