A Madrid Autumn Morning to A Buenos Aires Spring Evening

October 28, 2015

Actually, "we're so happy we can hardly count", in the singular "I", applies to me insofar as the information on weight allowance for my flight. How did I end up with a bike-box weighting thirty-five kilos on the scales at the airport check-in. Three kilos over the thirty-two max clearly stated.

With an empty bike carton procured from a bike shop in Madrid a week before my flight, I set about dismantling the bike: taking out the seat with seat-post, taking off the crank-arms, the handle-bars and removing the fork from the frame. The later, not usually necessary to separate from the frame, I remove because some of the nuts on the low-rider front-pannier-carriers are damaged, but then find even with the fork out, the rack still doesn't fit within the box, but in the end find the nuts holding the rack to the fork, not as damaged as I thought, and I'm able to unscrew them and remove and fold the rack neatly.

Together with every item of gear and everything I have set out on a quiet piece of floor in Las Musas Hostel, I separate things I will be carrying on in a pannier as cabin luggage, then pack the bike and it's component parts in the box and pack my gear snuggly around the bike, taking time to put things in the most optimum place; such as, the tent in the bottom to act as a cushion seat for bike frame; the roll mat for sleeping on, folded round the rear-wheel, to stop the axle ends cutting into the cardboard on one end and rubbing against the frame the other end.

I find a place for everything. Then I leave it open. The next day I return, take everything out and pack it all back in the box again, this time making improvements to the placing of things, with something between the bike parts and box wall at every point, so there's no way the bike can either slide or move, or have a rough edge, like the axle end, vibrate against frame paintwork for the duration of the flight. I tie the box shut with parcel cord and use rapping tape to tape over the cord, so it doesn't snag on things. Then seal the box lid and any holes which aren't hand-carrying ports.

I would have much preferred an evening departure time, meaning I've all day to get to the airport, but the twelve-midday departure for my flight was significantly cheaper. Only problem is getting out of bed in time. With my now normal routine of not waking up until eight of a morning, there is no way I can get out of bed at this time and hope to catch a twelve o'clock flight. And alarm clocks don't work at waking me. The only solution is sitting up all night, use the wifi or whatever. I don't like going to bed early and am usual still awake well after midnight, so its only a matter of sitting a few more hours.

I find in the hostel, the best time to journal is after midnight when people have drifted off to bed and there is no longer any distraction. And so it is, I write away, but by three, when I've usually gone to bed, it become impossible to concentrate any longer. Physically, I just want to go to bed, but if I do that I'll over sleep and miss my flight.

I talk to Christian, the night receptionist for a while, then ask is it okay if I just stretch out on the big white sofa in reception. He doesn't object. He always plays very mellow music and I sit down, remove my shoes and swing my feet up and lay back in the sofa. I must've soon slept. Next I know I've opened my eyes and see the hands at seven minutes past seven on the wall clock while the music oozes out melodically and dream like, a choir singing the lyrics "little by little, beat by beat, we all fall down. We all fall down...."

The airport shuttle bus I've booked for twenty past eight, so I've loads of time to have some breakfast, then sit and relax with my computer open. The driver walks into reception punctual at the appointed time. There's a girl with a big case going too, who is out the door in front of me, lugging my unwieldy bike box out to the mini-bus. There are already four other passengers on board and the boot is half full of their cases. The driver nods his head at first and says it isn't possible to get it on, but then takes hold of it and for quite a while we struggles together, trying to get it in crossway on top, between the cases and the roof, but it is too wide. Then he does what he should of done at first, he takes half the cases out, then slides the box in diagonally between the floor and roof. It goes and he loads the cases he took out in on top.

The drive takes forty-five minutes through rush hour traffic, which although bumper to bumper is moving quite swiftly. Then further out we pass through a long tunnel and come out on motorway. The morning damp, but the cloud is breaking with a glimpse of sun. And soon there's the exit for the airport with terminal buildings and runways just ahead.

I am dropped off at terminal 4, where IBERIA are based. There's a long queue to check in luggage. When it's my turn I lift the box up on the conveyor-belt and the weight come up on the computer screen behind the counter. The check-in man's facial expression is doubtful. He says "it isn't possible to put this on the aeroplane. It is too heavy. Is there any other way you can sent it?" Grief stricken I ask what weight is it. He tells me thirty-five kilograms. He then gets on the phone to the supervisor, who shortly appears. They deliberate for a long minute. The check in man is on my side now and eventually sways the supervisor to allowing it, but the supervisor tells me I'll have to pay seventy-five euros excess-baggage. At the moment I would've happily paid a lot more. So the check-in man points me along to the access-baggage payment counter, and he also tells me where to find the place they plastic-rap bags, another eighteen euros, but well worth it to ensure the box doesn't get torn and break open by rough handling.

Once the box has been deposited on the conveyor-belt and moves along out of sight, I stop a while having coffee. I give away the small euro change bulking up my wallet to a beggar and sit a little too long because, there's still the usual queuing to run hand-luggage through the x-ray machine, then passport control, then the way to the departure gate is a lengthy metro-train ride, followed by a long walk, in which I through I'd be late for boarding, it already gone half eleven.

The take-off is pretty turbulent with a real sensation of speed, the plane shuttering violently and banks slightly and I though at one point the plane would come back down on the runway, but straightens and climbs.

Crossing the equator and reaching the north east coast of Brazil.

The food is welcome when it come, pasta in stewed aubergine and red pepper.

Once I've tired of reading, I have a look at the inflight entertainment, choosing to listen to music, Albert Lee, Blues. Then watch a couple of movies: "Far From The Madden Crowd" nineteen century costume drama: Thomas hardy's tale set in 1870s rural Dorset; followed by "Man Up" a comedy set in contemporary London about a 34 year old girl that wants to remain single, but by accident meets a man she falls in love with.

Apart from the long slow moving queue for European Union passport holders at passport control on arrival, everything else goes smoothly. The bike box is there by the reclaim baggage conveyor and I book a taxi to take me to the Millhouse hostel in the centre of Buenos Aires.

The first taxi, a Renault Megane, the door won't close with the box across the back seat. The driver goes away back into the terminal building to get another driver with a bigger car, returning with the other driver a little while later. This time it fits in the back seat and I sit in front. The driver has football commentary on the radio. I ask who's playing and he answers Paraguay and Brazil in Cupa de America.

We pass through a toll-gate leaving the airport and accelerate along a six lane, three lane either way dual-carriage into the night. I glance over at the speed dial, its at 120. The traffic is light and on the outside lane, we rapidly catch up another car and it feels like we'll be into the back of it as he doesn't slow, but weaves round at the last moment on the inside. I feel that I'm going to die in a car crash as we catch more cars and pass articulated lorries, which are going fast too, but seem to be lumbering along in comparison, the rumble of the engine coming in the partly open passenger side window.

I can't wait until we get there and escape death. It feels like being on a fast scary fairground ride when you are a kid. Passing an overhead sign "Salida (exit) KM 17" I see there's still seventeen kilometres to the city centre.

There's more weaving in and out as the traffic builds approaching the city, then I'm glad to see "Salida Av 9 de Julio" the main avenue: the exit is a loop of spaghetti, going up over the road and round in a circle to come down to the street and traffic-lights.

The hostel on Hipolito Yrigoyen is a few streets along off 9 de Julio. When I've got the box out on the pavement outside the hostel, the driver asks for a tip. What for terrifying the life out of me with maniac driving. I politely say I don't have any Argentine pesos and say thanks, then lug my box into the hostel where I've made a reservation online for three nights.

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