Saturday/Sunday, September 28/29, 2019.
Getting there.
Nine-and-a-half-hour red-eye flight from Oakland, California, to Copenhagen, Denmark.
I managed more than five hours of sleep in the cramped space of economy plus. Sitting next to a young Spanish couple traveling home, we all slept more than talked. Two glasses of wine and a vegan meal made for pleasant slumber. That, of course, didn’t last long in the uncomfortable seat and scrunched space.
Four and a half-hour layover in Copenhagen airport (CPH) waiting for a flight to Madrid, Spain.
CPH is an expansive airport. I rarely heard American English, if ever, and the number of discernable languages—understanding nothing—was astounding. In front of a newspaper stand, Punjab; outside a Duty-Free store, the powerful sounds of German; Swedish and Norwegian in a convenience store, amongst the Danes.
Every brand name imaginable shown its wares in the halls between the terminals: Victoria’s Secret, Starbucks, Michael Kors, Sunglass Hut, LEGO, and on and on. There was even a brightly lit store which sold beautiful china. Does anyone buy fine china in an airport? Somebody must.
This was not Hong Kong’s massive shop-a-plex, but close.Six-and-a-half-hour flight to Madrid, Spain, where I spent the night at an airport hotel so bad that I couldn’t be bothered remembering its name. The place met my demands for safety and cleanliness. Located in a dreary industrial pack, it lacked ambience, a bar or restaurant open when I arrived and hospitality. The staff were as motivated as union dock workers on night shift.