Entitlement

MMC :: in November 11, 2022 :: in Spain :: 1 comment

Ah, these moments. The ones where everything changes. 

‘I don’t have my passport,’ I say to Ryan as we approach passport control in Barcelona. It’s not in my purse, or pocket next to my phone. I check, and check again. ‘I am feeling like an idiot,’ I tell him. 

‘None of that,’ he reassures me. While I’m imagining him flying to Bilbao by himself, unfettered by my forgetfulness, he is reminding me that we are in this together. I am feeling grateful. 

‘Let’s go back to the plane,’ he offers. 

As we walk back, I recount where I saw it last. Security, next to my phone. No, it must have come on the plane with us: We had to get paper boarding passes to replace our digital ones, which they printed at the gate. I had to show that to get on the plane. The gate agent ripped the stub off against my passport. I tucked the boarding pass into my passport as I am accustomed to doing, and I flashed it at the flight attendant as we stepped onto the plane. Seat 5L. It came across the Atlantic with us. It’s just not here now.

Did it somehow slip somewhere when I took my phone out to text the person I have a crush on just before we leave? (Even if it did, I have no regrets. They texted me back immediately.)

We try to approach our landing gate, but it’s behind glass security doors that make it clear this is as far as we’ll go. Back to passport control. 

We go through security for transfers, as we have a connecting flight. Past security, there is one boarder control police officer working. He asks for our passports and we explain the situation. 

I am surprised to find that he is extremely helpful. He asks where we are going, and when we answer, he shows real concern. ‘In an hour?’ he asks about our connecting flight. ‘Yes, 1400,’ I answer. He asks for the information about the flight we’ve just taken and I hand him my phone with the digital boarding pass, the paper one presumably still tucked into my passport somewhere. He hurriedly makes a call and then another. He explains that he’s asked them to check my seat, twice, but they find nothing. He asks if I have a picture of my passport. 

‘Yes,’ I remember, and hop onto the free airport WiFi to download it from my files. 

‘A picture is good enough for me,’ he explains, shockingly, ‘But the company…’ He means our connecting flight. They’ll ask for ID along with boarding passes at the gate. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. 

The officer lets us into Spain, into the EU, lets us continue. ‘You can call in two, three days,’ he explains, saying that we should check back with the airport police after the more comprehensive cleaning of the plane is complete. 

Onwards. 

Our gate is close to this end of the terminal, and we wait in line as we’re scheduled to board in a few minutes. I am less worried than I think I ought to be, but I am also all right. When I start beating myself up for my mistake, Ryan reminds me that negative thoughts are not going to help us. When Ryan starts stressing about not being able to get onto the plane, I ask him if he wants to continue, what he would rather do otherwise. 

‘Do you have a better idea?’ I ask, very genuinely. My best idea is just to keep moving forward. At the end of the day, it’s really all I know how to do in life. 

‘I guess not,’ he muses, ‘Besides stay in Barcelona.’

We remind ourselves that regardless of what happens, we’re going to have a good time. 

Ryan starts to stress about the fact that the line isn’t moving, that it’s inefficient. We’re split into lines by our boarding groups, but we’re boarding all groups at once. 

‘Spain,’ I remind him helpfully. He asks me to stop making that remark, lest we offend someone. I can work on not making that remark. He is putting up with me having lost my passport. 

When the line does eventually move, people are showing their small ID cards, like licenses, alongside their boarding passes. I smile at the gate attendant and attempt to scan my boarding bass. I miss and place my phone down in a second attempt. It’s about to run out of battery. Ryan has a copy of my boarding pass. 

The scanner beeps and I continue onto the gangway, not having to have shown ID.

Ryan grins at me as if we’ve just gotten away with committing a crime. 

‘White privilege,’ I tell him, in a singsong voice. ‘Entitlement,’ I say, waving my hands in front of us. 

‘Something I do not have a lot of,’ he says. I am thinking of professional entitled cyclists. 

‘Yeah, you’re right,’ I realise. ‘Maybe you’re supposed to learn that this trip,’ I smirk at him. 

‘It’s kind of a negative characteristic!’ he scoffs. 

‘Nah,’ I argue, ‘Just keep going forward until someone tells you to stop.’ I grin. ‘We’re going to Bilbao.’

‘Whatever happens, it’s going to be an adventure.’

‘It IS an adventure,’ I argue again, ‘We’re on it.’

Sitting here, typing this on the plane, I would feel better if my passport were on me. I start to articulate this, to worry. ‘Maybe it will work out as it should and they’ll find it, and we’ll pick it up when we’re back in Barcelona,’ Ryan reminds me. Maybe it will. Meanwhile, worrying isn’t going to change anything. What’s different now? Nothing, really. We’re going to Bilbao, to explore Donostia. We have restaurant reservations. We’re going to drive back through the Pyrenees. 

We’re going to keep moving forward until someone tells us to stop. 

‘I think you can do better on the first sentence,’ Ryan says, of this post, peering over my shoulder.

‘How would you improve it?’ I ask. 

‘I think you can talk about that feeling, in your stomach…’

‘I didn’t have that feeling though,’ I say simply. And it’s true. 

We walk from our gate in Bilbao towards the taxi stand. ‘I’m just letting you lead,’ Ryan tells me. ‘I can’t believe we made it.’

‘I never had any doubt,’ I lie a bit. I knew we’d end up somewhere, and I’m glad it’s where we’re meant to be.

The taxi driver takes us a bit of a roundabout way and Ryan asks if I mind. I don’t. ‘I’ve noticed it’s less trafficky,’ I say truthfully. I also peer at the meter. I have 40€ on me from whatever last trip, and this ride will not cost more than that. If this driver makes away with an extra 5€ then good for him.

It’s hilly here in Bilbao, the kind of hills that shoot up from oceans. We wind our way down 7% grades and I take note of how acceptable it is to speed here, for future reference. The drivers are generally considerate. And it’s acceptable to speed.

When we check into our hotel, the excellent Hotel Tayko, the receptionist asks for our passports. ‘I have a photo,’ I tell him, interestingly not feeling any anxiety rise within my chest, not imagining they somehow won’t let us stay. They’ll let us stay. ‘I’ll need the physical copy too,’ he tells me. I smile, ‘I would love to give it to you, but I lost it on the plane.’ His eyes widen and so does my grin. He copies my information from the photo on my phone. No one wishes I could hand him my passport more than I do.

After settling and my customary post-travel shower ablution, we head out into Bilbao in search of a SIM, and the local drinking snacks pintxos, small bites, smaller even than tapas small plates. We are in the Basque Country, and Basque is a presumed language isolate. It certainly reads that way. ‘The wines we had with all the Xs in them,’ Ryan notes, reminding ourselves of Txakoli. Thankfully they speak Spanish here too.

Ryan secures a SIM from Orange, and I want one from a carrier called MovieStar. It’s not to be in the cards, however, as they don’t offer prepaid plans. (Nor English customer service.) The woman at Orange was so nice, and we chatted with a couple folks there about where to go for pintxos. People here are friendly.

We wander some more. A turquoise fence catches my eye and makes me pause, and the bar name makes me stop and go in. Bar Esperanza. Me too, bar, me too. We chat up the bartender and a couple seemingly regulars inside and agree on beers and small plates. They are enthusiastic about which vegetarian options I should try, a change from the Spain of 15 years ago. The bartender sets us up with our own table on the terrace. After I pay, Ryan pops back into the place briefly before rejoining me on the street. As we walk he tells me optimistically, ‘I’m going to make more of an effort to be personable this trip.’ He wants to connect with people. I am here for it.

Thus our evening continues, hopping from place to place. I try grilled tomatoes, olives, queso casa. Sop up any oil and juices with crusty bread. At the last place we go I say, ‘Soy vegetariana,’ and the man behind the counter gestures to the pa amb tomàquet, or tomato bread, makes the ‘No’ gesture with his hands. Solamente, the only vegetarian pintxo. ‘Dos,’ I grin, prepared to eat this country out of tomato bread this trip.

Our favourite place ends up being a Ryan find, with a name that I forget and will have to come back to add. Something Roc or Rock, presumably rock and roll. We get there embarrassingly early. After a couple glasses of 2€ wine I ask to order cheese and the lovely bartender laughs at me. ‘You are in Europe,’ he explains, ‘And not even in Europe, in Spain. And not even in Spain, in the Basque Country. Everything is later here.’ The kitchen doesn’t open for 10 minutes, at 20:00. ‘But don’t worry,’ he says, ‘I will bring you cheese.’ We learn that ‘pet-nat’ and ‘punk’ need no translation, and we sip pet-nats and listen to an excellent playlist.

Ryan is excited, and I’m excited that he’s excited. Last night he reminded me that I’ve almost always been the reason he travels. How annoying it must be, having a best friend who is constantly dragging you around the world. The last tip he took was when we went to Morocco, and that was 5 years ago. This is our seventh country together. I am so grateful to be travelling with someone who not only didn’t make me feel like an idiot for losing my passport, but also never would have left me behind. Maybe in return I can teach him some entitlement.