The World According to... Boring John

Have you ever missed your flight?

I have.

I did it yesterday, in Barcelona, Spain.

Oh, I set off in plenty of time; I left the north of the city at 9.15am for a 12.20 flight to Manchester. I took the blue Metro line to Diagonal, changed for Sants (leave the Metro, and head toward Via Cinco (platform 5) of the train station; and got on a train headed for Tarragona (which kindly stops at El Prat de Llobregrat).

Then you get off the train at Prat, change platforms and wait for a train headed for el aeropuerto (belive it or not, that's Castillian Spanish for ' the airport').

Simple. No?

No.

Finding your way to the airport is far from obvious. Yes, they leave clues but you have to know where to look!

In fact, in my limited experience of travelling to Barcelona, I'd say that in trying to find where you're going it helps if either a) you know exactly where you're going or b) you know exactly where you're going.

(I don't like to criticise a whole country, but Spanish directions from A to B, that I have experienced travelling to Barcelona, really are appallingly inadequate. And I'm not simply complaining that the good instructions are in Castillian or Catalan, and not English; there just are very few instructions, full stop.

And it's not as if there aren't thousands of tourists arriving into (and leaving from) Barcelona, via the airport every day. Moan over. (Hey, I am English after all!))

Anyway, I digress. (You noticed?)

I've been to Barcelona several times in the last 12 months and I know the routine.

I even know the new, more-convoluted, route explained earlier. (Apparently, the line between Sants and el aeropuerto is being improved. Let's hope that Sants - the singularly least tourist-friendly train station I have ever been to, ever! - gets improved too.)

So, I set off at 9.15am and expect to be at the airport by 10.45, at the latest.

Trouble is, I'm on the train that stops at Prat de Llobregrat but I've left my keys behind. That's what the two text messages say, anyway.

"You've left your keys," said the first.

"... It's okay, I'll meet you at Sants" followed the second.

So I get off the train that stops at Prat de Llobregat, go back up the elevator and into Sants station, and I wait.

Twenty minutes later, I have my keys in my pocket, and I'm waiting for my train again.

I look at the timetable and it seems to say that trains to Prat come every ten minutes, so why have I been waiting fifteen?

Finally, a train.

It's going to St Vicenc.

I get on, cautiously, and look at the electronic display for reassurances that I'm on the right train, but it's not working.

A couple of people with rucksacks get on, which is good, but a whole load of other tourist-type people don't, which is not good, but I ignore them - what do they know!

If it's the wrong train, then I'll just get off and turn around, I think to myself. What's the worse that can happen?

It was the wrong train. (Obviously.)

And the worst that could happen? Well - and I think the driver of the train did this on purpose, to taunt me - we approached Prat de Llogbregat slowly, as if we were going to stop, but didn't, and then we proceeded to 'bomb it' like an Intercity 125, or the Japanese Bullet train, or any of those fast trains that you're more than happy to be on WHEN you're on the right train.

I was not happy.

I had that sinking feeling, and I started to feel dizzy. Maybe it's because I was pacing up and down the width of a train, like a caged animal that didn't want to be where it found itself to be.

All I knew is that we were going very fast, away from the airport.

Very unpleasant feeling, folks, I can tell you.

God! What am I gonna do? How long have I got before I've definitely missed my train? Could I stay another day? And if so when would I go tomorrow (and how much extra would it cost)?

AND WHY THE F*CK DID I GET ON THE WRONG TRAIN? Aaaargh!

As you can imagine, I was pretty cross with myself.

It turns out that I was on a non-stop journey to St. Vicenc (we didn't even stop at Sitges).

A friendly, understanding conductor explained (in Castillian Spanish) that I had to get off at St. Vicenc, and head back on the next train into Barcelona. This train stopped at Prat de Llobregat (and every other train station, mind!), and I'd arrive at Prat at 11.50am.

'Bombing' out, snails-pace back. Brilliant!

Still, I *might* just have time to catch my plane, I thought to myself.

And I got close. I managed to get through the departure gates without checking-in (check-in had closed half an hour previously), and arrived at Gate 44 at 12.05pm for the 12.20pm flight to Manchester. But the two stony-faced assistants simply said "no", when I asked if I could get on the plane.

What I would have given for a flight delay,

So this is how I came to miss my flight to Manchester Airport.

The strange thing is, the rest of my journey went like more or less as well as possible. True, I did get experience a modest flight delay on my 13.50 flight to Newcastle, but I'd managed to get on a later flight less than two hours later.(Other alternative flights were either two days later, or set off today (or tomorrow), but arrived in the wrong part of England at the wrong time of the day (10pm onwards).

How am I meant to get home from Bristol or Luton or the depressing Gatwick Airport from 10om onwards.

No, I was on a flight to Newcastle which had very fast trains home waiting, just for me. I was feeling upbeat.

My 'upbeatness' started with my first positive experience of the day: me, and the nice-looking Easyjet woman who sold me the ticket. She just kept on smiling as I continued to seek the best flight to UK. I returned to talk to her three times, and when she told me that the next flight to Newcastle still had some seats free, I could have kissed her. I didn't, obviously.

The 13.50 flight to Newcasltle cost me 140 Euros.

(What ya gonna do? I really needed to get to UK, to get back to work, etc. etc. etc.)

Then there was me and the second Easyjet woman. A smiling check-in woman, who seemed almost brim-full with energy, smiled and chatted with me, and frowned when I told her about my getting on the wrong train. And, despite having had to deal with an irate customer who couldn't understand why his hand-luggage was too big to be hand luggage, she says to me: "I love this job she says... You see so many beautiful men, and women... Have a nice flight."

Indeed. I will. Thank you.

And then there was me and the woman, mourning. I met this third, tipsy, woman during the flight. She seemed familiar to me, so I made eye contact as she passed to go to the toilets behind me. She wanted to know about my hair, but then she blurted that her Dad had just died, and that she didn't know where she was, and she was sorry to just talk to me, a stranger, but she was a bit drunk and didn't know what to think.

It was a bit bizarre, for sure.

It was made more so, at least in this writer's eyes, because I'd spent the whole of this eventful day reading The Celestine Prophecy. This fanciful spiritual-cum-self-help book talked about the meaning behind coincidences, of thinking that you know someone and... well, it made me think.

So, this disasterous travel day ended with me 1) quickly getting on the next available flight from Barcelona and 2) getting the Newcastle Metro that left just as soon as I got on it and 3) getting on a direct train home, that again more or less departed just as soon as I got on it.

I arrived at 8.15pm, about 4 hours late.

If I was a God-fearing man I'd say it was almost a bloody miracle.

I do not *fear* god, though; I do not fear love.

Instead, I'm happy to be knowingly responsible for my attitude to the events that happen to me in my life, both good and bad. Having said that, I do think that I'll pay just a little bit more attention the next time I get on a train from Barcelona.

In fact, I think I'll pay a little bit more attention to life, full stop.