I’ll say this for the Spanish, those people can Partayyy! Got out of the hotel at 7:00am, looking and feeling like a zombie from poor sleep and long miles. I was In good company though as there were “zombies” and “vampires” littering the streets, the benches in the underground, and the coaches on the metro. Some were people just leaving the last party of the night, some were doing the walk of shame, and one or two might actually have been zombies. On the 9 train heading towards Colombia, were the three teenage girls in black and white striped stockings, black patent leather Mary Janes, matching black and white pinafores and white faces with black stitching painted in strategic places, three goth dolls from the Tuesday Addams toy chest. They were chatting and texting while loud drunk Super Mario was shouting and singing. Super Mario was trying and failing to get the Goth Dolls attention. A zombie with a blood stained tee shirt and a knife embedded in his skull kept egging Mario on between slugs from a bottle in a paper bag. Finally Super Mario reached into a pocket somewhere deep in his attire and pulled out some business cards. He stumbled up to the Goth Dolls tight little circle, and thrust a card into their view. As one they stopped what they were doing and fixed their eyes, and silence on Super Mario. A beat, another beat, still another beat, and Super Mario finally got the hint and retreated. The Goth Dolls went back to their gossip, Super Mario took the paper bag from Knife Zombie and I got off at the next stop to catch the airport express.

Barajas airport in Madrid is huge. You have got to factor in walking time when you go there. There are hundreds of flight checkin counters and very few automated kiosks. Security was the tightest of all the countries I had visited. They have a checkpoint where young women ask you probing questions and get you to look them in the eye before allowing you to proceed to the checkin counter of kiosk. wherever you go in the international terminal a boarding pass and a passport must be shown together. Stopped at the duty free and picked up a handful of mini bottles of Jameson whisky. It was an 8 hour flight after all.

I was on an Air France ticket but the flight was run by Delta. I was really hoping to hear a French accented voice wish me a good day. Next time.

Got on, got settled in, and got airborn. The plane was full of Spaniards who were on the first day of their on adventures. Everyone was full of energy and imagining a grand time ahead. I was staying in the present.

What do you say about an 8 hour flight back to the U.S. after a month in Europe? I watched Guardians of the Galaxy, wrote a bit, ate and drank what the flight attendants put before me, slept. Woke to an announcement that those not holding a U.S. Passport would have to fill out a customs declaration. Downed a mini Jameson and went back to sleep.

On final approach is was cold and raining in NYC, just as I left it. Every window had a smiling face in it drinking in the view of this great foreign city. I didn’t have to look, I knew it by heart.

Off the plane, my feet were long-flight swollen, and I’m walking without purpose, just pulled along by the current flowing to customs, the automated passport scanners, a moment with a TSA guy who asked all the usual questions and told me to sign my passport,

“I didn’t sign it?”

“Don’t worry, it happens a lot”

I pulled out a pen and signed as I walked past the luggage claim and met another customs agent, a beefy, tough looking New York Italian,

“That’s all your luggage?”

“Yessir”
He examined my passport more closely, produced a sheet of paper from his little podium drawer,
“You didn’t check any luggage?”

“No sir”

“Go over to that desk and wait for an officer to call you”

“That desk” was manned by the bigger, tougher brothers of the guy I just talked with, I didn’t have to wait, I handed the bigger tougher agent my passport and the sheet of paper I’d been given.

“You didn’t check any luggage?”

He had a heavy five o’clock shadow at 1:15. It sounded like sandpaper when he rubbed his chin.

“No, I uh, I like to travel light”

“And what have you been doing in Europe since,” he glanced down at my passport, “hmm, you hit Paris 5 October, with just carry on luggage?”

“I guess I’ve been on a journey of self discovery”

He looked at me for a long beat, perhaps to make sure I wasn’t fucking with him. Then he looked at my bag and back at me.

“That is really something my friend. Gimme a sec, and I’ll have you out of here in no time”

With that he made a note on the paper, turned to his workstation and punched the keys for 20 seconds or so, then he handed me my passport.

“That’s it! Welcome home Mr. Perez”

I grabbed my stuff and as I stepped out of customs, concluded the international portion of this story.