Madrid Day One

Everything was going well, too well in fact. I made a couple of sketches in the airport, which you can see on this post, hopefully. Then the message came that the flight was delayed. I have never flown on time from Bristol Airport, but that’s what you get for booking the cheapest flights you can find.

So, ¾ of an hour later than advertised, we were standing at the gate, waiting to board the plain – Freudian slip – plane. Now, I have no idea why panic decided to strike right at that moment, but it did. I suddenly decided it would be a good time to put all my Euros into my wallet – they were still in the little plastic one they came in. I couldn’t find them. I searched all my pockets, and then emptied my whole bag out - not a pretty sight. One more go and then that was it – I was ringing home. Thankfully they were in the opposite pocket from where I thought they were.

Onto the plane then, and the captain, a very jovial sort, actually came out from the cockpit to talk to us all face to face about the delays. “There’s a small electrical engine at the back” he began, then, after pausing for dramatic effect, he went on. “Basically, it’s broken. That’s why you’re all sweltering in here –“ which we were – “ and that’s why it’s taking us so long. We use it to start the plane’s engines, and when it doesn’t work we have to have a machine from outside connected, which takes a lot longer.” Fair enough, although I’m not entirely sure I wanted to know that we were travelling on what was, essentially, a broken plane.

On to Madrid after an uneventful flight – it took about 30 minutes to get us off the plane for the same reason we’d been delayed – they had to connect an external machine to open the doors , I kid you not. Still, I’d planned out my route taking the Metro, and that worked alright once I’d persuaded the machine to actually give me the ticket I’d paid for. Well, I say that I persuaded it, but it was a rather burly guard who gave it a good thump. She brushed away my thanks with a de nada.

Finally, then, to the Bridge Hostel in the centre of Madrid. To my shame I walked past it twice before I found it, even after asking in a supermarket a few doors down. Then the pin I had would not open the doors. After 10 minutes a guy came out and I snuck in. I still couldn’t get through the door on the third floor. I tried ringing the hostel’s number – no answer. Finally I rang home. Thankfully I wasn’t on skype as I’d have hated my nearest and dearest to be treated to the sight of a grown man sobbing. My daughter Jenn, though, had it all sorted , gave me the new PIN, and so I’m sitting here, typing out episode one, before flaking out for the night. The room is rather lovely, I have to say – once you’re actually in this place it’s a different world, and I’d argue one of the nicest rooms I’ve stayed in on any of my jaunts.