I’m in the Madrid international airport. There is a cacophony of languages. Very little of it is in English.
I’ve been chilling in the VIP lounge which is very quiet. (For 34 euros you too can be a VIP!). I kept checking the monitor for my gate assignment. Nothing. I called the airline. It hasn’t been assigned yet.
This airport is huge. Lots of people. Lots of languages. I have no idea what terminal to be in much less which hallway. The woman a customs indicated she thought Terminal 4 gates in area J or K. I’m getting a wee bit anxious. I leave the tranquil lounge for teeming crowds, nonstop PA announcements and crying children. I fight my way through. Pardone me, por favor. I check monitor after monitor. Finally I found it. I’m in the right terminal, wrong hallway. I head for Gate K 80. Finally I get there. Here. I am here. I collapse into an empty bank of seats. I’m the first one here.
Then. Out of nowhere. Off in the distance somewhere someone is loudly whistling Camp Town Ladies. Stephen Foster in the Madrid Airport. I have an instant ear worm. (and now you do too!). Doodah indeed.