There’s just one
problem—no suitcase for David.
The throng of excited
travelers has long disappeared and we find ourselves alone in the cavernous
baggage claim, the conveyor belt continuing its helpful circumnavigation, empty
but for a few forlorn items that have obviously gone astray.
Forlorn are we
too, as we head to the Iberia Airlines lost luggage cubicle to report our
missing bag. With a near expressionless face—imagine dealing with anxious
people like us all day—an agent hands us a laminated chart of images for us to
pick out the one that most resembles David’s bag. It’s just like this one, I
keep saying, pointing to the identical suitcase that holds my precious
cruisewear. My bag successfully negotiated the hand-offs from Indianapolis to
Atlanta to Paris to Malaga—why didn’t Dave’s?
The patient lost luggage
people promise to keep looking for it, and hand us a complimentary bag of
toiletries—a toothbrush, toothpaste, a razor. That’ll do David just fine for a
nine-day cruise, I think grimly. It’s now noon, and we have to board the ship by 5:00
p.m. Maybe we can find a department store and grab a few clothing items to tide
David over until his bag catches up with the ship.
But we decide to
check into our floating hotel first. It may be noon in Malaga, but to our weary
bodies it’s the middle of the night, Eastern Standard Time. A quick cab ride
through the palm-tree lined avenues of this busy modern city brings us to the
port—and there she is, the lovely Spirit, our Norwegian Cruise Line home for
the next seven days.
The Spirit works
her magic on us, gradually eroding all concern about the urgent shopping spree
we had planned. We’re greeted at the door by an enthusiastic crew member
flanked by a dark-haired senorita in full flamenco garb. A quick glance around
the grand lobby reveals ample opportunity to sit in comforting chairs and forget
our troubles with a foo-foo drink. We explain our plight to the concierge, who
expresses her condolences and kindly offers us a complimentary toiletry bag, one
white NCL t-shirt, and a certificate for free laundry service. Dave may have to
wear the clothes on his back for nine days, but he’ll have no trouble keeping his
teeth brushed and beard shaved!
The concierge
takes up our cause with the lost baggage people at Iberia, and there begins a nerveracking
game of get-the-bag-to-meet-up-with-the-cruise ship. It’s sure to meet us in
Casablanca, definitely arriving at Funchal, unlikely to catch us in Arrecife.
Our concierge has chocolate-dipped strawberries delivered to our stateroom on
day five with her continuing condolences—kind of her, considering this was not
the least bit NCL’s fault.
How did Dave
survive the ordeal of a clothes-less cruise? Very nicely, thank you. Dave wore my
khakis the first day at sea, and no one was the wiser. At our first stop,
Barcelona, we spent an hour at El Corte Inglés (their version of Macy’s) and
bought three pairs of socks, Jockey shorts, a long-sleeved blue and green
checked cotton shirt, a striped polo, a pair of khaki Dockers and a pair of
Levis, the kind with the buttons. Nobody cared that Dave wore the same outfits
day after day, least of all Dave. We availed ourselves of the free laundry
service, and had a wonderful cruise! We even got through two fabulous days in
Granada with David identically clad.
The day before
our flight home (the twelfth day of our trip!), we stopped at Malaga airport to see if fresh clothing could be
had for our final night in Spain. And there, by the familiar lost luggage desk,
Dave was at long last reunited with his belongings. We asked the agent if he
knew anything about what had happened to the bag. He checked a computer screen
briefly, then told us the mixup apparently happened at Charles DeGaulle
airport, and Dave’s suitcase had gone to Bangalore. Go figure!
Oh what tales
that bag could tell…
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