When Icelandic Volcanoes Erupt

Who knew that one should check seismic pressures before traveling? Because of the Icelandic volcano that erupted and clogged Europe’s airways with dangerous ash, most air traffic squealed to a halt. I left my home in Vigo on that fateful Thursday to try to go on a weekend vacation to London, via the Madrid airport (I have to fly there from where I live to get almost anywhere else). I arrived in the spilling-over-with-angry-passengers airport with an unusable ticket to London, sin mobile phone, sin laptop. Cursing Icelandic volcanoes, I spun around in circles for a bit.

Photo from: http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4047/4464501044_1199b0ee03.jpg

Of course I didn’t grasp the scope of the problem, and with valid return tickets in hand, I barred my teeth and told myself I’d make it to London. Thus ensued four days of trying to push my way to the British Isles through other means of transportation than air travel. Yes, me and every British person on the continent were fighting for ferry fares and train tickets. I successfully booked two train tickets, one from Madrid to a small town in the south of France, and from said small town to Paris. With the warm blanket of success wrapped around my travel-weary self, I slept easily that night, almost tasting the Earl Grey tea I expected upon impending arrival.

The train to the Hendaya, France, carried me through curvaceous countryside, undulating with ripples of foothills leading to the Pyrenees.  Contentedly waiting for my train to Paris, self-assured I could easily catch the Chunnel when I arrived, I overheard some other travelers chatting about the chaos caused by the volcano. Then I heard “Chunnel booked til Tuesday.” This was on Saturday. I bolted to a pay phone and called my parents. Yep, looked pretty much like I’d be stuck in Paris if I boarded the train. I started troubleshooting with my parents: “Ok ... train for Paris to Cannes, ferry from Cannes to Portsmouth, train for Portsmouth to London...” My wonderful mother calmly advised me: “Meg, maybe you should head back to Vigo, hon.” Lip quivering, I agreed. First step, get back to Spain.

I hopped a train to the Basque Country, an autonomous province of Spain (that houses a separatist terrorist group, ETA), situated in the Pyrenees. With a train ticket to Madrid and a bus ticket to Vigo the next day, I resigned myself to watching the sunset over the mountains. My resignation turned into embrace of the scenery. The sun painted the sky with pinks and blues and the promise of the adventures that a new day brings.

After filling my camera with the sunset’s palette of colors, I reflected over my failed trip to London over some tapas (small servings of Spanish food). Travel is about improvisation, and I had improvised my way all across Spain, into France, and back again. I really hadn’t had a failed trip, just a different trip. A stressful, everyday not knowing if I’d have a place to stay the night trip. But a train, a bus, a missed bus stop, and a taxi later, I arrived in my foreign home.  Glad to finally take my backpack off, I sighed and started searching for cheap flights to London in a few weeks.

You just can’t let one volcano knock you off your travel horse.