I’m all set to go on my first real vacation in years and what happens just hours before I head off to JFK? A mother-f&$%in’ earthquake! Of course, I didn’t notice because I was too busy running around Times Square like a crack whore trying to score some smack (substitute Euros and Tums for smack) on my lunch break. Yup, the day I’m scheduled to leave for 10 days abroad, I also decide to squeeze in a half day at work. Heading back to the office I notice an unusually large group standing outside the building on a smoke break. I guess those graphic bus ads brazenly displaying cracked chests with bulging blackened lungs aren’t really having the effect the Health Department had anticipated. And then I realize nobody’s smoking. I’m only slightly disturbed. It’s been a decade since 9/11, but the panicked memories of that day still resonate in this New Yorker’s psyche.
I see one of my colleagues on her cell phone and ask her what’s going on. “There was an earthquake and the building started shaking.” Huh? I ask again, “No, really, what’s wrong?” She reiterates, “There was an earthquake in Virginia and we’re feeling the aftershocks.”
This is New York. We do not have earthquakes. We have $20 lattes and a subway that smells like the sewer of a third world country, but we do not have earthquakes. At least not of the magnitude that causes buildings to sway. At least not until today.
Did that stop me from taking the elevator up to the 36th floor where I no doubt would soon find myself pancaked between layers of steel and rubble? Of course not. And besides, my passport is in my bag at my desk and there is no way in hell I am missing this trip over some lousy little earthquake.
I push through the crowd and argue with the security guard until she let’s me back into the building. I can feel the doubtful stares of my fellow employees burning through the back of my head as I stupidly head into the lobby and to the elevator banks. “Poor guy,” they’re thinking to themselves as they shake their heads. “Too talented and handsome to die so young.”
Stop laughing.
Anyway, long story short, the building did not collapse and when I reached my floor most everyone was still at their desks, too busy wheeling and dealing to let a little natural disaster disrupt their trading day. I check my email and there’s a one-liner from Val. “I think we just had an earthquake.” Ah, the eloquent simplicity of texting.
I turn on the TV in my boss’s office to find Anderson Cooper trying to make rattling tables and fallen picture frames sound as dramatic as a rebel attack in Afghanistan. What an Emmy whore. But I instantly freeze upon hearing three chilling words - Flights. Temporarily. Halted. Dear God, nooooooooooo! Now picture me dramatically dropping to my knees, fists flung skyward in anguish. I actually did no such thing, but that’s how the scene will play in my made-for-TV Lifetime movie. John Stamos will play me.
So now what? Well, I decide to leave work on the spot to beat the throngs of panicked New Yorkers trying to escape the city before it undoubtedly collapses into the ocean. I rush home (no subway delays), call the car company and reach the airport in record time to find no line at the Swiss ticket counter. I check in without a problem and now have over three hours to sit and wait to board my flight. Wouldn’t you know it, with typical blasé attitude, New Yorkers shrugged their collective shoulders and went on with business as usual. Earthquake, Schmearthquake (try and say that 10 times in a row).
After all that un-needed trauma, I just wanted to relax on my flight to Barcelona. Unfortunately, Clementine, the 14-month-old infant sitting next to me had other plans. Sure, she was cute as a button while we were on the ground, goo-ing and gah-ing like the perfect movie baby. But as soon as we were airborne, that little blonde angel morphed into a screaming devil child. So I immediately donned my earphones and turned up the sound on my personal TV screen imbedded in the seatback in front of me.
August 24, AM: Geneva, Switzerland
Seven hours, two meals, one movie and two sitcom episodes later I descended into Geneva for a nine-hour layover. Nine hours in an airport terminal seat? Not happening. You might as well strap me down and force me listen to an endless loop of Susan Boyle singing “I Dreamed A Dream”. So I promptly deposited my carry-on in a terminal locker, saddled up to the ATM for some Swiss Francs and jumped on the train for downtown Geneva.
For some reason I thought Switzerland was going to be colder. On our TV shows they're always showing shots of giant blondes hitting snow-covered slopes with enormous white smiles and zipped down snowsuits revealing melon-like cleavage. Lies. It was hotter, wetter and stickier than the inside of Kim Kardashian's thighs on a Friday night out in Miami. In August. During a thunderstorm. Unfortunately, I was dressed in jeans and layers of shirts, anticipating the inevitable chilly airline air conditioning. By the time I reached downtown Geneva I was sweating like a drug addict on his first day going cold turkey.
Oh well, at least I didn’t have to spend any money on the train. Tourists visiting Geneva receive an automatic complimentary ticket into town. This is yet another cultural difference between Europe and America. Let's compare.
Heading downtown?
Geneva: Get handed a free ticket that will take you on a 6-minute train ride to the center of town.
New York: Pay for an AirTrain ticket to Jamaica, Queens, spend half an hour looking for the correct connection to the 7 train, buy a separate subway ticket and take a 40-minute ride into Times Square where you’ll be thrown out into the busiest intersection in the United States.
Geneva: “Welcome to our city!”
New York: “How bad ya' wanna’ see the Empire State Building, motherf*cker?”
Since Geneva was basically an unplanned stop for me, I decided to just wing it. Heading out of the terminal, I wandered around the station until I found what looked like the busiest street and just started walking. So much for planning, because three blocks later I found myself at the Geneva tourist information center with a lovely Swiss maiden handing me a new map and giving me directions to Old Town.
Along the way I had a lovely Japanese tourist take a picture of me in front of Geneva's most famous landmark, the Jet d’Eau, which I deduce means “giant stream of urine” in French (left). I also pass dozens of chocolate shops but somehow control my initial impulse to run into the first store and smear luscious truffles of every color and flavor over my entire body (nice visual, huh?). I'll wait until I'm heading back to the airport to load up on the sweet stuff.
It takes about 15-minute to walk from the train station to Old Town Geneva. Crossing the lake, I stumble into a European postcard complete with trolley cars and endless outdoor cafes. I pop a squat on one of the many benches on the main drag (right) and just soak it all in.
Everyone here looks so cool and cosmopolitan with their slicked-back hair and over-sized sunglasses. I feel like a shlub in comparison, flabby and unkempt with sweat rings under my arms and travel bag tightly pressed to my side just begging for a pickpocket to pounce on me. Not pretty.
I wander around the side streets for another couple of hours, trying to give off that "I-meant-to-dress-like-this" New Yorker attitude. It doesn't work. I'm now truly exhausted and it looks and feels like I've just run a marathon in my traveling clothes.
In the span of less than 24 hours I've gone from my earthquake-rattled office in New York to a bustling street in historic Old Town Geneva. I know I should keep exploring - who knows when I'll be back? - but instead head back to the train station.
My official Barcelona vacation is now just a one-hour flight away.
My official Barcelona vacation is now just a one-hour flight away.
August 24, PM: Barcelona, Spain
I know Barcelona is known for its amazing architecture, incredible food and beautiful people, but come on, what about that airport? Stunning. It makes JFK look like a turnpike truckstop. And those shiny black marble floors - to die for. I guess I've been watching too much HGTV lately.
Anyway, exiting the terminal I jump into a cab. I point to the address of the hotel on my printout and the cab driver nods his head. He speaks no English and my knowledge of Spanish has been gleaned from the menu at Taco Bell. He tries to strike up a conversation anyway and somehow I figure out he's asking if I'm on vacation. I answer him in my best toddler Spanish, "Mi famiglia in hotel to cruise," while making a wavy motion with my hand and forearm, the international sign for "cruise." Or is that the international sign for "I'm a crazy person"?
A 20-minute cab ride later and I'm at the hotel (Hotel Barcelona Universal). On my way up to the room I sit in the mirrored elevator and realize I look like total shit. The heat, humidity, travel and time zone changes have not been kind to me. I can't wait to jump into the shower and take a nap. I get to my floor and the door slides open to reveal...wait for it...the entire Pineda clan standing in front of me waiting for the elevator! We laugh at the ridiculousness of it all before they push me toward the room and tell me to hurry up and get changed. We're going out to dinner! So much for a shower and nap.
We drink sangria and munch on endless tapas at Tapa Tapa in the Maremagnum, a huge mall in the middle of the harbor. It's late and the streets just get busier and busier. Spain knows how to party.
After dinner we put the parents in a cab and we head out on Las Ramblas.
I guess I'll sleep some other week.
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