We arrived at Madrid Barajas Airport just 36 hours after my husband’s wallet and passport had been stolen and only 24 hours later than our original departure had been scheduled. If you missed them, you can read the previous installments of this tale of woe here and here. Harry’s replacement passport warranted nary an extra glance from the security agents, and though we were feeling much more optimistic than we had the day before, we both agreed we wouldn’t feel truly relaxed until we were on our plane to London.

It turned out that instinct was warranted, as the ticket agent informed us as we checked in that they had Harry’s ticket but didn’t show me in the system at all. I’d been fairly calm and focused the preceding day and a half, but now, so close to the prize, I nearly lost it. WHAT???!!! The agent told us we should go to the customer service desk (more than a mere stroll away), but of course, when we got there, there was no one there (it being 6 a.m.). We then found a spot to make phone calls; I contacted our travel insurance company, AIG TravelGuard, which had assisted in booking our new flights the day before, while Harry contacted American Airlines, with whom the flight was booked, operated by Iberia. It took several nerve-wracking minutes for each of us to connect to a human being; I was asking the agent to find our actual ticket numbers while Harry was asking his agent to trace and confirm the ticket purchase. We knew we could also get the credit card company involved to confirm we had been billed for two tickets, but with the clock ticking we hoped that wouldn’t be necessary.

Just as I was getting the ticket numbers from my very helpful agent, Harry’s agent was able to see what had happened with our transaction (someone had merely failed to push the final button to enter my ticket). He was told my ticket should now be in the system and we could go up to the ticket counter to check in. My agent offered to stay on the line with me until everything was resolved, but we were juggling luggage and trying to scramble to the counter, so I rang off, with her promising to call back in 30 minutes to confirm we were okay.

Hallelujah! According to Iberia and British Airways, I now indeed had a ticket all the way to San Francisco. Bags checked, we finally made our way to our gate, collapsing into our chairs as the adrenaline rush subsided. I took a few moments to admire the unique architecture of Terminal 4         but sincerely wished I would not be seeing it again for a good long while. Just too many negative memories associated with this place! Oh, and my heart got another jolt as we lined up to board the plane. The boarding agent scanned my boarding card . . . and nothing happened. She tried three or four more times, then tried punching in the number. Finally, she picked up a phone to make a call. ARE YOU KIDDING ME??!! I exchanged panicked looks with my husband and had decided to tell him to just get on the plane without me and save himself before the agent turned to me with a smile and indicated I should go on down the jetway. This trip was going to kill me, I was sure of it.

Thankfully, Heathrow had nothing awful in store for us except for the minor inconvenience of the lengthy trek from one terminal to another. Because of our last-minute ticket purchase, we found ourselves towards the back of the economy cabin of a BA Boeing 747 in the middle of the row instead of what would have been premium economy seats of an A380. Actually, the food was quite good (we even got a mid-afternoon snack of a Magnum bar — yum!) and I enjoyed a few movies chosen from a very broad entertainment menu.

In San Francisco we made good use of the Mobile Passport app on Harry’s phone to zip through customs. It was the first time we’d used it, but customs personnel were on hand to assist us through the easy, streamlined process. We then reclaimed our bags, got our tickets on United to get us from SFO to our home airport in Medford, Oregon, and checked our bags. We’d arrived late in the afternoon, and our final flight was scheduled to depart in the early evening with arrival in Medford around 8 p.m. After terminal and gate changes that were poorly and belatedly communicated with conflicting announcements (while giving us more unwanted exercise), we settled in before learning our flight was being pushed back at least two hours.

Finally, finally, we arrived in Medford after midnight, weary but thankful to be home. But, of course, this wonderful, exciting, maddening, difficult trip had to end the way it began: with a baggage carousel turning, empty, after everyone had left with their bags and mine nowhere in sight. With my own bed just three miles away and our kind neighbor waiting outside to whisk us there, at this point I just shook my head in resignation. Because ours was the last flight in of the night, there was almost no one in sight to whom to report the missing bag. We left a message with a lone employee at a ticket counter, prepared to deal with it all the next day, when someone hustled to us (her florescent vest indicated she might have been doing duty on the tarmac a few minutes earlier). She explained that my bag had come in on an earlier flight (Why weren’t we on that one as well? Another mystery of the universe.), and she retrieved it from a locked room and reunited it with us.

I swore after that experience that I would not be partaking in any international travel for some time to come, little knowing that in six months that option would be taken from all of us. The current pandemic has placed my travel nightmare into perspective, and like so many of you, I am eager to #ComeBacktoTravel. When I do travel again, I will be all the wiser for having undergone the trials of my Spanish sojourn and ever thankful for all the kind strangers along the way who helped us navigate our way through it.

— Patty Vanikiotis, associate editor/copy editor