Two weeks in Cuba: 8th of May

Eyjafjallajökull: the unpronounceable nemesis of the flying Europeans stroke once more.

Back in mid April, when the Icelandic beast started spewing its ash over the skies of Europe, I was amongst the distressed citizens that had to fly (I had a job interview). As the desperation grew so did my plans to reach Barcelona by any means. At one point this included a train to London, then another one to Portsmouth, a ferry cross to Cherbourg followed by an online-arranged carshare from a stranger to Barcelona. Fortunately the loss of profits spoke higher than safety and the flight ban was lifted.

Rocha had also suffered with this geological regurgitation. He was stranded in Portugal after a short visit to the family but managed to find his way back to Berlin by getting a 3 day lift from a lorry driver.

We thought all of that was gone.

However, after rushing to Gatwick and through the security checks we found that the ash cloud had made its evil return. Oddly enough, the cloud had shaped itself as a thin barrier covering merely the north of Spain, that is, our way to Madrid. Whilst waiting for an alternative route to go around the ash we began an Odyssey of card games with Rocha and Rui against Joana and myself. This clash of titans continued throughout our Cuban trip and ended, as a perfect circle, two weeks later in that same airport. Eventually, we boarded the aircraft and made our way to Madrid already fearing a misconnection with our second flight.

We arrived to Barajas airport with just enough time to run (once more) to our second flight but fortunately it was also delayed. Adding to this relaxation we were offered the best thing someone can offer to a Portuguese: free food. The flight had been post-poned until 6 pm. We continued playing cards and making fun of each others grasp of the Spanish language.

The bored passengers became stressed when the flight was again post-poned to 10 pm which quickly turned into anger when it was post-poned to midnight, and finally turned into a lynching mob when the flight was cancelled. We were told the ramp (!) of the aircraft was damaged. What happened afterwards was a boring sequence of people yelling at airport employees, scaremongering amongst passengers (particularly by a middle-aged Portuguese man) and general confusion until we were told that we were going to spend a night in a hotel.

"A night in Madrid", we thought, "brilliant!". I envisaged myself eating tapas in a boqueria, drinking beers and living the life in Madrid.

No.

Instead we were rushed into an aberration of architecture called Hotel Auditorium. This thing, 10 minutes away from the airport, is supposedly the largest hotel in Europe but I would rather describe it as a chicken farm or a warehouse turned into kitsch accommodation for stranded passengers. The place was decorated with a mixture of all possible things that dumb people imagine as classic: renaissance-type paintings with naked fat ladies, Victorian clocks, your grandmother's sofa, Greek and Roman statues and things alike. The pain was eased by yet another free meal.

We were promised a replacement flight for the following day.