So here I am, one part Robinson Crusoe and one part Ryan Bingham (well, it’s not for me to say “George Clooney”, is it?) stranded — albeit in some luxury — in Madrid. I came here for two nights, a quick promotional visit for the Spanish publication of my latest novel. Do a bunch of interviews, have a couple of dinners with my publisher, maybe sneak in an exhibition, and then back to London having seen next to nothing of the city. So when word of the volcano first erupted over the internet I was not overly concerned. The idea of languishing in my lovely room for another night seemed like a treat. There was nothing I had to get back for, especially as my wife was going to be away on Friday night anyway.
On Tuesday I had travelled back from Edinburgh to London with very little margin for error, for something I absolutely could not miss, and I’d made it with time to spare. Years ago, I’d almost been stranded in Algiers when I was desperate to leave. I was at the airport; lots of flights were cancelled by a strike but mine was still going ahead. Then, at the last moment, mine was cancelled too. Disaster.
But I’d somehow managed to scramble aboard a flight to Paris. In terms of luck I was still in credit, still the beneficiary of that narrow escape. In Algiers, I would have been seriously stranded, but here, when the ash hit the jet, as it were, my publishers managed to book me on flights for Saturday morning and — as a back-up — Monday afternoon. Business class. I’d been delayed but I’d also been upgraded!
Cool hotel
So here I am. Saturday’s flight has bitten the dust and I’m pinning all my hopes on Monday’s. I can’t complain. I’m in this cool hotel on my publisher’s dime. In a way, in fact, I’m less stranded than I am in London. We’re between homes at the moment, staying in a flat with no landline and no internet. That’s incredible alienation. Whereas here, with Wi-Fi in my room and plenty of work to be getting on with, it’s fine.
I’ve even got time to see the city properly. Except I’ve now seen a lot of what I wanted to see: the Miquel Barceló exhibition, the Dayanita Singh retrospective— Of course, there’s always the Prado. Yes, there’s always the great, uplifting and thoroughly daunting prospect of the Prado. Or maybe I’ll get tickets for Real Madrid-Valencia. That would be fun. Except I’d have no one to go with.
I was worn out during the first two days from all the talking, was looking forward to a bit of time on my own. But now that everyone from my publishers has abandoned their attempts to get to London for the Book Fair and gone back to Barcelona, I’ve got nothing but time and wouldn’t mind a bit more talk — a few more interviews, in fact, because I realise now that I’ve got a lot more to say about the novel I’m hustling. The book ends with the narrator going to Varanasi for a few days and staying indefinitely. I feel like I’m in the early stages of a reality TV adaptation, relocated from Varanasi to Madrid.
‘I have to get back to London’
As long as I keep washing my underwear and shirts, and someone keeps refilling the minibar, I could stay here forever. There’s even a Premier League game on TV later. Failing that, I can turn on the news and watch my fellow strandees sleeping at airports. Basically everyone wants to get to a place while a bunch of other people want to get to where they are — back to where we all started, before there were planes, when there was nothing on earth except villages and volcanoes.
So, from my point of view, it could be worse — and looks like getting a lot worse. I have to get back to London so I can get a flight to San Francisco on Tuesday, if that is not cancelled, too. There is talk of a bus to Paris, of flying straight to SF from Madrid. My fingers could not be more crossed. I’m stranded. – guardian.co.uk