Barcelona, June 27th

fiction short story #1

Hotel

The flight was standard. Depart from Chicago O’Hare airport at 6:42p.m. and arrive at Barcelona’s El Prat at 10:28 a.m. on Tuesday, June 27th. It was a red-eye. Most passengers slept, except for the few night owls and insomniacs. I like red-eyes, I got to sit down for the most part. My supervisor disagreed. If it was up to her the crew would never sit down, but rather prowl the aisles like jungle cats, ready to pounce on any customer’s requests. In fact, my supervisor would have preferred if the crew were telepathic, a glass of water in hand for customer 23B before he or she turned on the call light.

But I sat. I like to watch the customers at night. The few glowing screens of the tv’s illuminate the cabin. The outlines of babies sleeping in the arms of their mothers. Everyone’s heads rock back and forth, mouth open, as they drift through the sky unknowingly. For one moment, everyone is on the same page, with the same destination. A moment of relief.

We landed in Barcelona on time. I liked the El Prat airport. Small and efficient, the only two things I ask an airport to be. The empanada stands and cafes were familiar friends greeting me on my way to the arrivals entrance. Performing my usual routine, I waited with the pilots and other flight attendants for the bus to the hotel the airline puts us up in.

The hotel was a bit farther from the city center, which meant I had to take the train if I ever wanted to get somewhere. On my last layover, I barely left the hotel. I was nursing an injury after getting my foot stamped by a customer’s suitcase while deplaning. I took a brisk walk around the residential area of the hotel to test the damage my foot had taken. I remembered crossing the fancy lobby, awkwardly smiling at the concierge as I limped through the glass doors. The hotel was- or so it claimed- inspired by Gaudi, with stained glass and jewel tones encompassing every window. More gaudy than Gaudi, I thought.

ELENA

After a forty five minute nap and shower, I took the train for seven stops downtown to meet Elena. I always let Elena know when I had a layover in Barcelona. Whenever our schedules align, we’d try to have a drink or two. On the train, I thought about this type of relationship. It was nice to catch up with someone, I thought. It felt productive, like an agreement that both parties are interested in keeping up with the conventions of friendship without too much work. I preferred this method. Besides, there’s never enough time between flights to make any real relationship work.

I arrived at a nondescript bar tucked away in a corner of the Gothic Quarter. Many bars are hidden away in Europe, I noted. The inside was narrow and long. Most people were at the bar counter, but there were a few tables along the edge. Dim red light hazed the air. The bartenders kept to themselves. There were quiet, pleasant murmurs between customers. Elena chose the bar. I liked the bar, but I didn’t tell her.

I ordered a margarita, a safe choice, and sat at a small table with two chairs and soaked in the setting. Elena walked in about three minutes later. Her eyes scanned the room before she saw me. She held a finger up and motioned to the bar. This gave me a couple seconds to take her in while she ordered her drink. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw her, but I knew a lot of time had passed. Her hair was significantly shorter, or was it always that short? Maybe it was that short the last time I had seen her, and long the time before that. I wasn’t sure.

She walked towards the table, glass of wine in hand, and I stood up ready to give my perfunctory side hug. Hello, Elena said. Hi, I replied. We both gave a quick smile and sat down. There was tension in the air, both of us scoping each other’s demeanor. How are you? I asked. I realized I was actually curious. She was studying architecture, or was it anthropology? One of the two, at the University of Barcelona. Suddenly, I felt ashamed. I let myself forget so many things. Ever since I entered the “real world” I found there to be too much to remember. Noting down birthdays and appointments became one continuous task. To stop my anxiety, I supposed I had put my mind on halt.

How’s school? I asked. I hoped her answer would give me a clue about her major. It's good, but long. She laughed and continued. Well you know, the program I'm on is 5 years instead of four. The answer was cryptic, so I moved on. And how's the city treating you? I winced at my own vague, impersonal question. She answered. It's so beautiful, and my Spanish is getting better. We could try talking in Spanish.

I shook my head. Please, no. I sound like a dying donkey when I speak. We both laughed, picking away at the iciness of our initial meeting. I took this as an opportunity. Is your hair different? I asked.

She responded. Um, no it's always been this length. Why do I look different? She seemed slightly thrilled that I had mentioned her appearance. As if she had gained some small victory by mentioning her appearance first. I continued for the sake of conversation. No, maybe I’m just jet lagged. Elena sat back in her chair and thought for a second. Actually…I think I cut my hair about a year ago, and we only saw each other once since then, so maybe that’s why you think it looks shorter. We both sat there for a couple of moments. Elena took a sip of her drink. Is that a new bag? Elena asked.

That was the thing about Elena. She always noticed if I had a new bag or different lip color. She’d ask nonchalantly, as if she was performing a social nicety, but after some time I caught on to the act. She’d never compliment, but she would notice. This routine became a ritual. I always answered her questions and took the path of least resistance. Yes, I got it a couple weeks ago in Italy, I responded. Elena pursed her lips. Fancy girl. Always off to new places. I ignored her comment. How’s your love life? I asked. Nonexistent. You?

I rolled my eyes. Between the vicious cycle of sleep and work I’m lucky to be alive. We both laughed

A silence. I redirected the conversation. When do you graduate? Elena took a sip of her drink and winced. 6 months.

I was taken aback. That felt so quick. Congrats. What's your next move?

Elena’s eyes lit up. I’m moving to Madrid. Elena sighed. Madrid’s is cheaper too. This city is burning my wallet alive. I don't regret it though. I had my time. I wanted to ask Elena what she meant by that, but she shifted the topic to my job. So what’s your favorite place you’ve flown to? I got that question a lot. Every place becomes the same after a while.

Elena smiled knowingly. That's not true and you know it.

For the rest of the conversation we talked about airy topics. Recommendations for a weekend trip to London. Our favorite museums in Paris. The alcohol set in, and each word came out slower. My chest felt warm and my legs felt light. Our drinks were running thin. Our time was about to be up. Will you visit me in Madrid? Elena asked. My cheeks turned red, and I couldn’t tell if it was the question or the liquor. I forced an answer. Of course, Madrid is nice, and I get layovers there too. When we departed, slightly tipsy, I gave her a big hug. I had meant it.

FLIGHT

I arrived at my hotel a few hours later. I thought about walking along San Sebastian beach but jet lag hit me. Instead, I shopped at a store near the hotel. I bought some chocolate bars for my sister and olive oil for my cooking. I laid in bed taking a mental note of the following days. I knew the flight back to O'Hare was going to be rough. The crying babies and awake customers. The countless dinner trays and single-serve sugar packets. But I had a few days of rest before my next flight to Sao Paolo. I can manage it, I thought as my eyelids became heavy. Despite the time difference, I got about 7 hours of sleep.

I returned to Barcelona for another layover exactly 3 months later, on August 18th. I didn’t tell Elena I was in town, three days passed before I realized. August in Barcelona was hotter than in May, and I had only packed a thick sweater and a tank top. I chose the lesser of the two evils. On the flight back to O’hare, I felt a sting and realized that my right shoulder was completely sunburned. I suppose I didn’t notice it at the time.