Mistakes are Tuition

a.ka. The Time I Missed My Flight. Twice.

Natalie Taylor is currently revamping her blog.  You can find previous writings/portfolio here. She likes words such as “curmudgeon” and “janky” and dramatic rose ceremonies.

“It’s me Nat. So, um, I’m in Prague right now, and I missed my flight. Twice. I’m going to be okay. Yeah, you know it’s fine…Hope everything’s good at home! It’s going to be okay…. Bye.”

Click.

This is my most embarrassing voice-mail to date. There really was nothing else to do while waiting for the train to Berlin, but send awkward messages of denial to my ex-boyfriend that I was independent in a crisis; that I didn’t need his re-assurance to make me feel better about myself.

My denials occurred at The Chinese restaurant around the bend from my hostel in Holesovice. Feeling satiated from the sweet and sour chicken in the empty dining room, it was a good time to double check my flight times for my return to Amsterdam the next day. I was responsible! I was saving money on a seat sale!

I was supposed to be on a plane two hours ago.

Sheer panic surged through my body. I immediately darted my eyes to the waitress, helpless, secretly wishing the daily special was “Free return to Amsterdam. Unlimited fried rice.”

After frantically booking the cheapest return for 7 a.m. the next day, and obliterating the good travel cents I had scoured originally, I realized I had no cash on hand. There was no ATM nearby for a much-needed drink.

“What’s wrong sweetie?” the hostel’s mole and resident bartender T. inquired.

“I missed my flight. I have no money on hand.” I reeked of despair.

T. consoled me with a drink. He later tried to console me with more (to no avail).

The cavernous subterranean surroundings of the hostel’s cellar bar were ideal to soak in self-pity. Krishla – a former hut mate in Greece with whom I had unexpected reunion – became a confidant. The perfect anti-dote, in my brilliant mind, was to pull an all-nighter. I’m not exactly a morning person.

The next goal was to coax the 12 unusually anti-social Scots to show their true (imbibing) nature.

“You’re in a hostel bar playing cards with each other and not socializing with the bevy of beauties around here?! You’re not drinking?!” I yelped. They listened.

T’s specialty was the A-Bomb, a shot of the green-fairy dropped into a glass of Red Bull. The boys were ambitious to try the A-Z bombs. I lost count after “A.” Cackling and incomprehensible Scottish brogues ensued. I didn’t understand. I didn’t care. My worries were a distant memory.

“I’ve got to pack,” I sleepily slurred, many hours of giggles later. An empty hostel dorm is a god-send to a solo-traveler – except when you have a 5 a.m. wake-up call and nobody with an alarm to wake you when needed. My watch was underneath the bed. It was 3 a.m. Then I turned the watch around. The reality was mirrored back to me: 9 a.m. A stunned reflection in the looking glass.

Double Trouble: two missed flights by two hours each. No refunds.

Krishla was not impressed by the morning-wake up call. “Berlin is a four hour train ride from Prague. Go. If you’re still here after 1 p.m., I’m personally sending you on the train.” The train station was a five minute walk. I had nothing to lose.

I couldn’t venture back to Amsterdam now; Anne Frank Huis waiting for me in the foggy distance.  My set itinerary of simultaneously using the rest of  my Eurail Pass days on bordering countries was failing me. In retrospect, I learned just as much from the walking tours of Berlin than I did from the hallowed walls of Anne Frank Huis.

I was scared of my own ignorance; that I wasn’t prepared for the history lessons and that I thought I should be. Diving head-first without any plan into a known yet unknown culture was the climax of the surprises my travels had un-earthed for me.

I didn’t have enough time to explore Berlin at my own pace: its hauntingly romantic atmosphere; its sorrowful yet triumphant deep-rooted past, and a mainstay as a hotbed of culture. I also didn’t realize that, in the end, I was okay, and stronger as a result.

Why I like this story: Yeah, I missed a flight. Once. Or maybe twice. I ain’t sayin’.