...and his happy band of incompetents welcome you to Barcelona International Airport" blared cheerfully from wherever loudspeakers are concealed in Boeing 737s.
Ok, thats not quite what was said. But after the plane bounced not once, not twice, but three times before careening to a halt on the runway I think the passengers were of a mind that "Welcome to Barcelona" did not sum up our arrival.
I was sorely tempted to revive the urban legend of the old lady making her way off the plane and asking the pilot: "Sonny, did we land or were we shot down?" but the look in the eye of steward/stewardess (I'd not worked out his or her sexuality, and the androgynous name badge "Alex" didn't help) suggested it would be a bad idea. Its a long drop from the door of an aeroplane.
Things were not going well.
As I'd left for the airport that afternoon I'd received a call; something was amiss with the hotel where I was planning to stay. A power cut, a fire, something. Unfortunately the caller's poor grasp of English and my non-existant grasp of Spanish did not help matters. So I was a little nervous before getting on the plane, and was wondering what would be waiting for me on the continent.
Spain welcomed me with an enthusiastic incompetence that I find endearing. Most countries are incompetent when it comes to airports; we British specialise in sullen unhelpfulness coupled with an annoying habit to take your luggage on a 20 mile mystery tour between aircraft and carousel. The French take arrogance to an extreme, deploying the infamous gallic shrug to any person who might dare to enquire as where their bag might be. The Italians and Spanish, on the other hand, are disarmingly incompetent. The staff genuinely want to help, but are either still sleepy from a siesta or still slightly drunk from a party that only finished 2 hours previously.
And so it was that we, the passengers, stood at a deserted passport control barrier, feeling slightly foolish. Eventually a guard sauntered up, doubtless having stuffed himself with tapas, opened the gate and waved us through.
"You want to see my passport?"
"No, no, no, no - I trust you all"
(this contrasts sharply with my last experience of flying to the US, where I was given some 'special' treatment at immigration)
As I expected, while we had arrived at Terminal A, the luggage was going to Terminal B (I tried to get an explanation from British Airway for this but was met with sullen British incompetence, somewhat at odds with the enthusiastic shouting and frantic hand waving of the Spanish. Still useless, but at least entertaining.)
As I began the walk to the other side of the airport (somewhat smug in the knowledge that few of my fellow passengers had noticed the revised luggage location and naively assumed their bags would appear in the terminal where the aircraft was parked) I wondered what the night had in store...
...if you'd told me, I wouldn't have believed you...
