Here, There & Elsewhere. Departure marathon

Two weeks later, it’s time to leave Spain. My friend Liz, whose warmth and hospitality during my stay in Tarragona has been 20-star deluxe, collects me at 6.30 am. My flight is scheduled for 10 am. It’s a domestic hop to Madrid, so we’re really confident about getting to the airport in time to have a little snack together.

But things start to go wrong. From a smooth and sleepy trickle, time begins to move in sudden jerks. Even though we’re in the airport car park within the hour, as expected, we get to the check-in queue at almost 8 am. Eek. Then I get to the counter and the ticket agent says, “Oh look! Your connection in Madrid is very short. You know what? I’m switching you to the earlier flight. At nine. It leaves in ...” she looks at her watch. “Fifteen minutes.”

Wait. WHAT? Fifteen minutes??? “No — um —” I start to stammer. I have to clear security. I don’t know the layout of the airport. My backpack is medium-heavy. “You can do it!” says the ticket agent handing me the boarding pass. “Off you go.” Then she loops the Barcelona-Boston tag into my suitcases’ handle and sends it on its way.

Liz and I have barely 30 seconds in which to cram a fortnight’s worth of friendly farewell chats. Plus: NO FINAL BREAKFAST SNACK!! “Go, go, go!” says Liz, sprinting ahead of me, “security’s THIS way!” Since it’s a domestic flight, she can see me off right till this point. We exchange hugs but I can already feel the panic tugging at me — it’s like an invisible octopus with 20 sticky arms sucking me in towards the maw of the Travel Monster. “Goodbyeeee!” I call over my shoulder, even as I’m doing the Security Striptease — shoes off, computer here, bag there, passport between my teeth, radiation buzz in the X-ray machine ... and boom! I’m through to the other side.

I look back but can’t see Liz. It’s 8.44 am. The seconds are bouncing and scattering in front of me like glass beads from a broken necklace — the Gate, the Gate — oh there it is, in the distance! I break into a run — 8.50 am now, oh nononono ... and ... Time stops dead. The Madrid flight is delayed. Technical fault. The nine am will now leave after 10 am. Other passengers are braying and bellowing. Nothing to be done! The Boston flight leaves at 12 pm! I’m cooked!

But no. The Madrid flight lands at 11.38 am. There are dozens of US-bound passengers alongside me. We clear through immigration like race horses in a steeplechase, flashing through Duty Free, hurdling over toddlers whose moms are sampling perfumes. Twinkling in the distance is my target, Gate S47. It’s deserted except for two frowning agents. “Boston!” I howl, boarding pass held aloft. “I’m closing the gate,” says the agent, “RUN!”

I make the flight. Arrive in Boston. Hallelujah — but wait! Where’s my suitcase? Uh-oh. In Madrid.

Manjula Padmanabhan , author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

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