Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

I can't figure out if the world has it out for me or if I am truly blessed. On the one hand, we did lose a passport and have to cancel our flight to Madrid and then find a hotel in NYC when apparently everyone else on the planet was trying to do the same thing but we did score a great room with cushy beds and fluffy towels and very close to Central Park. But then my friend had to spend the next day in the icky dirty Federal Building off Hudson just North of the Holland Tunnel while I stayed at the hotel and re-worked our hotel and train and connecting flight reservations. But on the other hand she did get a new passport in all-told 16 hours from when the original was lost, and that includes the seven hours of sleep.

But then when we went to Newark airport to pick up our bags that were pulled from the flight the night before, we were told that they were sent to Madrid and were waiting for us there. That was good but it still meant another cab ride, this one for two hours in traffic to get from that airport to JFK.

But then there was that Air France Salon. And the Air France Business Class flight to Paris which was like flying on my living room sofa if my living room sofa came with four star service and dinner that started with crab claws over mixed greens.

Diary, I was feeling pretty good and hopeful when we landed in Madrid after our connecting flight through Charles De Gaul, but when we went for our bags it seemed like no one in the world would cough up to any knowledge of any baggage service whatsoever. On any flight. On any airline. Baggage? What is baggage? What is lost baggage? We have no time for this, please move to your terminal.

We missed our flight to Barcelona trying to find those bags because we had to run on foot from one terminal to another and then go back through security and I was on the verge of losing my cool demeanor at this point because my oh-so-comfy shoes were not so comfy anymore. And I was tired. And hungry. Air France First Class was a distant memory.

Somehow we got on the next flight. Everyone behind the counter was making a big deal about how inconvenient it all was but then they gave us passes to the Air Europa lounge and we ate sandwiches and had a drink and were feeling okay about things. Until, that is, I called Continental about those missing bags and had the misfortune of having Monique answer my call. When Monique listened to my story and said that I had to file a missing baggage claim with Air France, I did come a bit unglued, I did. But, Diary, am I to be blamed for that? I think not. I think that Monique was painting half-moon detail on her acrylic fingernail extensions and wasn't really hearing me at a time when I needed to be heard.

And, Diary, I don't mean to complain for you know that I do appreciate all the gifts in my life and I am able to let a lot roll off my back but between Monique's can't-help-you attitude and the front desk of our hotel in Barcelona telling us that we lost our reservations and can only stay here tonight, well, I was as my mother would say, feeling Fed up.

Or I was feeling fed up. We unloaded our stuff in our tonight-only hotel, cleaned up a bit, recycled our dirty clothes and walked along Las Ramblas until we found an outdoor cafe where we ordered champagne and Paella. Musicians strolled, couples held hands, cyclists rolled past. Girls giggled, laughter hovered. We are in Barcelona.

There are shops that will be open tomorrow. It's only clothes, right?

My sister-in-law who has connections is on the case of our missing luggage. Which means we are lucky, I think. Still, I also think that pulling back 100% of what I had packed is a bit extreme a packing lesson. But having Paella and champagne on the main avenue in Barcelona on a warm and breezy summer night when all the characters and lovers and lonely people and hippies and vegetarians and dog-lovers mingle, even if you're in dirty clothes and have no luggage, is really okay.

Maybe we're just lucky in our bad luck. Diary, do you think that could be?