Friday, September 4th
Yesterday was a travel day for me. I flew from Berlin to Madrid, then spent a night in a hotel near the airport. I’d be catching a flight today to Santiago de Compostela to meet my co-leaders on the Creative Camino, Brenda Porter and Andre Mallinger, for a couple of days of last-minute preparations before we greeted the thirteen pilgrims who’d be three days from now. But for now, I was alone in a quiet, temperature-controlled hotel room. I had one night to change gears from being a free-wheeling tourist, every minute of time my own, to donning the mantle of writing teacher and trip leader.
Our third Camino pilgrimage was about to begin.
I savored the quiet of my hotel room. Ate some rice cakes and a vegan spread I’d stashed in my bag and skipped the hassle of going out to eat. I spent the evening reorganizing my many belongings and moving things into my backpack that I’d actually need to access there during the Camino.
I spent an hour reviewing my teaching curriculum. Listened to an audiobook I’d downloaded from the library.
I felt grounded, happy, and capable, ready for this long-awaited journey to begin.
After a good night’s sleep, I rose early. I’d booked an early morning shuttle back to the Madrid airport because my co-leader Brenda had Whatsapped me, asking me to her pick up a US-European adapter at the airport. I didn’t know how long that mission would take or what the security lines would be like, so I booked an 8:15 shuttle for an 11:50 flight.
I didn’t both me that I might be hanging out in the airport for a couple of extra hours. I like being anonymous in airports.
My trip to the terminal 4 was uneventful. I got my boarding pass, checked my giant black duffel bag (which they labeled HEAVY in Spanish), and headed to security, wearing my green Camino backpack and a stuffed fanny pack around my waist. Over my shoulder, I carried my gold Foldie bag with daily essentials and my black c-pap machine. It was definitely a lot of stuff, and I already regretted bringing it all, but I could handle it.
I dutifully laid all my belongings in multiple trays as I went through security, then put everything back in place on the other end of the scanners. I emerged into the glaring lights of Duty Free, an overwhelming phantasmagoria of consumeristic decadence.
The last time I went to my optometrist, a few days before flying to Berlin, she said I had the beginning of a cataract and that I’d eventually need surgery. I wasn’t completely surprised by this news. I had started noticing headlights glowing disconcertingly whenever I drove at night, so much so that I wanted to squint and look away. I suddenly understood why so many old people stop driving at night.
Now, the bright neon displays shouting “Buy me! Buy me!” glared at me with the same jarring trails of light in Duty Free.
I couldn’t wait to get out of there. But as those of you who travel know, leaving Duty Free isn’t easy. Those “buy me” shopping areas are strategically designed in a maze to keep you shopping forever.
When I finally escaped the confusing array of glittering counters, I spied a WH Smith store that seemed to carry a little bit of everything. I walked in and in just a few minutes located exactly what Brenda ordered. Purchasing it for her, I felt efficient and happy. A good friend.
I found a curved plastic seat near the giant overhead screens that announce the departure gates of upcoming flights. The sign informed me that I’d have to wait another hour for the gate to my flight to Santiago to even be listed.
I decided to kill some time getting a cup of coffee. There were a dozen coffeeshops to choose from. I settled on a nearby Coffee Republic, bought an oat milk latte and an overly soft chocolate croissant. Its only virtue was the chocolate. I sat at a small café table and ate my treats, then gathered up my things and returned to wait under the departures sign.
I pulled out my laptop and started working on my lesson plans.
That’s when it hit me.
Oh fuck, my c-pap bag is missing.
I checked my bags again. I had my green Camino backpack and my gold Foldie. My fanny pack—holding my passport, boarding pass, wallet, coin purse, lip balm, hand sanitizer, metal tin holding my evening fiber medication, and ten other things I deem essential—was protruding from my waist.
But black c-pap bag was truly gone.
Medicare had bought it for me. As I recalled, themodel I had was a $5000 machine.
I bolted up from my seat, grabbed my remaining things, and frantically began retracing my steps.
I went back to the place I’d just had a cup of coffee. My dirty dishes were still on the little round table where I’d sat, but my c-pap wasn’t there. I went back to the sitting area where I’d initially waited for my flight to be announced. It wasn’t there either. I tried to return to the place where I’d bought the adapter for Brenda, but I couldn’t find the store. Everywhere I looked, there were dozens of stores (or was it hundreds?). Endless gleaming wide hallways, multiple moving walkways, and escalators going in multiple directions all seemed to be mocking me. There were thousands of travelers. Madrid is a huge, impersonal airport.
I had no idea who spoke English and who didn’t.
I wanted to go back to security to see if I’d left my CPAP there, but I couldn’t figure out which way to go. So I just started walking. Ten minutes into walking to nowhere in particular, panic driving me, I remembered that I’d put an AirTag in my CPAP bag. I’d put them in all my bags the night before I left California. As I fast-walked toward what I hoped might be the security area I’d been scanned in earlier, I booted up “Find My” on my iphone and selected my CPAP bag from the list of options.
But all I got was this error message.
The app said I needed a signal, but I already had one. I double-checked. I was definitely on the airport wifi with full three bars. “Find my” instructed me to turn on my flashlight. Why, I had no idea, but as I headed back to what I hoped would be Duty Free, I complied. I switched on my flashlight.
I stopped to ask people for help multiple times. Finally, I found someone who spoke English. She directed me to head to the right. When I realized that was another dead end, I asked someone else. She sent me in the opposite direction. Finally, I found a woman standing behind an official information desk. She told me I’d been walking in the wrong direction all along and told me to take stairs downstairs. How could I have been going in the wrong direction? I’ve walked in every direction there is.
After another 10 minutes striding first one way and then another, I finally got a signal from “Find my.” I started to follow it. Could it be from my CPAP machine?
I could see a blue dot, but I couldn’t figure out how to reach it. The navigation interface on “Find my” was a pittance compared to Google maps. But I did my best.
Finally, after several more false starts, I reached the location of the glowing blue dot. It had led me back to Duty Free. My CPAP had to be here! But I had never stopped in Duty Free. And the app was saying I’d arrived at the same location as my bag. Arrived? Arrived where?
I was lost in a funhouse. I had arrived back in a hellhole of fluorescent mirrors. The orgy of glittering signs overwhelmed me from every angle.
Fucking AirTags!
It was 10:25 am. My flight was boarding in an hour.
I started walking again.
After traveling in circles a few more times, I stumbled upon the WH Smith store where I’d purchased Brenda’s adapter. That in itself was a miracle; I’d passed several WH Smith stores in my wanderings; many of these stores had more than one location. But this was my store. I was sure of it. I recognized the display where I’d found Brenda’s item.
I went up to the counter. The same woman who’d waited on me before was still there. She didn’t speak any English, and I didn’t speak Spanish, but she recognized me as a recent customer. Through gestures, I mimed leaving a shoulder bag behind. She shook her head no. She hadn’t seen it. No one had turned it in. She didn’t have it.
I left the store. I started walking again. Ten more minutes had passed.
After asking directions to security four times and being sent in four different directions, I found the information desk again. The woman who hadn’t helped me before pointed vaguely to the left, so I headed that way.
After three more attempts to get help, I finally found my way back to security. Now I was getting somewhere. I had to have left it here!
One of the workers told me which desk to go to. I motioned one of the women to come over. She spoke English. I told her I’d lost my CPAP machine. “What does it look like?” she asked.
I immediately pulled out my phone and confidently went to my camera roll. I’d not only put AirTags in all my luggage, I’d taken photos of every piece. I knew the drill. I’d lost luggage before.
As I scrolled through my pictures, my heart fell. I’d taken pictures of all my luggage except my CPAP machine.
So I did my best to describe it to her. She went to a little cupboard where they keep lost items. She looked inside and shook her head. “I am the head of security,” she told me, “and we don’t have it.”
She told me to go one floor down to report it missing. There were forms to fill out. But it was 10:55 am. My flight was boarding in twenty minutes.
I weighed my options, followed her instructions, and headed down a curving staircase.
It led exactly…nowhere. And by now I was so flustered, I couldn’t remember what the woman had told me. There was a place somewhere on the 0 floor (is that what she’d said?) where I could place a missing item report.
I didn’t think I had time, but headed for the elevator anyway. I pushed the down button. Waited for the elevator car to arrive. I started to step inside but when I looked at the buttons inside, I saw there was no floor 0. It didn’t exist.
I backed out of the elevator, shaking my head in disbelief.
Don’t lose anything else, Laura. This is exactly when people lose a second item or make a really big mistake. I tried to look on the bright side. I still had my passport. My wallet. My laptop. My credit cards. At least I hadn’t lost the green backpack that held everything I needed for the Camino. That would have been worse. Far worse.
This was just money. A whole LOT of money.
In the next five minutes, I decided to give it one more try.
I approached a man sitting behind an official-looking airport desk, talking on his cell phone. I waited until he finished. “Buenos dias, senor,” I said. That was about the extent of my Spanish. Fortunately, he spoke English. I told him my dilemma and he responded with confidence immediately.
“Go across the way and then turn left. In two minutes, you’ll see a desk with people with green shirts. You can report a missing item there. They’re in communication with everyone in the airport.”
That sounded hopeful. I headed out on my new trajectory.
It was 11:05 am. My flight was boarding in fifteen minutes.
After crossing the giant hallway and turning left, I looked for the desk staffed by people wearing green shirts. There was no such thing. Just more shops. Dozens of glowing laughing glittering shops.
I checked my boarding pass. My flight would be boarding in section K. I was in section J. I had no idea where section K was and this was a big airport.
It was after 11 am. Time to abandon my fruitless search and find my gate. I had run out of time.
As I walked to my gate, the implications of losing a $5000 piece of equipment began to sink in. “The only good thing about it is getting a great blog post out of it.” As I always say, “Bad for life, good for story.”
The K gates were seven minutes away. I walked briskly toward gate K 95.
Finally, I found my gate. Why the hell did they arrange gates by odd and even numbers?
I took a big breath and looked around. This was the one place I might start to see other pilgrims carrying Camino-related gear. Backpacks. Hiking boots. Scruffy clothes. I knew the look.
But I was much too upset to scan the crowd. I sat down to wait for my flight.
I had ten minutes before my group would be called to board. I pulled out my laptop and started typing out this story. Getting it down on paper made me feel just a little bit better.
I was alive. I had my hiking shoes, my poles, my backpack, my water bladder. Bandages for my feet. My electrolyte pills. Everything I needed for my pilgrimage. More than everything.
Except my CPAP machine.
I was going to be all right.
