From my handwritten travel journal:

May 17, Wednesday

It has been a challenging start to my travels. Last night, Ted [my beau at the time] and I went to Buca di Beppo for a farewell meal before I departed for Spain and he to his cabin in Michigan. We ordered a 1.5 liter bottle of Buca's house burgundy. He had one glass. I had the rest. I was fun for 45 minutes, and sick for seven hours. As soon as I got back to Ted's place, I hid in the bathroom and actively tried to vomit, but to no avail. An hour later, Ted came in as I was on the floor, naked and sobbing, then finally puking. He said today that I stopped shaking around 10 PM, probably sleeping, but I continued to murmur for a while after. He was a good sport and put me in bed by the dogs.

I Woke up at 1 AM or so, sick at my own smell and panicking that I would not be able to pack in time. [No, I hadn't packed for the international trip yet.] I showered and drove back to my house (sober).

I sorted, arranged, laundered, and worried over my luggage while I felt like death. I had horrible gut rot from the alcohol and wounded pride, but I managed to gather all my things by 4 AM. I then tried to sleep for an hour or two, but I couldn't sleep because of my stomach. I then got up and slaved over the Institute for Field Education's web site until I was ready to leave at 10 AM. Ted came over about an hour early and read.

We got to the airport early, exchanged my money, checked my bags, met up with the rest of the group, and sat in the food court for a while. Professor C. bestowed a tripod upon me as a carry-on. It was nice to have a few minutes with Ted before heading to the plane. Last night was less than ideal.

Everyone loaded onto the plane, a cramped 737. I began reading my course books. I was sandwiched between two big men, so I lost control of both armrests. The tuna sandwich served at lunch was a minor relief on my stomach; I could only eat half.

Near landing time, I began chatting with the man in the aisle seat next to me. He was a psychiatrist / author who had just lectured at the Lafayette Country Club and was returning home to New York City. He pointed out the Statue of Liberty as we landed, and explained all the scaffolding by the riverfront (Newark Harbor). We landed at Newark Airport uneventfully, and departed the cramped cabin.

I met up with the rest of the group just outside the gate. There are eleven of us, including the professor. We trekked to the gate for the Madrid flight, and then wondered what to do during a four-hour layover in Newark.

Now, I have been dreading this layover for weeks. My last memories of Newark were of a smelly, rotten suburb of New York City, and that it was a sweltering garbage pit of a place. I last encountered Newark when I was twelve years old. [Mid-1980's.]

Much to my pleasant surprise, Newark Airport is a relatively clean and organized international airport, recently renovated and moderately comfortable. Our group consolidated their baggage in one large, multicolored lump, and we sat and chatted for the long wait. The sun was streaming in during this late afternoon gathering, so we stretched out on the floor, enjoying the space while we could.

I haven't learned names yet, but I think I have a good idea of whom I will get along with best.

Katie graduated from Blaine and is an avid photographer. She's perky and talkative.

Jennifer mentioned the Illuminati card game, and we instantly knew we'd get along. We bemoaned the failures of different role-playing systems, traded knowledge of various cartoons and comics, and generally dug up a slew of similar tastes.

At 8:30 PM, we all squeezed into a 777 with 300 other passengers. Again, none of us are sitting together. However, fortune smiled upon me: I have an aisle seat. The plane is large, comfortable, and brand-new, sporting television screens in the seat backs, with multiple channels and Nintendo games. Everyone gets a pillow, blanket, headphones, earplugs, and an eye mask with their seat.

The young man sitting next to me is a student from Raleigh who is studying Spanish in Madrid. He has the heaviest Southern drawl I've heard in a long time. He is very friendly, and we had a merry time playing with the LCD screens and the buttons on our remotes.

Commentary from the year 2006:

My 30-year-old self would like to tell my 20-year-old self one word in regards to that 1.5 liter bottle of wine: dumbass. I'd further like to note that I've never done anything quite like that again.

On a more pleasant note, it's interesting to transcribe my journal from this trip and look back on this day. Jennifer and I indeed got along very well for the rest of the trip. A few years later, I was even honored to be a bridesmaid at her wedding... and Ted was the minister.

Plus, unlike me, she went on into a career in archaeology.

Unfortunately, there are no photos from this day, as my camera (a well-worn Minolta SLR heavyweight from the early 1980's) was safely packed in my luggage. More images later, I promise!

All content copyright Melissa S. Kaercher, 2006. All rights reserved.