I can easily say leaving Spain was just as necessary as leaving France. Trust that I was eventually homesick for Malaga as I'd been for Nantes. However, in both places I'd been put through the ringer. I was always trying to find the hidden message in all that had gone on and ultimately some silver lining. Now moving onto Italy I assumed things would somehow make sense and come together. I clearly had bypassed the mysticism of France, loathed the culinary exploration of Spain and now I was headed to a religious experience in Italy. This was to change me and restore my faith in… humanity. This was also the last big journey - the end of a chapter in this temporary life I'd created for myself. In just eight days, I'd be done with Europe and back to life as it was. For her, she had planned some ancestry tour through the south of France and was now forced to go it alone. She would also spend week in Nantes to recoup and collect both our things. With her still having twenty three days of freedom she still harped on about me leaving her alone.
On the train back to Madrid things got real and quite somber. We were on the other side of the train for a change and really had nothing to talk about. It was the first time in a long time we weren't bogged down by our stuff. We left so many things behind in Seville in preparation for the plane. I remember depleting my Spanish SIM card by watching a ton of movie trailers. We were smack dab in the middle of nowhere and I could watch without any buffering on 3G speed. I had only spent 10 Euros on this service and now I was leaving that behind. When I finally got a message that my data was nearing complete it was saddening. We were then back in Atocha where things were okay - before Malaga when we resembled some sort of friendship. I remembered us discussing the architecture and how people rushed us on the people mover. Now we were well informed tourists just passing through and not noticing anything. Now deep into Summer there were new advertisements from the local Watermelon commission and a lot more people were traveling for holiday. Half the businesses in Seville were already closed; there were families going elsewhere for water and recreation. We already knew how to buy intermittent tickets at the automated machine but required help with our special tickets. She approached someone and soon we were running to an express train to the airport. At the platform the train nearly blew us over going hundreds of feet past us. Once on it again no words just looking up and waiting for the right stop. She was no more savvy about this than I was because we both needed confirmation looking for other passengers with suitcases to get up and off.
Once at the airport everything was confusing from our tickets to every sign marker. We boarded the first bus to the terminals which was near capacity. She sat while I stood. She had basically bogarted her way into a group of guys and I was smushed between some business man, a couple and a kid with a guitar. The ride was not that far from something you would imagine in India or Nigeria. We were packed like sardines in that thing and it barreled around corners as if we didn't have organs to protect. The bus was truly a bus and not a shuttle because it actually went onto the highway and made exits to each stop. The terminals were like big aluminum bunkers in the middle of the desert. We'd approach these shiny, galvanized barns covered in yellow and blue markings. We did stop at the wrong terminal which was filled with all sorts of people we never encountered in the states. There were people traveling freely to Cuba with all these wrapped packages. There was no organization to anything and most attendants were standing around simply observing the mayhem. Thankfully, one could explain that our terminal was the next one so off to that dreaded bus again we went. The new terminal was more familiar complete with unwrapped luggage being weighed, familiar airline ticketing counters and little paper luggage cards. We finally had nothing to lug around but our carryon stuff which was null. We were then free to mosey to our gate which was through a series of tunnels, high end retailers and duty free shops. Here was the last chance to procure a polka dot flamenco dress, Paco Rabanne perfume or a Loewe bag.
The oddest thing I recall about leaving Spain was that there really was no fanfare. In both Nantes and Paris, I felt we truly did it all. Whatever I'd missed she'd done and whatever I wanted to do I'd accomplished. For Spain, I didn't feel that way and something felt like it was missing. I wondered would it have been better to start in Seville and leave from someplace more exciting like Barcelona. Or maybe it would have been nicer to just have seen Malaga and then been whisked over to Rome and some of the more tropical Italian spots we'd originally planned for. Apparently, the airport was supposed to be an ode to Madrid even with a Plaza Mayor replica of stores and restaurants. Yet I never noticed the tapas or anything I could actually afford. I left Spain eating an American sub in a food court like setup facing the gate. I then rolled up the other half and awkwardly ate that on the plane onions in all. There was something special about having a boring turkey sans cheese on the way to a spiritual place filled with real pizza, loaded pasta and gelato in a zillion flavors. It was also very fun to haggle with someone about what toppings were called and for the first time not pay $5.33 for a footlong. In the coming week I would see how special it was to have been in Seville, gone back through Atocha and just be able to eat at all….
P.S. I fucking hate Subway
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