Holiday Travel Chaos: Madrid Misfires, Airport Madness, and My Ryanair Reality Check

12/10/2025

Madrid: The Layover That Tested My Sanity

I should have run faster . . .

Another trip means another chance at living the Ryanair dream. I will readily admit, this Thanksgiving adventure to Poland with an overnight in Madrid was interesting to say the least. I can’t even jump to the purpose of my trip, the elusive Polish Christmas Markets, without doing justice to the continued travel mishaps and observations that honestly make me wonder about the world we live in.

I should preface this entire story simply as the joys of traveling and how people from all walks of life behave in public. There’s a caveat to the story before we even dig into the fun.

Unlike previous flights from Tangier, I decided to take Air Arabia for my brief flight to Madrid. While more expensive, the inside of the plane felt cleaner and, dare I say, more civilized. Granted, between the families and children flying, that always keeps things real, but the entire experience was on point. For once, I didn’t have to roll the dice on whether my plane would be late getting to Tangier and, of course, departing for la la land.

My plan was simple: get into Madrid around eight at night, then walk across the road to Barajas, where my hotel room was waiting. After my first foray into Madrid a couple of years earlier, I had no urge to face higher hotel room prices in the center, to translate the metro sign, or to figure out whether I was on the correct train, because in Madrid, the information screens are a joke at best. I also wasn’t eager to pay any additional travel costs if I could simply walk twenty minutes and be within visual range of the airport for my flight to Krakow the next morning.

With that shared, I was reminded upon arrival why Madrid and I can never be friends. Call it the Ryanair sickness, but I’m now accustomed to disembarking from the back of the plane, or the front, simultaneously. There is no standing up and waiting for everyone and their friends to get off the plane while I sit in the back pondering life’s greater questions. Now I know for the next trip that Madrid insists on using the gates and their ramps, which means one way in and one way out.

In the USA, we always did it this way and efficiently. For whatever reason, to and from Madrid, people linger in the corridor and are in no hurry to grab their bags and go. Meanwhile, while I stand and fume, I swear some were catching a last-minute siesta until they could rise, grab their gear, and leave, which only makes the process longer.

This would be the end of the fun, especially after I noticed the new Schengen machines were still out of commission or perhaps just resting for another time, actually to be turned on and used. Regardless, customs was a breeze, and then the real fun began. I had to figure out how to get out of the airport, cross the road, and enter the nearby enclave.

Google Maps was worthless, not surprising to me in the least. Sure, I could have asked three different information desks, but what’s the fun in doing that? I’m sure there was a valid reason for having only three doors open for people to come and go across three terminals, and those bicycle locks on the other exits were certainly reassuring. So, I walked and walked, hoping I could figure out where the actual exit was that would lead to the sidewalk taking me home for the night, but alas, it never happened.

The next day, in daylight, it was clear where I should have gone back down the escalator and out, but on this walk, I was drawn to the metro sign and assumed the sidewalk would be near that exit for easy access for all travelers.

Fast forward to me lowering my head in disgust, fifteen minutes of wandering around the airport terminals, and the realization I now had to eat whatever cost the metro would be to go to Barajas station and cut back towards the hotel in the center. The entire plan was to save money for this portion of the trip, but that wasn’t the reality.

Full disclosure, I still don’t know whether I clicked the wrong buttons on the automated ticket machines. I’m pretty sure it should have been around 1.50 euros for one train stop, but instead I forked over 7 euros because they insisted I buy one of their plastic travel cards, as though I would be riding this metro for years to come. Either way, it was an added cost for what would later be a free fifteen to twenty-minute walk. Who knows what absurd cost the taxis might have charged for the same distance? Honestly, if you stand at the right point at the airport, you can see the church in the center of Barajas, where my hotel was a stone’s throw away. Talk about a waste of money.

The only saving grace was that the train was on time, and if I had missed that beast, there was another one minutes later. I made it to the hotel and was in my room, eating some snacks from a local grocer, before nine. All of this was positive. Most importantly, the hotel and my room were significantly better and cheaper than my last overnight in Madrid, which I considered to be a win.

Airport Shenanigans: Food Crimes and Bathroom Nightmares

Walkway from Barajas to Madrid Airport

Before heading out the next morning, I was hoping to get into the Catholic church I had spotted on previous trips and even do a short travel vlog. For whatever reason, churches in Spain seem to hate me. Truthfully, I don’t get it because everywhere else I have traveled, churches are open at seven or before for those inclined to pray before their day gets underway. In Krakow, my favorite church was always open well before 6:30. Don’t assume that Spain will accommodate your time for solitary reflection and adoration to any of the saints. No, these late-night creatures can’t stomach the idea of even having their houses of worship open by 8 in the morning, so alas, I failed again to see the confines of a Spanish church at a more manageable hour for this native New Englander.

Back at the airport, I was eager for my flight to Poland. The walk over was a breeze and easy to do, especially in the daytime hours. Why the airport continued to lock all of their doors remains a mystery to me, especially as I almost got hit by two cars that didn’t like the fact that I found myself in the road. It wasn’t my fault that the sidewalk came to an abrupt end at the terminal with no way into the building, save backtracking a hundred feet. How was I to know?

Already scammed by the metro machines for the previous night’s journey in, I knew my early lunch at the airport would be scandalous, as it always proved to be. I wasn’t disappointed that the pizza place I found myself scanning various options at was the king of this mentality. Let’s be clear, the food court was barely moving. Only ten in the morning, out of the four options, two were open, allegedly.

I didn’t see any people manning the registers and was forced to use the automated machines to make my selection. That was fine, as it saved me from having to talk to anyone, but if you’re going to charge me twelve dollars for a half-slice of pizza, it better be worth my hard-earned dollars. At this master swindler, or dare I say, place where the staff could give two $#%^s, I was taken for my biggest ride to date.

Out of the pizza options, there were rows of slices. In a stroke of marketing genius, the good slices, the ones with cheese on them, were closest to the glass. One would assume that with no other customers, you could help a brother out and actually heat a proper slice of pie, but not these bastards. I even pointed to the slice I wanted, and this yahoo took from the back of the pile, a slice that was one you would throw to a dog or would serve as a perfect treat for any lactose-intolerant person, but not for the likes of me, who wanted an honest slice with cheese and toppings.

I might not be so scared of the experience, but I stood there for ten minutes waiting for anyone to serve me my meal. Four different workers cruised by and into the kitchen doors, and still I waited. When that tired barista made her appearance, the fact that she didn’t even humour my request was icing on the cake. Clearly, these were slices that had been uneaten from the previous day. Leftovers galore; there were still some pieces suitable. Still, the slice I got was utter crap, and the worst meal I have had in Spain. No wonder I usually go to McDonald’s.

After my five-star meal, I went to find a bathroom to ponder where I went wrong in my life, only to regret walking to the other end of the terminal for what I thought would be a reprieve from my fellow passengers. Some tired shlep passed out next to a plug where his phone dangled freely. Maybe I would have woken this fellow and told him to be more careful, but if you’re going to sleep in the corner of a busy corridor with your thumb in your mouth and your phone there free for the taking, you might deserve what comes your way. He was still dead to this world on my return trip, an hour later.

Somehow, my bathroom stop led to a McDonald’s layover. I needed something with dairy to offset the spice and lack of cheese from the world’s finest pizza place. My milkshake, which only brought this boy to the yard, was quickly prepared. Given this liquid treat and a macadamia nut cookie, I thought my luck was improving until a group of British expats decided to turn on their typical charms.

Your accent can only take you so far, mentioning tea time but then shifting to morning pints, and of course, a loud boisterous conversation for everyone to feel included on your family adventure. How I wish I could repeat their exploits, but I finished my shake and ran for the bathroom, hopeful for a moment of silence.

That’s the keyword, hopeful. Alas, it was not to be. In the stall next to mine, some loser was talking to his mistress while toxic fumes and sounds were released into the air. How he managed the conversation, let alone thought she wanted in on the action, makes no sense to me. I simply wanted him to end the call and be on his way. True to form, he flushed and continued the call, like he was at home, going from one room to the next.

Not to be outdone in the lack of bathroom etiquette, the next guy who entered the same stall was also eager to be available at all possible times. “Cheri Cheri” played on his ringer, and this guy took the call and another, by the time I was free of this special area.

Ryanair Reality: A Thanksgiving Departure Gone Wrong

Corn would have been better

I counted down the minutes for my Ryanair flight to Krakow. How I prayed it would be seamless and that I would be on a plane, off to a country that actually made some sense, was not heard from the heavens above. After my string of on-time flights, the one-way on plan failed miserably. We were 15 minutes late finishing the boarding process, and then the pilot dared to blame our delayed departure on the cabin crew transfer, oblivious to the fact that they were on the plane with him when they arrived and dropped off the first set of passengers.

We were an hour late leaving because Ryanair doesn’t know how to board a plane by seating when there's only one way onto the plane. You can’t expect to have a hodgepodge of passengers boarding across the entire plane and then wonder why we didn’t find our seats on time. Let’s not even get into the fact that many of those passengers had to get up and walk the aisle to cram their bags over other assigned seats, because people don’t honor the rules. I hoped this would be the end of my Thanksgiving travel experience, but I had no idea what would happen on the return…