I’m in the Madrid international airport. There is a cacophony of languages. Very little of it is in English. My high school Spanish has completely failed me.

I’ve been chilling in the VIP lounge, where it 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 concourse. The woman at 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. “Perdóname por favor;” I check monitor after monitor. Finally, I find it. I’m in the right terminal, wrong concourse. 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 and exuberantly whistling Camp Town Ladies. Stephen Foster in the Madrid Airport. I have an instant earworm. (and now you do too!). Doodah indeed.