I’m up at 530 and sneak (run without looking back) by the waking children to make it out of the hotel by six. I feel awful leaving Derek with the wolverines but wolverines in a hotel has to be better than wolverines in a passport agency. Right? I make it there 95 minutes before they open the doors and I’m the first one there. I get harassed by two different Homeland Security officer who are incredibly aggressive in telling me I can’t go in yet, which I know. I am very aware of what their job is and what they have to protect/guard against but the sheer hostility is incredibly disturbing. After entering, I’m told on no less than four occasions to, “smile,” and am consistently interrupted and condescended to. We’re off to an auspicious start.
But once I’m actually attended to by the passport officials it’s incredibly bureaucratic but friendly and very helpful. I get to sit on plastic chairs and read, so I kinda feel like I’m already on vacation. I’m through by 830 and told that it can be hours to get the passport printed and I can come back to check around 10. It may or may not be done by the time I need to leave for the airport at 1. I head back to the hotel to help Derek with my progeny but I’m informed that seeing me and then saying goodbye again would be worse than the help I can give, so I get to eat breakfast alone and go back to reading. I’m wondering if I should screw things up more often. Other than the massively pressing weight of anxiety, this is pretty pleasant.
I’m back at the passport agency and I get told to, “smile, it can’t be that bad,” one more time. I’m in no mood but because I’m well trained, I giggle and move on. Fuck. About an hour later my number is called and I’m informed that the passport is done, but it’s been misplaced… “probably put in the wrong que or something,” and they’ll go look. What in the holy hell is this? I’m envisioning it being in the mail already and being told that federal law won’t allow them to intercept it, or it’s been mistakenly shredded, or every other horrible scenario I can possibly stress-dream. Ten minutes later I have it in hand with no explanation as to what bureaucratic multiverse it was in for that time, but I don’t actually give a flying fuck, I HAVE A PASSPORT AND WE’LL MAKE OUR FLIGHT!
We load up like Sherpas and actually check in to the flight, make it through security, and get food with only the normal level of hitting, screaming, and shenanigans caused by my tiny people. They’re actually pretty glued to the windows watching the planes and we begin to breathe again for the first time in two days.
Turns out Iberia Air has no priority boarding for children unless you shove your way into the first class line, which of course I do. It’s in everyone’s best interest if we have additional time to settle the monsters and unpack the myriad of equipment and supplies that two little people require for an 8.5hr flight…It’s like bloody Christmas when we travel. I’m so desperate to keep them happy that it’s a constant parade of new things that we’re presenting to them. Inevitably, evey toy is repeatedly dropped under the seats and in the aisles for the duration of the flight. But really, they only want to watch the shit airplane tv anyway, so very much like the way Christmas unfolds in our house.
We eat, get them dressed for bed, and dose them with Dramamine to stave off the pukes and are ready for airplane bed. I opt to sit with the kids to help them sleep. Thus far, Derek’s had them as this plane only has three by three seating so it’s definitely my turn. The Bug is out relatively quickly but Mouse…whew. He’s fighting HARD. He got zero nap today so we’ve entered into the over-tired zone and he’s a mess. After two hours, I finally resort to nursing him to sleep (which we haven’t done in a year) and he’s finally out. It lasts for less than 90 minutes and then I have to be bent over him with a boob in his mouth to keep him even semi-sleeping. Is my back worth it? Yes! Can’t even imagine what 90 minutes of sleep in 24 hours will look like. But even with my lumbar gymnastics and a boob he only manages three hours. I feel awful for everyone. He’s pretty happy though so we feed him blueberries and yogurt and we’ll keep all digits crossed that he’s not a complete disaster for the rest of the day.
We have an 8hr layover in Madrid before our next flight and have booked a “nap room” at a hotel airport to try and get us some sleep, so that’s going to have to do. Our plane arrives at 730 and, much to my amazement, immigration takes less than five minutes! But now we have to find this damn hotel. We wander and get trapped in the basement level (you know, because once you enter an area of the airport you have now signed up to live there) but find a tram to somewhere? It ends up that it actually is where we’re supposed to be. I’m feeling like our luck is beginning to turn. We debate food vs. play for the kids while we wait for 10am to check in to the nap room. We opt for play because, well, I don’t want to bother with McDonalds which may be the only option other than the goldfish/granola bars we brought and I don’t have the energy to figure food out. The kids are happily directing us while we play with them in the airport’s kiddie area. I quicky get bored and want to check my phone. I’ve gotten a text from the airline letting me know what gate our plane’s leaving from. Great? We’ve got seven more hours, but I guess this is helpful? Anyway, I go back to playing with the kids when it dawns on me that maybe the airline knows something I don’t. I check and yep. When we were rebooked we were put on a MUCH earlier flight to San Sebastian without being informed of the switch. We have exactly 10 minutes to get to the fucking gate. We frantically swoop up the kids who are PISSED and wrestle them into strollers as we begin the Home Alone style airport run. We make it just in time. I’m beside myself. I have traveled before, promise. Why it is no longer occurring to me to double check things like passport expiration dates and flight times must be the result of all the other important things I’m worried about, like which Octonaught drives which gup, and what the letter of the day is.
We get to the hotel and immediately get everyone in bed. It’s been 30hrs since Derek or I have slept and the kids are desperate. However, why the fuck being tired when you’re little translates to, “I must wiggle and babble, and do everything in my power to stay awake,” is fucking beyond me. We end up yelling at them for 20minutes to shut the fuck up and close their fucking eyes. (not really the language we used, but a close approximation of where we were at by the end of said 20minutes).
I give us a 2.5 hour nap and rouse everyone at 3pm local time. We’re off to explore the city a bit to get our bearings but the Bug is freaking out because he only wants to stay at the hotel and play with his new toys and/or watch tv. His favorite thing about travel is we have no tv rules. He asks us frequently if we can go to Japan again (his default for any travel) so he can watch more tv. We’re really making an impression on him with the new places he sees….
The afternoon is pretty lovely. We find a wonderful playground between the surfing beach and the hotel with a small grocery on the way that also has an ice cream shop in the vicinity. The kids are finally, truly, happy. After we load them up with sugar for lunch we head to explore the beaches.
We didn’t bring any sand/swim gear as this is just reconnaissance. But the kiddos are not really into just watching the water and other people play in the sand. We quickly realize this is a huge mistake and take them far from the beach.
We find a lovely Italian restaurant that has green noodles and is happy to have the kids. We GORGE. No one has had a real meal in almost two days. I can tell the waitstaff is making mental notes about the appetites of Americans as they wide-eyed bring out dish after dish. Bruce Springstein videos are playing, the kids are happily eating, I’m in pizza/pasta heaven. All is right with the world.
Travels with Larson and Co 