Travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living.
Miriam Beard
It gets your attention when friends who live in paradise on Majorca rave about another island, and Formentera, the smallest of the Balearic Islands off the eastern coast of Spain, had been on my radar for years. When I received an invitation to attend the opening of a photography exhibition in Barcelona, I decided to leave a week early, book a cheap flight on Vueling Airlines from Barcelona to Ibiza (Formentera doesn’t have an airport), and catch one of the ferries that leave the Ibiza port every hour from 7:00 in the morning to 9:30 at night for the half-hour trip to La Savina on Formentera. I wanted to travel the way people used to in the “old days”―when travel meant getting away―so I left without cell, tablet or device of any kind to ensure a hassle-free vacation. Easy breezy . . .
Until we took off from Barcelona and I heard thuds and screeches I’d never heard on a plane before. Not all flight announcements were given in English, but my Spanish is good enough to know that what sounded like “perdido hidráulico” followed by “nada grave” and “solamente por el seguridad de los pasajeros” meant we would be turning back. A runway filled with flashing red lights and men on firetrucks armed with hoses was a clue there was more to the story than we’d been told, but once we landed safely my thoughts quickly shifted to the reality that I wasn’t going to catch the last ferry to Formentera.
When we changed planes and took off again, instead of thanking everyone for their patience, the crew came around selling 1.60 euro bottles of water and soda, to which not one of the almost all Spanish passengers made a peep of protest. I wasn’t about to play the ugly American, but I laughed to myself thinking that if this had been an American flight, the crew would have had to run for their lives if they’d tried to sell drinks.
There wasn’t one official representing Vueling Airlines at the airport when we landed, only a twenty-something girl handing out suggestion forms to fill out on “how to make our airlines better.” Several of us banded together and went into town, planning to take turns watching the luggage and looking for a clean inexpensive hotel. But the oldest and most determined of our group, Christiane of the Christiane/Anne mother-daughter duo said, “I’m good at this, let me go first,” and ran off. Almost an hour later, just as her daughter was saying, “I guess I should go look for my mother,” Christiane returned announcing she’d booked rooms for everyone. Apparently an empathetic young woman had left her friends in a café to walk around with Christiane showing her possibilities. My tiny room was windowless and without phone or TV, but adequate (hey, only 40 euros a night on Ibiza!) until I realized I’d forgotten my travel clock at home and had no idea what time it was. Normally the travel clock lives permanently in my carry-on, but I remembered removing it to be sure to change the batteries before the next trip.
I wanted to get the first 7:00 AM ferry. When I heard a door close in the morning, I guessed it was someone taking the early boat and quickly dressed and rushed to the pier just in time to see the ferry leaving. “7:02” a taxi driver told me when I asked. I’m nearsighted and put on my sunglasses to read the hours of operation posted at the ticket office, it was still fairly dark, I was cranky I’d now have a pay 10 euros more for two one-way tickets instead of a round-trip, didn’t see the two-inch dark red brick step in front of me and fell flat on my left knee so hard even my lucky penny flew out of my pocket.
My knee didn’t start to swell until I was on the next ferry, and the pain still bearable enough that I could stop at the pharmacy and food market before my taxi dropped me off at my Airbnb house rental. The owners had arranged for the door to be open and keys on the kitchen table, but when I hadn’t arrived by midnight, they locked the house. When this stuff starts, it never seems to stop. I could have borrowed someone’s phone the night before, but hesitated because of the late hour and assumed when I didn’t show up the hosts would check my flight number and see the delay. So I sat on the front porch watching my knee turn a deep magenta trying to decide what to do next, when I saw a woman three doors down leaving her house, and hopped over to introduce myself and explain my predicament. “Hi, I’m Blanca,” she replied, “and this is so coincidental. I’m going to the port to pick up my friend who must have been on the same flight as you because she also had to spend the night in Ibiza. I’ll text the manager of your house to let you in. Meanwhile, here, take my keys and make yourself comfortable.”
When Blanca returned with her friend Lidia, we figured out our paths hadn’t crossed because we were seated several rows apart in the plane and had been off-loaded into different buses returning to the terminal. But we also quickly discovered we had a lot more in common than exchanging travel stories. The women graciously invited me to join them for dinner, beginning a relationship I believe will last for years. I visited their apartments in Barcelona and we cooked up future apartment swaps (I live in New York City); they introduced me to the lively neighborhood Bar Ramón renowned for tapas and music glorifying the days of rock n’ roll; I met Blanca’s long-term boyfriend George and business partner Javier; Lidia joined me at the photography exhibition opening. At a moment’s notice, she arranged for dinner afterward in a private room at the landmark Catalán restaurant Racó d’en Cesc, an exceptional evening the photographer and his family continued to rave about back in New York. “How do you know this remarkable woman?” I was asked several times. No one could believe we’d met just the week before. But throughout my life, despite the current reliance on technology, the greatest rewards in travel continue to come from the strangers I meet or the times I get lost.
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