The story of the savvy travelers.

You'd think two people living overseas for the past year would be up on their game: exuding a kind of "don't mess with me" vibe with the pick pocketers and knowing how to charm the locals into free cups of tea and local folklore and such. The Great American Backpacker life, right? You've all read about such people in Lonely Planet or smelled their unwashed third world funk at the end of your row on the airplane, thankful that America's youth are exploring the developing hinterlands but grateful that you, at least, go home to a hot shower every day. Nod recently marked his 500th day in Peace Corps; when I left Egypt for Christmas I was clocking in at a combined total of 9 months in the Middle East. Hardly young grasshoppers in the world of third world travel.

It turns out that a combined 25 months of experience across the Atlantic adds up to, well, nothing--or at least is overpowered by the greater force of googly-eyes. Eager to meet up with Nod at the airport in Madrid to begin three weeks of North African travel, I could hardly contain the little flock of butterflies giddily prancing about my stomach. Having been apart for the past 3 months, I had spent many wistful moments imagining the moment I would step off the plane and see him waiting there for me at the baggage claim. I had even brought him some special Seattle-only organic chocolate bars and an apple fritter donut direct from the States. After all, he had spent his Christmas laid out from an "intense bacterial infection of the bowels" and an allergic reaction to his antibiotics after that, while I enjoyed eggnog, a fireplace, and my family during a white Christmas back home. I figured he'd be happy for some simple pleasures from Uncle Sam territory.

First of all, the Madrid airport is awful. Sprawling and obnoxiously hygenic, infuriatingly precise signs blink on and off informing you that you have 23 minutes of long, spotless white tile hallways to walk to until you reach the airport tram, which will arrive in 2 minutes and travel for a total of 3 minutes, until you reach the baggage claim, which is another 7 minutes away by foot from the tram station. With a boyfriend waiting outside, when you see those signs you mostly just feel like dropkicking the nearest Iberia Air representative, or perhaps impaling yourself on a churro. 

I arrived at the baggage claim. I looked around eagerly, until I realized that my half-Iranian half-Japanese boyfriend's vaguely brown features resembles nearly every ethnicity on the planet. Is he that Spaniard over there? The Turkish tourist? The Arab passenger? I stared down the faces in the terminal. Nope, not there yet. I waited for the bags to come out. The belt started to turn. My heart raced--finally, I would get my bag and go and find Nod (who I figured was waiting outside the exit--which turned out to be the case). 4 bags cranked out. The belt stopped. I took a deep breath--no problem, they're just loading up more bags and don't want to waste energy, right? 8 minutes go by. Finally the belt started again. 3 bags. It stopped. I started looking around for that churro to put myself out of my misery. Finally, my backpack rose out of the murky underworld of the baggage loading dock, and I snatched it up with eager glee. I flounced out of the baggage claim area, where I found Nod waiting for me. We sat down to split the apple fritter that I had painstakingly searched out and carried with me oh so many thousands of miles across the sea. We both agreed that it tasted mostly like puke. Oh well, so much for romantic gestures.

When we arrived at our hostel in Madrid, I opened my bag to get out my Christmas present for Nod. As I unzipped the top pouch, a pair of dirty gym shorts fell out. Hmmm. My stomach sank.

"Nod, I think I have the wrong bag."

I should mention that outside it was snowing, we had both been traveling for over 30 hours straight, I was jetlagged, and my brain had yet to switch over from Arabic into Spanish. We both looked at the bag with a mix of contempt and disbelief. Way to go, Alissa--1 hour into your 3 week trek through North Africa (and you're still in Europe where you speak the language!), you managed to botch it already. Savvy traveler, no way. 

We bundled up and went back into the cold, back onto the metro, and back into the terminal we had just come from. Luckily, the unfortunate backpacker with my exact same bag hadn't decided to spite me by taking my bag as ransom, and it was waiting for us at the lost and found. Sorry, Stephen of Flagstaff, Arizona. 

This was just the first of many harmless but ridiculous blunders to follow, all of which I will recount to you in the coming days. In the meantime, I'm writing you from Fez, Morocco, 8 days into our quest. I'll do my best to catch you up as we tap into unprotected wireless networks and janky wi-fi connections from our 6 euro hostels. Until then, take care!