You are currently viewing Day 2: Planes, Trains and Hollywood Moments

Day 2: Planes, Trains and Hollywood Moments

With a roar of its engines, the train rushes away from the underground station. Bolting down the escalator, it is all I can do to skid to a halt before hurtling into the side of the carriage, its doors now firmly sealed.

Panting, I watch the train’s lights fade into the darkness of the tunnel as it races towards the next terminal. Terminal 3.

Our terminal.

Where the final call for our flight echoes over the tannoy system.

And I wonder, is our adventure over before it’s begun?

Madrid International Airport,

Spain,

0900 local time

It started so well.

Flight 1B3161 charged down the runway and soared into the sky. The industrial grey dawn of London vanished beneath a roiling expanse of white cloud, and the Airbus A320 carried us south. We dozed in fits and starts, the shifting peaks and troughs of the clouds beyond our window creating the illusion of some beautiful Arctic vista. Two hours later, the rugged mountains and glistening lakes of Spain’s north coast came into view as we began our descent. Then the Airbus’ wheels hit the hot tarmac of Madrid’s International Airport and, with a shudder and a squeal of giant tyres, we taxied into Terminal 4 and departed the plane.

So far, so good.

Unsure where to go, we loitered around the gate, watching the information board for signs of our connecting flight. We grabbed a snack and drink from a kiosk and watched the board. We checked the time and watched the board. We nosed through our Lonely Planet and watched the board. We rechecked the time and watched the board.

And then, as if we had been sucked into a home video’s stuttering slow-motion effect, time seemed to slow.

Pixel by pixel, our flight information coalesced on the screen.

Our eyes instantly went to the emboldened letters that read: Final Call. Now Boarding. Then, to the gate information displayed alongside it – not only did it state that our Gate, D49-50, was 25 minutes away . . . it was in a whole other terminal.

Cue a long line of expletives!

We raced through the Terminal 4 departure lounge, hit the moving walkway, travelator or whatever the hell you want to call it, and performed a surreal, forward-facing moon-walk as we sped along it.

As though trapped in some airport-themed episode of the Crystal Maze, our next obstacle was a seemingly endless series of zig-zagging escalators. They burrowed down to the Centre of the Earth (an exaggeration, I know) to a subway station . . . just as a train was pulling away.

Cue more expletives! And that awkward dance of impatience, like one might practice while urgently queuing outside a public toilet door, cursing the lethargic whistling of the current occupant with all the time in the world.

A crowd gathered around us as we waited for the next train to arrive. With a flash of triumph (now replaced by shame), I shouldered my way in to be the first on the carriage, dragging Sid behind me.

Seemed like a good idea at the time.

I even felt smug satisfaction as an ocean of human bodies swamped us, as though being the first people on the train would somehow help get us to our destination faster.

It did not.

The train left the station at precisely the time it was meant to. It whisked us away, swooping us through black tunnels, broken only by the occasional orange lamp mounted in the wall and passing with monotonous pace. Then it pulled into the next station at precisely the time it was meant to.

Only, this station wasn’t everybody’s destination. Very few of the carriage’s occupants got out as the doors whumped open. Smugness evaporating, Sid and I stood there, trapped in the middle of that writhing mass of people. I swear every single one wore an expression equally triumphant as mine from moments ago.

But this was no time for a lesson in humility.

The beeping countdown to door-closing time ratcheted up to a manic pitch. Our fellow passengers ignored our overly polite requests to let us through. In fact, they formed a barrier around us, a human wall.

So, I did the only thing a six-foot-two, broad-shouldered man can do.

I charged!

Like a rampaging bull, I bulldozed through the crowd, hauling Sid in my wake. Flinging disgruntled human obstacles out of my way, I dived through the doors a fraction of a second before they hissed shut. All I needed to do was reach back to grab a fallen fedora, and I would have had an iconic movie moment on my hands.

But, as the train thundered away, I had no time to contemplate a relocation to Hollywood. Instead, we bounded up steps and escalators, racing through Terminal 3’s glass and chrome off-duty shopping malls. We ploughed through milling crowds of tourists, straining to glimpse information boards and gate numbers.

D42

D43

We were close, I knew, heart racing.

D46

D47

But were we close enough? Had we missed our flight? Was our new start over before it began?

No.

D49 – D50.

The plane wasn’t pulling away.

There was no need to emulate Hollywood for the second time in five minutes by charging past the gate staff, jumping the barrier and hurtling down the tunnel and across the runway.

Instead, sweaty, panting and exhausted, we showed our passports.

Then joined a queue.

A long queue.

A very long queue.

I could almost hear those passengers on the train laughing at us, at our urgency, our mad dash across the airport only to stand in a queue for twenty minutes, slowly winding our way through the sweltering tunnel and onto the plane.

Finally, onboard the Airbus A340-600, we settled into our seats. After watching all the usual safety instructions, we glanced through the window as the plane lumbered down the runway, picking up speed before it thundered into the sky with a surge of power.

Spain passed below us, followed by Portugal. Then, in no time, we were out over the Atlantic with nothing to do for the next nine hours and fifty-five minutes, 4,411 miles except chat, doze, read and write this blog.

Miami

16:00 Local Time

(21:00 GMT)

Beyond moments of restless dozing at the terminal and on the two flights, we have been awake since yesterday morning.

The afternoon sunlight glared through the windows of the yellow cab that whisked us away from Miami International Airport. Yet our body clocks told us it was dark and time for sleep.

Thirty-six hours + no sleep = absolutely hanging.

That said, the Florida sun hitting our skin as the cab pulled out of the dark airport underground taxi rank revived us somewhat. As did the infectious laughter of our driver. She was a large black lady whose accent I couldn’t place. Yet it was so strong that it disguised every word she said. If she took offence at our inability to understand her and our constant, embarrassed “sorry, I didn’t catch that” comments, then she masked it under her constant cackle.

There are no direct flights from London to Caracas, where we are due to meet the expedition team in a few days. We could have flown straight from Madrid, but it was almost £150 cheaper each to change in Miami. So, we figured, before heading into six months of roughing it in a tent in the rainforest, we might as well put that combined £300 to good use and stopover for a few nights.

Neither of us are particularly ‘city people’, and Miami has no particular draw for me. As the cab headed up, through and around a latticework of flyovers and bypasses, and the city’s concrete, steel and glass jungle came into view, I wondered if we should have just continued to Venezuela.

But, as mentioned previously, things have been tough lately, straining our relationship despite the support Sid has given me. Shacking up with fifty other scientists for six months may not be the best way of sorting out such difficulties. A few nights without thinking about my dad’s disappearance in Africa, my failed career, the Moon Mask theory, or getting ready for Sarisariñama may be precisely what the doctor ordered. A few nights of doing nothing but relaxing in a nice hotel room, chilling on the beach and sharing a couple of drinks and meals out.

Sure enough, despite the exhaustion, just being away from home, away from the memories, I can already feel myself relaxing. Sid too. Looking at her face as the sun beamed from Miami’s spiralling towers and bounced off her olive skin, it was as though an artist had just brightened up his painting.

Still laughing, our driver drove us past giant cruise ships, golden beaches and swaying palm trees. We finally pulled off and headed down Ocean Drive (to which I couldn’t resist serenading Sid with a poor rendition of the Lighthouse Family). We found our hotel, swiped a card over the cab’s contactless payment scanner then went inside.

Ten minutes later, the concierge led us to our room. There, as I had pre-arranged with Reception, a bottle of bubbly stood, chilling in a bucket of ice alongside a tray of chocolate-coated strawberries. Not bothering to unpack a single item of luggage, we crashed onto the bed and consumed them. Not long after, Sid drew the curtains and . . . well, the rest is none of your damn business!

Benjamin King

My name is Dr Benjamin King, and I am an archaeologist working on the UNESCO Sarisariñama Expedition. Join me on my epic journey to one of the most remote places on the planet – a tabletop mountain towering above the Venezuelan rainforest. This will be my home for six months as my colleagues and I attempt to unravel the mystery of the ancient ruins that lie buried within an enormous sinkhole. Not only do I blog updates about the project, but also the trials and tribulations of life in the jungle. Something tells me that the danger of the jungle’s predators is nothing compared to the perils of being trapped with the same group of people for the next six months! Don’t miss out on a single moment of this extraordinary adventure - follow me on social media @benking1209 Benjamin King is also the fictional hero of the action-packed adventure series ‘The Xibalba Saga’ by James Richardson. Read it now https://amzn.to/3dD9wZW Stay up to date on new releases and exclusive free content at www.moonmask.net and @worldofmoonmask

Leave a Reply