6/15:
3am.
3am!!!!! I creep out of my bunkbed and make it down to the reception where I pick up my pack. Enter Daniel. Hugely tall, chubby, and above all, supremely awkward. He is the essence of nerd, with philosophy papers and rubix cubes spilling out of his bag (3x3 and a 7x7!) which he has sprawled across the floor. With slightly crooked teeth but kind eyes he acts sort of like a boy trapped in a giant's body. His awkwardly large hands fumble at the zippers as he finally shuts his suitcase shut with a grunt.
Seeing that I'm travelling too, he asks where and when I'm going and we decide to go together since it is afterall the crack of dawn. He's from Spain and compliments my Spanish. We spend the next few minutes picking up our bags and trying to guess how much they weigh. (Ryanair is the epitome of strict for weight limit, 15kg check-in, 10kg for carry-on). Without much luck, we look at each other confused about what to do until our Moroccan friend from reception comes out smiling his bright smile with a scale in his hands. We thank him and then the next twenty minutes are spent laughing as the three of us strike funny poses with the luggage, trying to find the best measurement.
Daniel steps on the scale first, warning us not to look at the numbers. He gets back on this time carrying his ENORMOUS bag and nearly topples over. Mine are just on target but his is 20kilos. But just like a little boy, he is very optimistic. "It'll all be fine," he grins. We thank our friend and make our way out. When we step onto the grungy street I am so thankful to have him here with me. A big friendly giant is just what I need on these streets. For they are littered in beer and smell like piss. Every half block we find a different group of hoodlums. Some half naked people are doing cartwheels by the side of the road, others burp loudly as we walk by. Not quite as aggressive as his stature suggests, Daniel even admits he's a little intimidated.
We walk the yellow-green streets under neon lights but when we are more than a block away from the bus stop, we feel a big woosh of wind rushing by us. The great aircoach is already way ahead of us! I look at him and we make up our minds, I grip my bags harder and take off at a sprint, lugging my 15.5kg pack the whole way. Daniel lumbers along at half the speed but I reach the bus and between breaths manage to grab hold of the rail and pull myself in. The driver tries to leave but I beg for one more passenger and he waits grudgingly. On the bus I can still hear my heart drowning out all other noises.
We get to the airport much faster than we expect and step off the bus into the glow of the airport. Once inside we go upstairs to the Starbucks, the only place open besides McDonalds. Daniel orders a venti iced mocha and downs it in seconds. I can't help staring a bit so he says, "I drink a
lot." I want to say "yea, I can see that" but I don't. "Yesterday I bought 1 liter of water, drank that, bought another, drank that, and had to buy another," he tells me. "America is better because they have waterfountains. Here you have to buy everything." But I'm pretty sure that's the only thing America gives for free. He buys another and we turn to find a place to sit but the place is like a graveyard. There are bodies covering every inch of the food court. Not one of them moves as we maneuver our way towards the only open table.
He tells me he's just spent one month in New York working at a hostel and at an animal shelter. His bags are so heavy because they are chock-full of books he's brought back. "This will last me maybe four months" he explains. I feel tenderness for him in this moment of fabulous nerdiness. His bag is all books and two rubix cubes, a few shirts, socks and a coat or two.
When it's time to check-in the trouble begins. His bag is over but he doesnt want to pay so I help him over to the side now that I've gotten rid of my own bag. We go through his stuff and he throws out almost everything besides the books, NOT the books, anything but the books! Toothpaste, deodorant, shampoos, soap, papers all go to the trash but his books stay safely tucked inside. Next we move onto clothes. It's painful to watch him, he explains these are pretty much his only clothes. Five or six old t-shirts, a pair of ratty sneakers, sweatpants, and 3 sweatshirts. He throws out socks but then starts piling on half of his wardrobe. Within minutes he is pouring sweat and his hand trembles slightly as he gives his brow a futile swipe. His hand glistens with sweat when he pulls away and he wipes it on his pants before moving back into line. But it's still overweight so we pull over again and he piles on more clothes. The rivers of sweat continue. Probably out of pity, they finally take the bag. But unbeknownst to them he still has two carry-ons which he's smuggled past. He peels off layers and carries his huge bundle out for a smoke, we say goodbye and I move on to catch my flight, happy to know that there are BFGs out there.
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