1001 Minus 997 Nights - Stave the Third

Home.

That´s the first thought that hit me as I opened my eyes. We were finally heading back to Madrid after a long weekend in Tangiers, and what´s more, I´d get there in time for my weekly soccer game at 10:30. Our flight was to leave at 4:25 that day, so we had plenty of time to eat a nice, relaxed breakfast, pack up our things, and go explore one last landmark.

THE CAVES OF HERCULES!!! Supposedly the last resting place of Hercules after his labours, the juxtaposition of the caves' exterior silhouette against the foaming Mediterranean is truly an awesome sight. The roar of the cresting waves drowned out any other thoughts but those of humble appreciation for such incredible natural beauty.

After finishing up at the caves, we took a leisurely taxi ride to Ibn Battouta International Airport. We got there at roughly 2:30 and calmly went up to the ticket window. Check-in went smoothly. "You were wrong old man," I chuckled to myself, a satisfied smile forming on my lips. The day before we had been in a Moroccan town called Chefchaouen, and our guide, Mohammed, had mentioned something about a second ash cloud emerging over Europe, blocking out the sky and grounding hundreds more flights. "That happened two weeks ago, not this week," we had told him, secretly having a laugh at his expense on the bus ride home. Everyone knew that (unpronounceable and unspellable Icelandic volcano)´s dominion over Europe had finally been broken, perhaps by some Icelandic dwarf finally dropping a Ring Pop into (unpronounceable and unspellable Icelandic volcano)´s fiery core. We were in the clear.

Several minutes later we queued up at security, reaching the checkpoint in no time at all. I handed the burly, no-nonsense man guard my passport and my boarding pass. He looked at them, and said four words that instantly turned everything upside down: "No plane. Flight cancelled." I thought that perhaps there had been some failure of communication, seeing as how English was not his first language. I turned pleadingly to the other guard and asked him in Spanish if what I had heard was true. He nodded nonchalantly, and turned to other business. The volcano had reared its ugly head once again. Perhaps doubting the prophecies of a man named Mohammed was not the soundest course of action. Well, at least when it came to air travel.

The next 30 hours were a blur, and from what I can now remember, the following occurred on Monday, May 10th, and Tuesday, May 11th:

3:30PM - Frantic scramble to attempt to board other flights at the airport that are destined for Malaga, Barcelona, Sevilla - anywhere on the Iberian peninsula. Just get us out of Morocco!

4:00PM - Using a janky airport internet network, we vainly try to Skype as many airlines as possible, hoping to board one of their other planes.

4:30PM - Well, there goes that. All flights going to Spain are grounded.

5:00PM - Somebody suggests that we employ the naval option. With 80 minutes until the ferry leaves from the port of Tangiers, we hightail it back to the Hotel Continental. The front desk lets us use the internet to check bus timetables for when we get to Spain. There is a bus from Algeciras, the other end of the ferry journey, that leaves at 9:00PM. We are overjoyed momentarily, but then realize that Morocco is one time zone behind Spain.

6:00PM - We have purchased our ferry tickets and are waiting in line at customs. The sunlight is oppressively bright through the plate glass windows. Time is ticking.

6:30PM - The ferry has still yet to leave, as it wants to allow more trucks to enter its hold, thereby maximizing profits for the journey. The wait is agonizing because we know that regardless, a certain bus will be leaving from Algeciras in one and one half hours.

6:45PM - We feel the engines rumble to life as the ferry finally heads out of Tangiers port. I have never been so happy to see a city receding into the distant horizon.

7:00PM - Aboard the ferry there is a duty free store selling a 5 euro bottle of vodka. After the long, frustrating day, that and a series of great games of hearts are just what the doctor ordered. Laughter abounds as the queen of hearts does her rounds.

8:55PM - As the ferry is docking, we overhear four other passengers next to us saying how they too are attempting to catch a bus at 9:00PM. My fellow travel-mates whisper to me, "When the door opens, RUN to the bus station. We have to get those seats!" I don't need any encouragement. I burst out of the boat and shoot down the gangway. I'm running so fast that I almost forget to stop at customs...smooth, Clay. Once I assure the Spanish border guards that I'm not an illegal immigrant, I resume my dead sprint. I emerge out of the building and feel Spanish pavement under my poorly laced gym shoes. My chest is heaving under the dusky sky. I hop over a concrete barrier and feel the weight in my backpack jostling around in mid-air. The dull moan of container ships reaching port echoes across the harbor. I land on the other side, willing my heart to keep going, praying that I can get there in time. 15 meters behind me, I hear footfalls. I kick it into second gear as I speed across a wide boulevard, just two blocks from my destination. All of the halogen lights bleed into my peripheral vision and I imagine that I'm on the Millenium Falcon, beating my old 12 parsec record for the Kessel Run. For a second, I'm free.

8:58PM - The bus is sold out.

9:05PM - We check into a small hostel, having received directions earlier to an internet cafe from a pair of prostitutes on a corner. Algeciras is dingy and drab, but the beds in the room are clean and inviting after the long day.

11:00PM - We all fall asleep to "Fake Plastic Trees". And it wears him out...

9:05AM - I wave out the side window as our bus departs from Algeciras. Homeward bound.

5:00PM - The sun absolutely lights up the gorgeous Spanish countryside. Red clay soil rises up in rolling hills that stretch to the horizon, where softly whirring windmills taunt the Man of the La Mancha.

8:30PM - By now, the sun has started its descent. I have arrived at Puerta del Sol, the very center of Madrid. I stand over the 0 km marker for all of Spain, close my eyes, and smile. I'm home.