Twenty minutes later, my flight is re-booked, I have an eight-hour layover and a free lunch for my troubles. Finally reaching the ticket office, I announce, “La Palma,” place my ticket and head on the counter, and begin swaying side-to-side. While under normal circumstances this would be frustrating, my general state of misery makes things barely tolerable. The check-in lady tells me there is nothing she can do to help and that I will need to exit the airport to rebook my flight at the Iberia ticket office. With a half hour to make my next flight, my efforts are futile. I am slowed by customs, security, and a 20-minute train ride. I touch down in Madrid, plow through the line of bumbling, zombie-like international travelers, and make a half-hearted sprint for my connecting flight. Halfway across the Atlantic on my way to La Palma for Transvulcania, I am taken by a severe bout of food poisoning.
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