What a Missed Bus and a $200 Uber in Spain Taught Me About Self-Compassion-Spain & Morocco Part 2
I recently went on a trip to Spain and Morocco that turned out to be one of the hardest experiences I’ve had in a long time. Over the next few weeks, I’ll continue sharing the lessons and stories that came out of it. My intent is not to rehash the drama, but to explore the human experience when life doesn’t go the way we planned.
Sometimes the most beautiful growth hides inside the messiest moments.
These posts will be written in a more personal, I/Me storytelling style, but no matter where you live, where you’ve traveled, or what you’re walking through right now, I think you’ll find a piece of your own story in mine.
They’ll be a bit longer than usual, but don’t worry, here is the link to the audio version if you’d rather listen.
The reality of my short time in Spain is hitting hard this morning now as I am boarding my flight to Málaga. I have a long day ahead, but I am excited. I am finally taking the ferry from Spain to Morocco! But it comes with a price. I am flying from Mallorca to Málaga, riding a bus from Málaga to Algeciras, taking the ferry from Spain to Morocco, taking a car from Tanger Med to Tangier, taking a train from Tangier to Casablanca, and spending the night in Casablanca. Tomorrow, I have a flight from Casablanca to Agadir, and then a car from Agadir to my final destination of Imsouane.
At first, I was hesitant to plan this all out, but earlier this year in Indonesia, I had an unexpected flight change, and in the aftermath of Ramadan, all other flights were booked. So instead of flying, I had to take a ferry, car, ferry, and car to Bali to catch my next flight. It took twelve hours, but I was able to see and experience so many beautiful things that I would have missed from being in the air. Plus, this is the only way to take the ferry across the Strait of Gibraltar, which was the primary reason for wanting to come on this trip.
The flight to Málaga is quick, and I have about an hour and a half until my bus departs, so I get curious about the train situation and where that can take me because I want to explore outside of the airport. As I step into the crosswalk leading from the airport to the train station, I notice that the pavement is wet. My brain decides it would be a good idea to tread carefully, but it’s too late. I can feel my slipper slipping on the pavement. Because I am wearing my heavy Cotopaxi backpack and carrying my tote bag on my shoulder, my center of gravity is off. Miraculously, mid-slide, I am able to pull off a smooth recovery and not fall.
Thanks, core strength!
Better yet… Thanks, Dad!
I feel like he has been protecting me big time so far.
I am hit hard with Chicago nostalgia as I wait for the train in the crisp morning air. I took the train all the time in Chicago. I miss taking the train. And I do miss Chicago sometimes. The rawness of the city has a very specific energy that feels good to tap into sometimes. And there was an adventure in taking the train everywhere. The thing I don’t miss is the crowdedness of the train, which this Málaga train resembles. I hate standing with my huge backpack because people don’t consider it part of my personal space and keep bumping into it. Because it’s attached to me, they might as well be bumping directly into my body. Luckily, most of the crowd gets off at the next several stops.
I stroll around Málaga city center looking for a place to eat because this may be my last chance for food until at least Tangier. I stumble upon a quaint little empanada café on an off-the-beaten-path street.
“I’ll have three of the spinach and ham empanadas, please.”
The girl taking my order looks at me with a blank stare. “I don’t speak much English,” she says in a thick accent.
The entitled American in me feels insulted. I have been to Indonesia, the Philippines, and other countries and have no problems at all speaking English.
How could a country that speaks a Latin-based language not understand English?!
Calm down. This isn’t a touristy area.
“Tres empanadas, por favor.”
“What?”
“Huh?”
“Which empanada?”
“Spinach.”
“What?”
“Cualquiera empanada.” The only Spanish I remember right now is not useful. Plus, I am struggling with Spanish in Spain because it’s not like Central America. They have a totally different dialect here. She and I are at least on the same page that I would like three empanadas and don’t care about the details.
After eating, I head back to the airport. I find the bus station for the big red bus that I am supposed to take. My bus is supposed to arrive at 11:30 am, but the time comes and goes without a bus. Wandering up to the bus shelter, I take a look at the schedule.
Oh shit.
I’m at the wrong bus station. When I booked the bus online, all it said was the Málaga estación de autobuses. When I put that into Google Maps, it gave me the airport bus stop. But the bus stop that I am supposed to be at is in the city center that I just came from.
I can feel the tightness in my chest. My body heats up. An anxiety attack is coming on, but I need to think clearly so I can figure this out. I look at the bus schedule, but the next bus that arrives at either here or the city center will not arrive until later this afternoo,n which doesn’t work because my ferry to Morocco leaves at 2:30 pm, and my subsequent driver and train are contingent on that timetable. As if I’m on autopilot, I start walking to the rental car area.
I’ll rent a damn car to get there.
As I walk, I think through the logistics of this hasty plan.
But where do I return it to Algeciras? And how will I get from the rental return to the port?
This doesn’t feel like a good option.
Uber!
I pull out my phone and order an Uber. My stomach drops when I see the price of $200 USD, but, honestly, it seems like a small price to pay to get to the port on time.
The driver, Antonio, arrives within five minutes. “Hola!”
“Hi!”
I’m so American.
“Going to Algeciras?”
“Yes!”
“What kind of music would you like to listen to?”
The music playing sounds like a local genre and would be nice to listen to on a two-hour car ride. “I like this.”
“How about jazz or reggae?”
“No, this is good.”
“Hold on, let me find something…”
He selects a jazz song with a woman whose vocals don’t sound very professional. I wonder who told her a singing career was a good idea. Even more so, I wonder why Antonio was so eager to change the music to this when I told him that I liked the other song. At this point, I don’t care; I just want to get to the ferry.
The ride is scenic, but the entire time, I am internally berating myself for missing the bus.
You should have checked the address of the bus station to put it into Google.
You should have checked the bus shelter timetable before going on the journey to the city center. You had plenty of time and could have figured it out and gotten on the right bus.
You screwed up.
This mistake cost $200.
I don’t even try to have self-compassion, which has been a regular practice for years. I’m already starting to feel beaten down by this trip, and I haven’t even gotten to Morocco yet.
We have finally arrived at the port, but it feels more commercial than passenger, especially since we can’t find the port where the passenger ships are. After going around the same roundabout about four times, Antonio finally asks for directions, and we drive down a seemingly secretive road to our destination of the passenger ships.
Inside, it’s still confusing because there are multiple ferry companies. But I locate the one on my online ticket and approach the window. “Hi!” I say, probably a little too excitedly, because I am so happy that I made it on time despite missing the bus.
“What is your ticket number?”
I proudly show her my confirmation email.
“I need the ticket number.”
“It’s right here.” I gesture to the number in the email.
“That’s the confirmation number,” she says in her thick accent as she hands my phone back to me.
You have to be kidding me. Why does everything have to be so difficult?
After several minutes, I finally locate the ticket number that’s embedded in the email, and she sends me on my way. I head upstairs to the boarding area that kind of resembles the waiting area of an airport gate, except less crowded. I am about twenty minutes early, so I take my seat and wait. As I wait, I check my itinerary for the rest of the day. That’s when I realize that I have made another mistake. The ferry leaves at 2:30 pm and takes an hour and a half. I booked my driver to pick me up at the port in Morocco at 3 pm.
I’m such an idiot! I screwed up again!
I booked the driver online, and the only way I know to contact him is to reply to the confirmation email that I received upon booking, so I hurriedly email him as the boarding of the ferry begins.
What if he doesn’t wait for me? What if he charges me extra?
We board the ferry through the vehicle entrance, which would seem unusual, but this is how the ferries in Indonesia are. But the weird part that is different from Indo is that the guy leading us takes us to a raggedy freight elevator that only holds a few people at a time. Even then, it seems questionable that it is capable of handling that much weight. Luckily, I am one of the first to go up, so I don’t have to wait. We take the elevator to the seventh floor, where there is a desk. They check my passport and tell me to have a seat, gesturing to the inside area. I want to sit on the top deck for the views. “How do I get to the top?”
The girl gestures to the inside seating. She is either ignoring me or doesn’t speak English. I ignore her and try to figure it out myself. I see a staircase, and even though I have my carry-on backpack and tote, I don’t want to get back on the elevator, so I start climbing the stairs. The top deck is on the tenth floor.
The seating is pretty basic, but once we take off, I end up standing to relish the views, especially once Morocco comes into view and I can see Spain and Morocco at the same time.
I have been waiting for this moment for twenty years!
At some points of the voyage across the Strait of Gibraltar, I simply stare into the ocean. I see several pods of dolphins and some large manta rays. Earlier today, I was regretting not flying directly to Morocco, but this ferry ride makes it all worth it. However, even though I am on the ferry, relishing the moment, my critical inner voice is still berating me for going to the wrong bus stop and getting the time wrong with the driver.
You screwed up.
How could you be so stupid?
As the view of Morocco comes closer, my phone rings. It’s a WhatsApp call from a Moroccan number. Assuming it’s my driver, I answer.
“Hello?”
“I’m your driver! I’m here!”
“Oh, hi, I just sent an email a little bit ago. I got the time wrong. I’m not going to be there for another hour.”
“It’s okay! I’ll be waiting for you!”
“Thank you!”
Oh, thank God, he’s nice!
As I disconnect the call, I notice the time. It’s 2:00 pm. The time changed while crossing the Strait. Which means that I actually booked the driver for the correct local time. But instead of celebrating the fact that I was smart and considered the time change in planning, I am still berating myself.
Why aren’t you thinking straight?
You should have thought of the time change when you checked the itinerary earlier today.
You are such an idiot.
Why didn’t you notate the time change in the itinerary?
What is wrong with you?
I pause. I don’t know why I am struggling with self-compassion today, but I have decided to change my focus. I am so grateful that I made it to the ferry on time and that my driver is happily waiting for me. Getting on the Tangier train on time is going to be no problem, so now I don’t have to worry about anything else for the rest of the day.
I hope.
Exiting the ferry is as chaotic as Indonesia, with the pedestrians and vehicles exiting from the same place. The only difference is that the pedestrians have to pass through a gate where they check our passports. The only pedestrians here are me and an older couple. We all hand over our passports to the guy at the gate, who looks irritated. “Stamps,” he says in disgust as he radios someone in French. I don’t know exactly what is going on, but it seems as though we were supposed to get our passports stamped on the ferry.
A few minutes later, a stereotypical accountant-looking guy with a briefcase emerges from the ferry. He takes our three passports from the guy at the gate. “Come,” he says to me and the couple.
As we walk with him, I find out the couple is from Germany and they will be exploring Morocco over the next month. Upon arriving at the main building, Briefcase Guy tells us to wait as he walks off with our passports. I don’t have a good feeling about this. I just arrived in a new country and don’t have my passport stamped, which means that I don’t have permission to be here. Hell, I don’t even have my passport to prove who I am as a trespasser.
I screwed up again.
I shouldn’t have let him walk off with my passport.
The German couple is just as nervous as I am, so it’s helpful that we are all in this together. I text my driver to figure out where he is. At least that part is easy because he appears almost immediately and is still happy despite waiting for an hour. I decide not to bring up that he is the one who is an hour early, and I am not the one who is an hour late, because that seems petty at this point.
After what seems like an eternity, but is probably only twenty minutes, Briefcase Guy emerges with our stamped passports. A huge wave of relief rushes over my body, which is a nice transition to the hour-long car trip to Tangier. The scenery is beautiful as the entire drive is along the coast. The road sits on top of the mountain, so the aerial views of the Atlantic Ocean from the cliff are something out of a nature documentary. Viewing the waves of the ocean, I finally feel a wave of self-compassion.
I messed up a few times, but I am still on schedule.
The driver drops me off at the Tangier train station, which is more chaotic than exiting the ferry. After an anxiety-inducing search, I locate the terminal for my train. When boarding starts, I walk to the front of the train to my first-class seat, which is a single seat by the window. I put in my earbuds and listen to music as I stare out the window for the two-and-a-half-hour ride to Casablanca. The train route is inland, so there aren’t beautiful views of the ocean, but instead I see the reality of the raw, modern poverty areas of Morocco that you wouldn’t see on a postcard. It reminds me of the pictures outside of the pyramids in Egypt, which show the institutional-like residential buildings that are square-shaped and have laundry blowing in the wind. The train slices right through the urban sprawl and stories of survival.
As I watch the passing unfinished concrete homes with faded paint and metal-barred windows, I fully sink into self-compassion.
I am happy that I did this for myself.
I am proud of myself for planning this multi-logistic adventure.
Even though I made a few mistakes, I figured it all out.
(To be continued in Part 3)
Glow Tip:
Be Kind to the Person Who’s Still Learning.
Self-compassion isn’t always a bubble bath and deep breaths. Sometimes it’s forgiving yourself for missing the bus, spending $200 on an Uber, not being perfect, or not having it all figured out.
For most of my life, I believed mistakes were proof that I wasn’t enough. Not smart enough, not prepared enough, not disciplined enough. I thought I had to be perfect to be loved.
But here’s the thing about self-compassion: it’s not about excusing your mistakes, it’s about including yourself in your own humanity.
You can be both the woman who plans meticulously and the woman who still gets lost.
You can be both the person who’s learning and the one who’s growing.
So the next time you mess up, instead of spiraling into “What’s wrong with me?” Try this:
Pause. Hand over your heart. Whisper, “And that’s okay. You’re learning.”
That’s not a weakness. That’s grace. That’s how you glow.
Ready to stop beating yourself up and start falling in love with who you are?
You’ve spent a lifetime being your own harshest critic by overthinking every word, replaying every “mistake,” and calling it self-improvement.
But here’s the truth: self-compassion is your glow-up.
The more you soften, the stronger you become.
The more you forgive yourself, the freer you feel.
The more you love yourself, the more life starts loving you back.
If you’re done trying to “fix” yourself and ready to start cherishing yourself…
If you’re craving peace instead of pressure…
If you’re ready to lead with grace, confidence, and that quiet, magnetic power that says I’m enough as I am…
Then it’s time to book your free Find Your Glow breakthrough session.
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Inside, you’ll:
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✦ Leave feeling grounded, magnetic, and wildly in love with your own energy.
Because glowing isn’t about being perfect, it’s about being present with yourself.
With love and fire,
Angie
