Foreigner

Walking into the bus station in Almería, I was dead tired and incredibly hungry. I had woken up just after 6 am, after drifting off to sleep with earplugs in place around 1 am. There was no food to be found in Gus's Garrucha apartment that morning, because we forgot that nearly every store would be closed on Sunday in such a small town. Gus invited Stephen, Emily, and I to visit his apartment in Almería province for the weekend, and we were all friends from the International Studies major at UW. We spent the weekend lounging on the beach and comparing stories of our lives teaching English here in Spain, but it was time to trek home on Monday morning. Stephen, Emily and I hoofed it to the street-side bus stop on the other end of town and caught the 7 am bus to Madrid. I planned to hop off this bus at the next stop, in Vera, and did not purchase a ticket beforehand in hopes of paying the driver directly. The bus driver was not pleased about this assumption, but told me to 'sube, sube' onto the bus anyway. Once in Vera, a mere 15 minutes later, I bid my farewell to Stephen and Emily, and they continued on to Madrid.

The Vera bus station was deserted, and, still dark during the 7 o'clock hour, it seemed a bit sketchy. The ticket booth should have been open, but I had forgotten about the holiday. Monday October 12, the day Columbus landed on North America, is a national holiday in Spain. Many stores and services do not open on national holidays here, and this ticket booth would not open until much later in the day. So, I resorted to waiting at the nearly deserted bus stop. The sun began to rise, and more travelers arrived at the stop. I spoke to a well-dressed lady who was also waiting for a bus to Almería, and we chatted for a bit. I am always labeled as either French or British by Spaniards (French before I speak, British after they hear my accent when speaking Spanish), and this woman was no exception. 'No, soy de Estados Unidos, de Seattle.' 'Vale. Seetle?' 'Si.' She continued to tell me that her brother had been to New York. Very far from Seattle, so I explained the geographical location of Seattle. Yes, she had seen the city on a map. I didn't bother to tell her that I've never been to New York, because that fact is usually far too shocking to non-Americans.

The anointed bus arrived, after many others which were not Almería-bound. This bus driver was even less pleased about my lack of a ticket, but 'I didn't know the station would be closed!' Prior to this trip, I didn't consider that the drivers would be unwilling to accept my money, but this must be a security measure. I promised to pay in Almería, and he let me aboard. I think the intense fear displayed on my face when the driver first refused me elicited some pity. Thus, I arrived in Almería 1.5 hours later.

I thought the most difficult portion of my journey was over, because I had returned to familiar territory. For the most part, I was right. But, I was still incredibly hungry, and likely donning a rather ragged appearance, so I headed to the food court. Patrons were crowded around an extensive counter, so I waited behind and eventually reached the front. I stood patiently at the counter, deciding between a packaged donut, a cheese sandwich, and a coffee. Everything else consisted of mainly meat. I decided to order all of my options, and continued to wait patiently. None of the workers on the other side of the counter paid me any attention, but it seemed that they had some arrangement for the order in which they helped patrons.

I was wrong. Patience is not a virtue. Not at the Almería bus station food court, at least. They were helping everyone except me! I was completely ignored. Was it because I looked like a ragged backpacker? Because they could tell I was foreign? Or because I wasn't flicking my fingers at the employees? I wasn't giving up. Like I said, I was really hungry, and this would be my last chance to get food before a five hour bus ride to Málaga. There seemed to be some code between the patrons and food court workers, but it remains a mystery to me. I tried talking to a lady behind the counter even though she hadn't asked for my order, and she told me to wait. She went on to take orders from two other patrons. A Spanish woman appeared next to me at the counter, was helped almost immediately, and ordered two coffees and my donut (by this time, I had given up ordering the coffee and the sandwich, because my bus was about to leave). There was only one plain donut in sight, and I wanted it. I piped up, the woman understood, and they let me have the plain donut. The worker extracted another plain donut from a hidden cupboard under the counter, and gave it to the woman. I paid the €0.80 for the donut and stalked off to the bus.

I made it home alive, after seven more hours on two buses, and I was able to obtain more food from a pleasant little shop at a bus pit stop with very nice employees. I also got to visit a Corte Inglés department store during my layover in Málaga. It's one of the most massive stores I've ever seen, with products ranging from cell phones to musical instruments to weaponry, as well as a large clothing section that reminds me of Nordstrom. It's similar to Sears, but with many more levels and products (this Corte Inglés had at least 4 floors, but probably more; I didn't have time to check them all out). I found lip balm, a difficult product to track down in Spain, in the cosmetics section. The store felt a bit like home, and it was comforting to wander around the shiny aisles after my hectic day.

I'm leaning toward the conclusion that the Almería food court employees were unwilling to help me because it would have required extra effort on their part. They would have had to listen through my accent and speak slowly to me. Indeed, I would have had to wait a very long time to get a sandwich and coffee.

Lessons learned:
1. buy bus tickets before trying to get on the bus
2. carry food while traveling