I boarded the plane at JFK in New York to Madrid, found my seat, tucked my luggage into the compartment, sat down and began reading a book that I had brought. I get a tap on my shoulder, and I look up to see the frightened face of a middle-aged lady who asked me in Spanish if this was her seat. I look at her ticket and indeed she was supposed to sit to my left. She was short, and could not put her luggage in the overhead compartment, so I put it up there, and got everything situated. I sat down and watched her struggle for a few minutes trying to buckle her seatbelt backwards, and then I asked if I could assist her. After I buckled it and handed her her blanket and pillow, she burst into tears and began sobbing into a crumpled napkin that was so old and used that it was ripping into pieces as she attempted to blow her nose and blot her eyes. I handed her my bandanna and she covered her face while bursting into a fresh bout of sobs that were more intense than the first round. I put a hand on her shoulder and patted it gently. Suddenly, she turned to me and began speaking wildly in Spanish while still continuing to sob. From what I could gather from the pieces that I could understand, I found out that she was 56 years old and is originally from Ecuador but now lives in Italy. This tip was to drop off her daughter (her only child) at a university in New York, and they were both crying , she said. Also, this trip to New York is also her second time on a plane in her life. The only other plane was when she flew one-way to Italy from Ecuador. She blew her nose again into the bandanna and sat there with her tear-streaked face, looking at me earnestly. I felt as though she were asking me for some sort of answer to her situation, but I had none. All I could do what begin asking her questions to about her daughter and asking her to tell me stories (which I barely understood, but did the best I could to respond appropriately). Eventually she calmed, but had intermittent tearful bursts for the next six hours. I made sure she ate, but she hated the food so she nibbled at the disgusting food, and then I finally got her to doze off twice during the flight. I also had to track down one of the flight attendants to ask for a glass of water so she could take her blood pressure pill. The flight attendants were NOT in any sort of hurry to do anything. They brought food and drinks, and then you did not see them again until the next time you ate. At which time they would scowl at you if you still had your plate or cup from the last meal, as if it were your fault that they did not come around to collect the trash. It was actually quite humorous, and I laughed every time they came around and I watched their disgusted faces float down the isle, and the looks they gave their compadres across the way in the other isle, who responded with a similar expression. I feel that it distracted my companion, too, because she would look at me over her glasses and roll her eyes at their 'disgust'. If I were to fly Iberia again, I would do it only because I found it humorous. The service was as I described above, and the food left a lot to be desired. The only tasty thing was the whipped cream on the apple pie, which was thick and heavy as the consistency of icing on a cake.
Once we landed, and exited the plane, I was looking to see where my next gate was when I felt a gentle little tug on my sleeve. I looked over to see my flight companion, Patricia, standing there, holding out her boarding pass for her next flight, looking completely lost and asking me where to go next. I assisted her up 8-10 escalators, through several hallways, and then on and off the train, and then up 5 more escalators to the hallway where she could then find her way. Madrid airport is incredibly confusing. We landed in 4S and had to get to 4 somehow. As I walked towards my terminal, I saw 88-90 on my right, and 95-96 straight ahead. I needed 92. Oh! I found it hiding at the far left of the wide open space in a little nook that no one would ever look at. And, well, there were no seats at my gate...so we all had to sit on the floor or stand. It was really interesting. I wish that I had pictures, but I did not want to take one of my accidental travel companion while she was crying, and I was exhausted by the time I arrived at gate 92. I sat down and thought of nothing.
I am unsure if our pilot in the small plane from Madrid to Malaga was drunk or a newbe (I am going with New) because it was one of those flights where if anyone was reading at take-off, 10 minutes into the flight all books were replaced into their bags, and all headphones taken out of ears, and most people were trying to look calm and collected while clutching the armrests of their seats, and the flight attendants sat in their seats and buckled their harnesses. When the wheels hit the runway in Malaga, a loud cheer arose and everyone clapped and whooped and you could feel all of the tension leave with the skid-marks we left on the runway as we fishtailed to a stop, and then coolly proceeded to our appropriate gate as if nothing had happened. The pilot is usually at the door as you exit the plane, to thank you for riding with them. This time there was no sign of the pilot. Only a flight attendant.
So, I am now in Granada!
