Murphy’s Law- Everything that will and can go wrong, will go wrong.

Missing your flight sucks. What sucks even more is getting lost, going onto the wrong bus, missing your flight, spending the night at the Barcelona Airport, waiting at the airport for 20 hours, being 1 Euro short of buying a meal, scavenging everywhere from telephones, the ground, the bathroom, old ladies for coins…here is my story of why I despise Murphy and his stupid law and why I swear I’ll never miss another flight again.

It all began with watching Hostel in a hostel. This should have automatically been a warning sign that something horrible was about to occur, I mean, it’s about Americans (like me) going to a hostel (like me) and getting killed (uh…) But of course, knowing me, I was too busy complaining about the movie and how predictable the plot and storyline was– following stupid Americans lost in Europe–how the foreshadowing sucked, how I was wasting my time on this stupid movie.

How I despise you, irony.

Watching a sick businessman cutting off Jay Hernandez’s two fingers strangely jumpstarted my appetite. So I knew it was time for me and my friend to head out into the city of Barcelona to dine.

Four hours before departure.

Leaving the hostel without our bags in tow, we decided to go to this hole-in-the wall restaurant we checked out in Time Out Barcelona. Hey, it was reliable the day before when we were dancing with strange Spanish gangsters doing the two-step under hot pink neon lights bumping and grinding to Lil’ Kim in the background, so hey, why not?

Three hours twenty minutes before departure.

When we finally found the place (Google maps led us to a shady shank alley that smelled like horse urine) the first things we saw were about 5 fully cooked octopuses steaming on a plate. The tentacles were oozing with juicy fluids and sticky fillings. A whiff of salty sea water mixed with a bitter scent filled our noses. I could feel my nose hairs singe.

Poor fellow who eats that thing, I chuckled to myself.

Next thing I know, the Spanish waiter asks me something, I nod unknowingly, and chopped pieces of purple arms are sautéed onto a plate and given to us with toothpicks.

And as I chewed that rubbery purple meat, slowly dissecting the tentacles in my mouth, I realized that—que delicioso!—it was a party in my mouth.

Good.

Then came the bottle of wine which the waiter poured into not a cup, but a bowl, for us to get our drank on. How culturally sensitive he was to my traditional Asian way of always having to drink any alcohol in a bowl. But then we drank the huge Vino blanco a little too quickly and somehow became a little pink and tipsy. Hiccup.

Bad.

Two hours twenty minutes before departure.

We paid for our bill and left the restaurant (the waiter actually said “sayonara”) and headed back to the hostel to pick up our bags.

But then we side-tracked which led us to a sweet scented gelato store, overpriced and too sweet for my palate but did hit the spot.

Licking our gelato happily and nodding in agreement of how clever we were for watching a movie, eating traditional food, getting dessert and still having plenty of time to catch our plane, we guffawed with glee toward our hostel.

Even though our bags were heavy, we should have taken them with us. I mean, it would have saved us thirty minutes of walking and the stress of the events to come.

Walking in the warm Barcelona night reminded me of Los Angeles in the springtime. The lightly coated warmth with a mixture of slight humidity made me feel for a second that I was home. As we hustled to find a bus, we apparently walked in the wrong direction and ended up in the wrong one.

“Disculpe senor, pero donde esta el autobus del aeropuerto,” I asked.

The man looked at me and pointed to the side and I thought he was telling me to sit, so I went to sit, but he was actually informing me that the bus I was looking for was behind us.

So after this confusion and embarrassment, with my sweating body (I even forgot my deodorant that night—yum!) we finally found the bus towards El Aeropuerto de Barcelona. We would finally get out of this city and go back home to sweet ol’ London where I would actually have my own bed and wouldn’t have to share it with an old woman who reeks of B.O. and cigs and snores louder than an earthquake.

As I listened to the bus’ engine roar, it gently whispered a song of sleep. I would realize that this would be the last encounter with Mr. Sandman the entire night…and it was only nine.

More From thepopfix

• I Think I’m Going to Make a Sex Tape
• F*** You, Carl’s Jr. I’m Moving to Africa
• A Lesson in Eating Raw

Ask thepopfix To Recommend Your Posts