I like to go travelin'

This morning I left my apartment so early to get to the airport it would have brought a tear to any paranoid freak’s eye who likes to get to the airport 2 whole hours early. My flight leaves at 2:55 PM. I left at10 AM everyone!

AND, I had matching suitcases. I’ve always wanted matching suitcases. I’m not talking about the Louis Vuitton or matching Burberry suitcases. I’m just talking about some bright, any old colored set of suitcases that obviously belong together, and that you can travel with while looking utterly cool and utterly unsweated.

Everything went smoothly.

I mean, I didn’t REALLY panic when I found out at 9:30 that the housing office might not be open for me to turn in my key. I was still pretty awesomely unphased when I couldn’t find anyone to give my key to so they could turn it in for me.

I remained sane when after a bit of running around, I realized that the school was INDEED open, and that I could turn in everything as planned. Then I headed out of my apartment. With my matching suitcases.

The bigger of which refused to have a functioning pully-out thing, allowing it to be gracefully and chic-ly dragged across thousands of cobblestones, as matching suitcases should allow to be done. Consequently, by the time I reached the first set of staircases I had to climb, I was dripping sweat from every pore. In Rome, you start sweating when you move your pinky finger 0.5 inches 0.000000000000023 mph. Pulling suitcases awkwardly across a stone road constructed to give a massage to a rider’s rear while simultaneously putting his brain through the “puree” mode of a blender left me in a nearly unrecognizable state. So unrecognizable, in fact, that 2 YOUNG men asked if I needed help. I determined that either I started to look like a movie star, or I had forgotten to put on pants. Discovering that neither was the case, I declined and moved on. On to two bus stops, that is, since the first one was out of order.

I still did not fall into pieces when my train was half an hour late, nor when I had to stand for the duration of the trip awkwardly wedged between two large, smelly men with about a thousand bags and a woman who complained loudly.

Then I arrived in Menorca after flying through Barcelona.

My arms hurt a LOT from trying to get the pully-out arm by this time.

When I was waiting in line for a taxi in Menorca, I decided to give it one more try. For kicks.

The arm pulled out.

The magic of Spain is real, everyone.

My sore arms were very, very angry.

But at least I had matching suitcases.