During my most recent exile overseas, I found myself in the classic dilemma of being completely broke, and at the same time, needing to return to the North American continent. At that moment, everything I'd owned fit within a rather mid-sized rucksack, a grocery-getter rolley-trolley, with the exception of my guitar, which I couldn't afford a carry case for.
Allow me to say that trying to somewhat hide my guitar under the check-in counter, so as not to get charged the additional $200 for carrying an instrument (when my entire ticket for that particular stretch of the return cost $88), wasn't my idea of a good time.
With approximately 9,000 kilometers separating Canada and me (a distance I'd typically consider sufficient, but, at that moment, one that proved to be quite inconvenient), I opted to spend five days on planes, with only one night spent at a hotel. I did this because I am very smart.
By day four, I was in a very sorry state, left to roam Amsterdam (or rather, the outskirts of Amsterdam, near Schiphol Airport, for the twenty eight hours until my flight back to Toronto, through Halifax. Better yet - upon landing, I decided to save myself the twelve euros it would cost to cross the 5km until the nearest cluster of hotels and motels, and to walk the entire distance, with a 10 kilogramme rolley-trolley in hand, and a 10 kilogramme rucksack on my back. Again, I did this because I am very, very smart.
Now, what I didn't account for was the fact that 5 kilometers in an unfamiliar country may not be a particularly long distance, but it's also not a particularly short one. Especially when all you have is a flip-phone, without a working sim card, and no maps. Pulling over the occasional car (big thank you to the gentleman in the Mercedes-Benz that pointed me in the direction of the hotels, after a double-take of why a tourist is walking with luggage in an industrial area), I'd gotten the directions.
Arriving in the little tourist town, I was ready for a taste of home - the McDonald's was a breath of fresh air after twelve hours in various airports. After a brief McDonald's break, and a chat with an excellent gentleman who was visiting relatives for a few weeks, before leaving again, I was ready to find a hotel.
Except, there was no hotel. In fact, there was no hotel, no motel, no AirBNB, and no cardboard box for me to stay in, because I was too busy stuffing my face with McDonald's to realize it's past check-in time for most of the places. Better yet - the places which were opened required a credit card. Which I didn't have. This happened, again, because I am very, very, very smart.
Making my way back, this time, via overpriced taxi, after an stroopwafel break, I found myself in the terminal once more. With eighteen hours to kill, I tried to stay awake by laying on the floor of the lower level of the airport, playing the guitar for bemused security guards, receiving a recommendation to apply for a job by a police officer, and befriending two lovely young ladies, going back home to Chile, after a three month trip.
This was one day of the five-day flight back. My friends, please book your hotel rooms ahead of time.