Queen’s wear underwear too, right?

7 Feb

When did it become such a bitch to get around Europe??

I’m in Madrid trying to get to London… You can practically see it from my window… if you look really hard. It shouldn’t be that hard right?

After a metro ride, a queue to ask about the queue for RyanAir… which is apparently the worst airline in existence according to all security personnel and queue buddies I got well acquainted with in the hour and a half wait to get into another line because apparently it was the wrong line and then only to have the passport approver send me to another line to get it stamped…his wrists must have been suffering from a serious bout of carpel tunnel. I was finally to security.

Yay, 1/4 quarter of the way. Shoot me. There’s nothing worse than having ADD and having to wait in a constant line. Lines should be destroyed along with the concept of Visas, exchange rates, and gynecologists. Amiright?!

Aaaaaaand then who’s an idiot for wearing ten bracelets, a watch, difficult shoes, and scattered liquids. This girl. (You’d think being an American and having to fight through airport security like what I would imagine 30 consecutive days of camping to be like, I would wise up…and wear socks without holes in them…but I figured it’s close… this is cake… and aerosol deodorant?! That’s a liquid? It doesn’t even work well. YOU CAN HAVE IT MR SECURITY MAN! Get it out of my sight! Deodorant is so overrated anyways. And I need an updated liquid list por favor!) If ONLY I would have known how all these things collectively would get me to one VERY personal metal detector and three even more touchy personal pat downs… I think she thought my bra was similar to that of a fen-bots because the airport pat down lady definitely kept going back…vigorously. (Yeah! My boobs are there lady I promise… you just need a microscope and some fresh contact lenses to see them.) I even got a hand down my pants.

If she wanted to know where I got my underwear, she could have just asked.

So now I’m waiting for my plane in the fetal position due to my aforementioned molestation experience… and all of a sudden it’s like the cowbell for the dining hall at summer camp. It happened so fast I didn’t even see it! People are pushing and herding together like cattle. And I’m looking around for the emergency exit in case there’s a stampede. Ohhhhhhh waaaaaaaait, it’s just the line to get on the plane.

And I’m last.

Duped again by the lack of knowledge in Spanish. Nahum you need to step up your game.

So now I’m on the plane… next to small children, naturally… they can sense my love for them…

And two hours later I’m in London!

The hard part is over right. Nada.

Apparently the UK customs man thought it quite necessary to remind me of why I am in Europe to begin with… “not really suuuuurrreeee”… after two games of 20 questions about this topic, I found out that apparently that’s not a good answer. So after 15 more minutes of him not believing that I quit my job and moved to Spain… only for as long as I’m allowed of course… constant questions about my bank account, the entire history of my life in America, as well as the entire history of America, (duuuuuuudee it’s not like I’m here to break into the palace and rummage around the Queen’s underwear drawer. I just want to shop and spend an ungodly amount of money for five days. Everybody. Calm. Down. And you’re freaking welcome.) I think he could tell he was wearing me down and I might burst into tears at the knowledge that “yes, I’m literally floating in this world, yes, he’s a jackass for judging me, and yes, no one likes a crying girl at the border… of anywhere.”

Then as fast as the stampede erupted, I was stamped and brushed to the side.

And now I’m running for my train…

…the train I thought I had to be on time for, but really I could take any of the trains that were coming… every 5 minutes.

Workout. Check.

So one train ride, one wrong tube ride, one sketchy attempt at acquiring a tube map that they had ran out of… two correct tube rides… and one black town-car ride driven by a Persian looking man with BO stronger than a vat of garlic that’s been roasting for 5 days, I arrived at my friends house.

Don’t worry the trip back was quite similar.

I’m never leaving Spain again.

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