SAN DIEGO TO LONDON TO MADRID
Day Zero - December 11
The first day of the journey began with a glitch from the beginning. I had been keeping tabs on the weather throughout Spain but had failed to look into what flying conditions may be like in London—the destination of our first leg. I thought it was good fortune that allowed us to skip the somewhat long check-in line since our notice for check-in simply required an attendant to review our passports. Our passports were in good order, as expected, but we were informed that not only was our flight for that evening delayed, but our flight from London to Madrid had been canceled. Before when we were waiting in line I had overheard the attendant explain to a young woman about a change to her itinerary that she should return home and that her next flight would be on December 14th. I still do not know if she was heading in a similar direction as my family or not, but I did not have a good feeling when my anxiety was confirmed by the information of our canceled flight.
“Because you have children and I don’t want you to have to go home and come back in a couple of days I suggest you continue with your flight tonight and when you get to London you can rebook a flight to Madrid. We are limited here, but in London, they have more flights and airlines available and you should have a better chance there,” said the attendant.
Having already geared ourselves up for travel and not wanting to wait two more days for our adventure to start, we took the attendance’s advice with good faith, finished checking in, and prepared to start our journey as planned. We went through security with no trouble, managed to get some food then we sat and waited. My son was intently watching the LA Rams game and did not feel the length of the hour wait. My daughter although was content with listening to music with her CD player was more inquisitive as to when we would board our plane. (We had just purchased a small luggage bag for my youngest and she was excited to roll her bag on the plane.) The minutes ticked on and the feeling in our section of the airport was with mild but weary expectation of an overnight flight. There were several other families with children younger than mine and the anticipation was palpable.
As we were about to board, my daughter eagerly led her luggage with multi-colored stars next to me, we saw the same attendant from the check-in counter.
“Good luck. I really hope everything works out for you,” he said with sincerity.
Not only had our flight been delayed it had been completely changed. The seats that we originally checked in with were not the same as the new ones used to us at the counter. Instead of being the possessors of a row of three and a fourth seat across the aisle, we were split into two separate rows, one in front of the other. Not ideal, but still I thought I would not be too bad. I sat in the front row with my seven-year-old son who was immediately impressed by the novelty of his screen. He was already at it, touching the screen and searching for a movie to watch. I helped him with his complementary earbuds then looked over my shoulder at my husband with a hopeful smile. He returned my smile and seemed to be in a good spot with our four-year-old daughter. Buckled and ready for take-off we settled in for an hour eleven-hour flight to London.
THOUGHTS:
I didn’t think about the fact that with an overnight flight, a lot of places in the airport might be closed. The few places that were open did not work well for young kids or my gluten allergy. I highly recommend packing some food from home for an overnight flight like for a picnic. Having PB&J’s with grapes and some KIND bars would have gone a long way.
Day 1 - December 12
Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, I was nodding on and off after Gibson had finally fallen asleep. After interrupted sleep and Gibson waking after about four hours of rest I resigned myself to staying awake in hopes that my lack of sleep would help with my jet lag and I would more quickly adjust to the time change. We landed in London around four in the afternoon, local time, and prepared to disembark.
What we found when we entered Heathrow was a state one might find just before a state of pandemonium. There were lots of people and I mean a lot of people. Everywhere were groups of people, lines of people, and people hurrying along the corridor to their many destinations. I didn’t think much of the bustle, chalking it up to the normal amount of traffic at a large international airport. It wasn’t until I saw our first flight board that there was a double screen of flights that had been canceled. Rome, Barcelona, Zurich, and dozens and dozens more were shown on the canceled flight board. Our flight was not even on the list because there were so many that our outdated flight was cut (my theory) to make room for more recent cancelations.
A bit tired and unsure what to do next, my husband asked one of the people with British Airways what we should do. That particular person told him that with so many flights canceled and the delays due to weather, we had a better chance of rebooking online than with a person in the airport. With that said, Dustin and I camped out near an electrical out so my near-dead phone could charge and we tried desperately to find a new flight to Madrid.
I kid you not that both my husband and I were rapidly scouring several flight sources for over an hour with no luck. We were pricing and gaging and consulting one and were near booking flights for the 14th, 15th, and even the 16th at exorbitant costs, but before we could finish the booking process for four people on any of these flights the next screen would appear with a This flight is no longer available message. Exasperated and our lack of sleep starting to creep into the back of my eyes, I resolved to talk to another person and get a better answer than booking online.
There was a gentleman who was standing alongside the customer service line guiding people as to where to go. He had been busy earlier with a crowd of people and so my husband had spoken with someone else. At this point, the crowds had thinned and he was able to explain to us that nothing could be done on this floor. We needed to go up to the departure and speak with an attendant there.
“I don’t know what these people are doing. I told them that you can’t change a flight in the customer service line, but they won’t listen to me,” he said. He seemed to be nearly as exasperated as we were and no wonder with the number of people who had been flooding the corridor. “Go to counter A and you should be able to find someone to help.”
I looked with sympathy at the people standing in the customer service line, but I turned in the direction of the departure floor as we were advised. Although, we were following what seemed to be good guidance I was reluctant to leave the floor we were on. The farther we went, the farther I felt from our goal of flying to Madrid. As we approached the train that would take us from the section we were in to the departure floor my hope drained away and I had a hard time keeping up any sort of pretense of cheerfulness. That train ride, took maybe a minute or two, but it felt like such a long ride. It was the first day and our trip was already a mess.
After navigating the immensity that is Heathrow, I walked briskly with my two children struggling to keep up and my husband bringing up the end of our familial line to make sure no kids went astray. Although my hope of an easy solution seemed implausible, it did feel good to be moving and no longer sitting next to an outlet with two antsy children. Both my husband and I completely forgot the last words from the gentlemen downstairs and headed for the British Airway counter, counter D. As we approached I caught myself. The line was fairly long and I feared that we would stand in the long line and find out that were in the wrong line. I asked the young women and the counter entrance where to go under our situation and if counter D was the right line. She explained that counter A was for customer support and disputed flights. Recollection dawned on my tired brain and I remembered the gentlemen’s guidance from only fifteen minutes. The young woman was still speaking and explaining that we should perhaps stand in the counter D line if we thought that was where we were supposed to go. I turned to her more clear-minded.
“We need to go to counter A, thank you,” I said confidently.
Perhaps doubting my sudden confidence after my frazzled questioning and indecision she responded. “If you have any trouble at counter A you're welcome to come back here and I can help you any way I can.”
While she finished speaking I was already redirecting my family to the other end of the airport. I thanked her quickly then reminded my husband that we needed to go to A. He seemed to also recollect the conversation from fifteen minutes ago and followed me and the kids as I rapidly made my way to the end of the building.
When we arrived in customer support we were pretty weary. We had concluded that we would not be in Madrid and even if we got a flight in the afternoon (the morning seemed unlikely) we were going to miss most of the next day. The kids were getting to their limit, as was I, with sitting and waiting in the airport and I knew that we needed to make a decision soon. Thankful a lady with British Airways was walking through the line and helping people before they even went to the counter to help with the line. After a couple of people before shared their grievances with flights and delays she finally spoke with us. We explained our situation and thankfully she had a portable device that allowed her to check us into the digital queue that had been robustly forming. She informed us that we would not receive a message until the next door so we should book a hotel—the airline would pay for our expense. She also explained that since we were traveling with children (and traveling with carry-ons only) we would be prioritized in the queue.
A little disappointed that the outlook still meant that we might be stuck in London for a couple of days, I was still relieved that at least the wheels were in motion and we were no longer going to be stuck at the airport. We quickly booked at one of the remaining two hotels that had rooms and tried not to think about the cost and figured out that a taxi was going to be better than the train. Finally, we were moving and stepped outside in the near-freezing chill of the outdoors. We entered the lengthy taxi line and despite there only being one or two cars showing up at a time for passengers, we only stood in line for ten to fifteen minutes. We were waved over to one of many taxis, loaded everything up, and were on our way for a fifteen-minute jaunt to our hotel. I breathed slightly easier until about seven minutes into the car ride my daughter began to panic that she needed to go potty. She had gone just before we had exited the airport and entered the taxi line, but as any parent reading this will understand that the proactive effort did not matter. She was crying and my husband and I were trying to keep he calm. Those minutes with a wiggling kid in screaming tears are brutal and I just prayed she would not have an accident. Judging by the look of the driver, he was thinking the same thing.
We quickly, steadily, but safely arrived at our hotel. I rushed my daughter out of the car and ran through the lobby with her to where I imagined there might be a bathroom. Arrived without incident and my daughter maybe went like the tiniest, wee bit. She smiled at me, but I could feel frustration rising into my chest. I kept telling myself that we were all tired and once we got rest we would all be less antsy.
I returned with my daughter to check in and we found ourselves in another lengthening line. Fortunately, because of the urgency of the car ride, we were ahead of another dozen people who showed up after us. Perhaps because of the many lines (physical and digital) that had filled our, this hotel line felt like the longest one. Again, I tried to keep my frustration at bay and when we did reach the counter just smiled and pretended that I was at ease. They did offer us fresh hot chocolate so at least that was something nice.
We arrived in our room and it was not a bad setup. It was early enough that we had about an hour before we wanted to order dinner so we decided to take advantage of the indoor pool. We had each packed swimsuits in our snug bags in case of a pool option and although we did not have pool towels or shoes other than sneakers we grabbed a couple of the bathroom towels, and we moseyed down to the pool in our swimsuits and sneakers. We enjoyed about an hour of my daughter clinging to the shallow end of the pool and my son trying to swim—even though he can’t. After several times of me carrying him back and forth and too many incidents of my son spitting up pool water, we dried off the best we could and made our way back up to our room.
Showered and dressed for bed, we ordered room service which thankfully the kids didn’t complain too much about. I had salmon, but for some reason, I didn’t have much of an appetite. Exhausted and unsure of what the next day would bring, we settled into bed. It took a little while for us all to calm our bodies down with the time difference, but one by one we each fell asleep.
Day 2 - December 13
I awoke in the middle of the night not feeling well. My stomach was bothering me and my body, thinking I had a nice five-hour rest, was trying to tell me to get up. Unfortunately, my daughter also woke up and it soon all of us were awake super early in the morning.
This is where my mind gets a little fuzzy and there are some blank spaces in my memory of the day. I think it is because my mind is trying to block a truly harrowing experience and a day that I do not care to remember. With that in mind, I will share just a few notable moments and then continue to how we left the hotel.
We were up for several hours trying to get my daughter to go back to sleep, but she was convinced that she needed to go potty every ninety seconds (not kidding). She would scream and say her skin was itching when she wasn’t on the potty. In hindsight, I have to believe this was her processing the time change and being severely tired. At the time, I was so exhausted and had registered I might be dealing with food poisoning. The nausea was so bad I let my mind contemplate a possible pregnancy. Eek! I was distraught and saw the life that I thought I was heading towards flash before my eyes and pass away. So with nausea and a wailing four-year-old, the room was a dreary place and we were all tired of the shouts and screams by seven in the morning.
The one good bit of news at this point in my story is that my husband had received an email with not one but five booked flights. We assumed they would not be sure which we could make but were covering us just in case—that assumption was a big mistake. With one of those bookings being for the evening, we planned to stay at the hotel until we needed to leave for our flight. We calmed a bit with a plan in place and moved on to food and rest.
My courageous husband offered to read to our supremely tired daughter while I took our son (who was completely unbothered by the time change by the way) down for breakfast in the lobby. I have found that when my husband offers to help with a child I don’t try to interfere, I just say ok. In this case, I should have fought him for the trial of getting our daughter to sleep. As soon as my son and I stepped out of the elevator, the smell of a traditional English breakfast hit me like a stone. I could my stomach twist and turn and I used all my little remaining energy to keep my body from not throwing up.
I settled my son in with pastries, eggs, and fruit while I, slowly and from a distance pursued the food offerings searching for something that my stomach could manage. The only thing that seemed possible to digest was the porridge. I ladled a bowl, added a little maple syrup and on my way back to the table where my son was eating merrily I grabbed a glass of orange juice. The juice helped a bit, but I could manage one bite of the porridge and I was done. I had to keep myself from fainting so I hurried my son along with his food and with my last dregs of courage I grabbed a large plate, and loaded it with sausages, eggs, pastries fruits, and yogurts all while trying not to look or smell the food I was piling on to the plate. That difficulty concluded I rounded up my son and returned to our room. The most amazing sound greeted us as we jostled our way into the room. Complete silence. A heavenly sound after hours of crying and a severe loss of sleep.
I delivered the plate of food to the table at the farthest end of the year and then slowly collapsed on my bed. I didn’t sleep but I laid there in the silence so relieved that my daughter was asleep. My husband slowly drifted into sleep and my son relaxed on the bed next to me as I also drifted off into nervous sleep. In and out of sleep I heard the gentle breathing of my family as I awoke, my stomach still aching and the nausea returning. Check-out time was at noon, but with my family steadily asleep I figured that we were going to need more time. I steadily sipped on 7-Up and then mustered some energy to go downstairs.
I hated standing, but someone needed to go down to the front desk and ask if we could have more time, The grueling walk down to the foyer was painful and I tried to keep my steps steady. As I slowly walked across the foyer, I could see businessmen lounging, families congregating and servers walking to and from the restaurant. Everyone spoke with an English accent and for some strange reason, the accent grated against my ears. I arrived at the check-in desk and thank the Lord God almighty, they said it was no problem to extend our stay for ten dollars an hour. With relief, I happily accepted the cost and returned to our room with slightly less sluggishness. I was able to sneak into the room and not wake anyone.
My husband woke and with great relief that our checkout time had been extended. We prepared to leave for the airport and that was when our daughter created a standoff. She had had a strange demand that she needed to go potty every sixty seconds. Now, with the arrival of our impending departure, she panicked and would not leave the hotel. I looked at my husband and both of us, desperately deprived of sleep, exhausted from our daughter’s scream neared giving up on our whole trip. I still do not know how we got her in a cab. All I know is that we somehow calmed her down and someone was convinced that she would be ok. It is a bit blank, I hypothesize that my brain has blocked out the shrill whining and screaming and I just remember us getting downstairs and in a cab. My husband and I looked at each other with fear behind our eyes that our daughter would just absolutely lose it mid-cab, but to the powers that be, she made it to the airport although with all of us trying to distract her.
We arrived at the airport with the expectation that British Airways had booked us on an Iberia flight at 7:40 pm. We arrived with over three hours and a half hours to spare and were ushered into an overflow line for flights to Madrid. Trying to stay positive and upright, I continued to drink sparkling water and cashews which helped settle my stomach, but the noise and the number of people were overwhelming so I put earphones in and listened to calming, familiar music.
People sprinkled throughout the meandering distant line would raise hands and would be ushered to the front. Everyone was very gracious save for a couple of people in business who did not care to have ordinary travelers step in front of them. This 6:20 pm call happened several times before we finally made it to the front of the line at around 6 pm. The kids had been doing well and reaching the counter felt like the final hurdle to get to Madrid. Unfortunately, after explaining our situation and showing the attendant our message from British Airways they could not find our tickets. My heart sank but I kept my face from showing my utter disappointment. I looked over and saw all the energy and hope drain away out of my husband’s eyes although to an outside observer, they would not have noticed his altered look. He continued to stand posed and firm even if internally he was dejected. I knew that we were at close to our absolute whits end and I didn’t know what would do. The thought of having to return to the hotel room sent shivers up and down my spine.
I sidled the kids along with our cart full of luggage over to the crammed edge of the room. I tried to not let the kids see my destress and continued to talk to them cheerfully and with hopeful words, I did not believe. My husband stayed near the counter with the assistant who was not speaking, but was at work in some sort of fashion peering at the blue screen in front of him, his countenance not relinquishing any conclusion or result from our circumstance. I was continually directing the kids to stay out of people’s way and just trying to trust that everything would work out even if that night was a failure. I looked up and saw my husband scrambling over to us still with a look of weary uneasiness.
“WE HAVE TO GO! They got us booked on the 6:40 pm flight. We need to run!”
I think those were the words he said, or at least he said words to that effect. He told me to leave any water bottles, we strapped on backpacks and we each grabbed our carry-on bags. Now, we were on a mission. Racing through an airport with only twenty minutes before the doors close—and before security—is a circumstance I can handle far better than sitting in nervous anticipation in a hotel room waiting and waiting. We raced up to the next floor where we found security. The line was switchbacking along in the center of the room, but a small door was near where TSA attendants were reviewing passports. I told my husband we needed to tell them that we only had twenty minutes until our flight. Thankfully my husband, who is normally fairly reserved and wouldn’t want to bother anyone or ask to cut in line, immediately walked up to the small near the entrance to security at the front of the line. He explained that our flight was in twenty minutes and wonderfully, they let us through the side gate, check our passports, and let us through.
As I turned the blind corner it opened into a line of fifty to sixty people ahead of us and attendants passing around clear bags for liquids. We immediately explained that we had a flight leaving soon, but they assured us that we would get through security in enough time. I wasn’t too sure, but there was nothing to do at that point but scrounge around for liquids not realizing that would expected. During this slow procession, my husband and I discussed that I would run ahead to get to the gate and keep them from shutting the gainway and closing the plane’s door. My husband would gather the kids and race after me.
It was painstakingly slow moving through security, but we made it to the front and rushed through as quickly as possible. I flung my jacket around and swung it on my body as I stepped back into my “too heavy of boots to leave on through security” snagged my bags and was off to the races. I was running toward my gat hoping at each turn I would see the magical number of B32, but each turn kept leading me through duty-free shops. I ran through hall after hall after hall, each laced with various perfumes and luxury fragrances. I knew Heathrow was large, but I didn’t realize that I would have to run the length of a mall to get to my gate. I also was not in as good of shape as I wish I was and I was not dressed for running. With a backpack, heavy boots, and coat while dragging along a carry-on, I ran and ran but then had to stop to catch my breath. It probably took me less than five minutes from security to the gate, but it felt like thirty and I was sure we would miss our flight. I finally saw the beautiful sign that I was looking for and like a finish line that is still a long way off, just the sight kept me running forward.
I arrived at the gate, turned, and saw no open doors. My heart plummeted. I’ll admit I probably acted more out of breath than I was, but I hope that by some miracle the doors would be open for us. It turned out I was looking at the wrong wall. Three attendants who were chatting when I arrived did not move in a hurry and certainly did not sense my urgency. I explained in gulping breaths that we were just issued these tickets twenty minutes ago and I hope we are not too late. The attendant listening didn’t understand. He showed me the entrance to the gainway way which was still open. (Unlike the US, Heathrow, at the gate, has a ticket counter for the gate before the seating area, and beyond the seating area is the entrance to the plane.) Upon seeing this a breathing a sigh of relief I explained that my family should be right behind me. The attendant asked if they had gone through security and as I was answering my two kids followed by my husband turned the corner. Everything was in order, we showed our tickets and were allowed into the place. My husband told me later that our daughter was in fine shape and it was a sight watching her run through the airport, her little legs running as fast as she could and her ponytail flying back and forth. It must have been a sight.
Due to our last-minute tickets, we were seated separately so each of us could be seated with one of our children. It could have been that some people were moved around so that each of us could sit with one of our children, but I will never know. There was no room in the overhead bins, but we were directed to the back of the plane and a flight attendant opened a large cabinet where we put all four carry-on bags. Then we were led back through the plan. My husband and daughter were placed toward the middle side-by-side and my son and I were led three rows back from the business class curtain. The ladies directing us were speaking Spanish and the sound was like music to my ears. Finally, our trip to Spain was on track and I felt more at peace than I had been for the last several days.
We did it! It took a lot of moving parts and a lot of patience, but we were on a plane to Madrid. Our hotel knew of our late check-in and fortunately, Spanish culture lends itself to late nights. We snacked on what little food we had during our two-hour flight, but the important thing was that we were well on our way to reclaiming our vacation.
We arrived around ten-thirty, but we were starving. We found a cafe that was still open and thankful had gluten-free that I could have. We ate our sandwiches and fruit and then gathered all our things and headed toward the taxi station. We were quickly loaded in one of the three deep long lines of taxis and headed toward the capital. We arrived fairly quickly and had our first glimpse of Spain. Was midnight by the time we rode along through the streets of Madrid. Christmas lights hung along the different streets, each one with its theme. We arrived in front of our hotel, thankfully they had a small sign that proved that we were in indeed at the correct address. We happily walked in and our hotel attendant knew who we were due to my husband’s WhatsApp messages. He seemed genuinely happy that we had finally arrived and gave us our key. With great relief, we took the elevator to our floor and entered our hotel room. It was a large space with a living and kitchen space upon entrance and then a long hallway that led to two back-to-back bathrooms and two bathrooms. I felt like I had space to breathe and I quickly went into action to set up the kid’s room.
It took a while for the kids to settle down but I think they fell asleep before two in the morning local time. Believe it or not, we were on our way of curing the kids of jet lag and that created optimism for the rest of our trip. My husband and I settled into bed in the early hours of the morning, relieved and thankful to have arrived, looking forward to the days ahead.