The next chapter begins.

Yes, it’s been a while, and a lot has happened. Some of it boring, some of it intense, but, at last, I am finally in lovely Barcelona.

As some of you may know, last Halloween I had surgery on my right shoulder. The recovery was more difficult than the left arm surgery because this was on my dominant arm. Then, to make life interesting, I twisted the arm while reaching for something and pulled the anchors out of the bone. After five weeks of excruciating pain and being told that I was just in a normal recovery, I insisted on an MRI, where we saw the screws floating inside the shoulder and my separated biceps tendons. So, on January 13th, we redid the surgery.

The good news is that my left shoulder, after two surgeries, is pain-free.

As for my travel plans, which were originally for January 1st, things were postponed until February 1^st and then again to March 1^st. That means that airline reservations, Barcelona accommodations, transportation to LA, and other related activities, had to be done not once, not twice, but three times. Then, when I learned ten days before my departure that I needed a root canal (also a redo), I was concerned about flying less than a week after the procedure. However, I finally had some good luck, in the form of a cancellation, and the root canal was performed a full week before my departure. Oh, I forgot to mention that I had extended my lease in Palm Springs for January but had to find another rental for February; so, I moved two weeks after the surgery and then again one month later. All in all, it worked out.

In February 2024, when I arrived in Barcelona for the first time, I had the nightmare experience of being transported around the airport for over an hour in a few different wheelchairs and a trolley, prior to arriving in baggage claim. There were only two bags left, and the lights were out at the carousel because everyone had gone home. When I got those two bags back to my rental, I learned that one of them, filled with women’s clothing, was definitely not mine. Thus, I was worried about what would happen this time. What transpired was even more bizarre.

Normally, when one leaves the aircraft, there’s a wheelchair waiting. If there isn’t, one walks up the ramp into the airport and is met by someone there. When I stepped out of the airplane, and there was no wheelchair, I walked up the ramp– only to discover two agents who, upon hearing that I was looking for a wheelchair, instructed me to go back down the ramp because my wheelchair was inside the plane. I was doubtful, but I dutifully followed instructions. I then got yelled at for going back against traffic.

I need to interrupt this tale with another: Due to an utterly bizarre coincidence, during my transatlantic flight, I learned that the fellow next to me was a good friend of my nephew in Portland. We had a very pleasant time and, when deplaning, I was lucky enough to have my new friend carry my heavy carry-on up the ramp and then back down with me. We both found it very hard to believe what we’d been told about the location of my wheelchair. As the crew and captain were deplaning and heard what we’d been told, they were equally skeptical and started to investigate. It takes, if not a village, a Delta crew.

Several conversations later, I learned that indeed my wheelchair was not inside the plane, but outside; it would arrive at the door on the other side of the plane from  where I was waiting. A helpful flight attendant carried my bag into the plane and put it by that door. I was intrigued as to what might happen next. Eventually, I saw a person through the airplane window and that door did, indeed, open. Once face-to-face with him, I was informed that this was the catering truck and had no wheelchairs on it. I was then told to go down the aisle of the empty plane until I arrived at another door on the left; where I saw another face in the window. When this person opened his door, I saw the inside of a shuttle-on-stilts with a few seats and a few wheelchairs. I entered the shuttle and sat down; a fellow pushed some buttons and our shuttle lowered onto the tarmac.

For the next 15 minutes, I got an unexpected private tour of the tarmac, as we went under and around various terminals. Eventually, we stopped at a building, and I was escorted into the entrance and placed in the first of three attached wheelchairs, not unlike a choo-choo train for small children. We proceeded on, with family members of the other two riders walking protectively at their sides. One rather odd woman kept looking at the ground and repeating in a loud voice whatever she heard me say. AGENT: “How many bags do you have, sir?” ME: “Three.” STRANGE WOMAN “I HAVE THREE BAGS!!”. The agent, I guess, took pity on me, put me in my very own wheelchair, and took me through immigration and ultimately to baggage claim.

During my two long flights, I had been served disgusting coffee. Now, as I awaited the driver I had reserved, I sat at the Go Natural stand and I began to relax. My planning marathon was over, my flights had arrived without incident, I had all my bags, and I was drinking a good cup of café americano.

Next time: Finding my AirBnB.