Every good adventure begins with a small act of faith—usually in the form of setting an alarm far earlier than any reasonable person should. Mine began in Lisbon, before the city had quite decided whether it was ready to wake up.
The early start paid off immediately. Traffic along the highway was already building, which meant my decision to leave early felt like a small stroke of travel genius. Nothing boosts confidence before a trip like watching the cars stack up behind you while you glide smugly toward the airport.
Before leaving, however, I faced the hardest farewell of the morning: my orange cat squadron. A solemn row of them sat outside the house like a tiny, furry tribunal. Their expressions were deeply disapproving. Clearly my departure ranked even worse than their usual daily indignity of being chased out of the house. The break in routine was, in their collective opinion, completely unacceptable.
Airport security check? A breeze. The kind of smooth, effortless passage that makes you briefly suspicious you’ve forgotten something important. But no—just the reward for travelling light. This trip I embraced the minimalist life: one backpack and vacuum-sealed bags. Absolute game changer. At this point I may never check luggage again unless forced by international law.
My first experience flying Air Europa was largely pleasant. Friendly service, comfortable enough, everything running on time. The only small detail worth mentioning was the landing… which felt less like touching down and more like the plane had briefly forgotten the concept of gravity before remembering it rather suddenly. Still, we survived, which is ultimately the goal.
After months of sedentary life in The Shire, I suddenly discovered a new sport: airport power walking. Lisbon started it. Madrid perfected it. If airports offered loyalty points for speed walking, I’d already be elite status.
Eventually I rewarded my athletic efforts with breakfast at McDonald’s airside. I had my heart set on a McFish. Unfortunately, somewhere between my request and the cashier’s interpretation, a McVeggie entered my life instead. Not exactly the ocean-flavoured comfort I had envisioned. Fortunately, the caramel McFlurry stepped up heroically to restore morale.
Madrid airport, however, remains… not my favourite place on earth. The moment I stepped off the plane, the first sound to greet me was a German mother firmly scolding a child. A universal airport soundtrack if ever there was one.
Then came the boarding line phenomenon: large groups of enthusiastic Latin American senior citizens loudly recording voice messages to what seemed like every relative they have ever known. Each update delivered with the urgency of breaking news.
“Estamos en Madrid!”
“Sí, sí, ahora vamos a Valencia!”
“Te mando otro mensaje luego!”
All of this happening while the line slowly shuffled forward.
Valencia airport, by contrast, felt refreshingly small and unpretentious. No endless corridors. No labyrinthine terminals. Just a calm arrival and the promise of sunshine. My taxi driver was a gruff elderly gentleman who appeared to have personally witnessed several centuries of Valencian history. During the ride he gave me a rapid-fire explanation of Las Fallas and pointed out neighbourhood highlights as we passed them, each delivered with the confidence of someone who knows the city like the back of his hand. And then the best moment of the day: arriving and hugging family again.
After months apart, that simple moment outweighs any airport chaos, questionable landings, or accidental vegetarian sandwiches. The weather was gorgeous, the sunset welcoming, and the evening unfolded exactly as it should. Gin and tonics appeared at sunset—because of course they did—and family conversation warmed the evening even further.
Dinner was scrumptious, laughter plentiful, and conversation carried us right through to midnight, when we officially ushered in Maike’s birthday together.
A perfect ending to Day One. Stay tuned!
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