International air travel during COVID-19
From California to Europe on the edge of my seat
As digital nomads with an international background—she’s German and I’m American—my wife and I were already pretty familiar with the obstacles of immigration and the challenges of foreign residency. But with the COVID-19 pandemic and the lockdown policies that followed, the general level of difficulty has cranked up several notches.
For the last few years our family has been living in Spain, but periodically we return to Germany or America for business or pleasure. Late last fall I went back to California by myself to tie up a bundle of loose ends concerning a retail business that I’d owned and operated from 2006–2016. One snafu led to another, and before you know it I was stranded in the Golden State in the midst of an international lockdown.
A ticket to ride during COVID-19
One of the funnier things about this whole catastrophe (not ha-ha funny, mind you), was just how smug we’d been about living in a remote mountain village in the Spanish Pyrenees. It was the perfect place to be — we often reminded ourselves — when the mayonnaise hit the fan. But now the mayo was splattering from sea to shining sea, and we were stuck on separate continents. This was certainly not what we’d been training for.
And as the world spun deeper and deeper into confusion, I was forced to revise my entire exit strategy. Still, like everything else, from running a small business to receiving an antibody test, nobody really knew how or if it would be possible to fly from California to Spain under these unprecedented circumstances.
With society steeped in uncertainty, and no sense of leadership, I decided for myself and my business that the lockdown would have to end on May 1, so that I could liquidate and move out by May 31. At the beginning of the month, I felt that the first wave of pandemonium had passed, but that things would soon be getting crazy again. So I rushed to buy a ticket for early June, to get out of the country as quickly as possible, while things were still relatively calm and quiet.
Using Google flights, I found a ticket from San Francisco (SFO) to Barcelona (BCN) on June 11 for just $159. This seemed to confirm the rumors that the airlines, desperate for business, were engaging in competitive price wars. But two days later Iberia cancelled the flight and was unwilling to issue a refund. (My attempt to contest the charge is still pending.)
Disappointed but undaunted, I went looking for another ticket. By now it was May 11 or so, and the clock was ticking. And the cheap tickets were no longer anywhere to be found. Apparently the price wars had ended, and airlines were now shrewdly capitalizing on the fact that flights had been drastically reduced and anyone determined to fly during this global crisis would be willing to pay almost anything.
So I ended up with a ticket from SFO to BCN on June 7, with a quick layover in Frankfurt, Germany (FRA), through United and Lufthansa, for around $1100. Yes, I was indeed one of those desperate customers. And until I actually boarded the plane, I remained pretty apprehensive about whether the flight would actually happen, or be cancelled at the last minute.
Getting through the airport in partial lockdown
On June 5th and 6th, I started getting text messages from United Airlines, reminding me of my flight schedule and of various travel restrictions in place due to the COVID-19 situation. I looked at a couple of their links, and I got the distinct impression that still no one knew exactly what was happening. The only thing they could say for sure was that all policies were subject to change without notice.
But as far as I could tell, we still had the green light. The flight was still on the docket, and though many European countries had placed drastic restrictions on who could enter the country, my Spanish residency card would probably be sufficient to get me over the border.
I arrived at the airport around noon on the 7th of June, thanks to a little help from my older brother. We were coming from Sonoma , so we had the choice of driving through the East Bay or over the Golden Gate Bridge to get to the airport.
In addition to pandemic and lockdowns, we now faced the possibility that traffic could by severely disrupted by marches and demonstrations for George Floyd. Driving through Oakland and the East Bay seemed pretty dicey. On the other hand, if demonstrators decided to march across the Golden Gate, we would have to turn around and circumnavigate the bay, with little chance of getting to the airport on time. This already happened the day before, on Saturday, so it seemed unlikely to take place again on Sunday.
Traffic reports made no mention of an impending bridge closure, so we headed to Highway 101 and ended up crossing the iconic bridge without a hitch. And as we approached the airport, the traffic got thinner and thinner, until we pulled up to the international terminal and saw nothing but a couple of security guards standing around and scratching their face masks.
Before taking my luggage out of the car I had to walk over to the window to make sure the airport was actually open. The revolving door was not working. But I saw a handful of people inside — as in fewer than five — and tried another door. Thank God, it opened. That’s when I took the picture featured at the top of this article.
I looked around for the United desk, and a security guard could see the puzzled look on my face, even through the mask. I told him what I needed and he directed me to the line, which was really no line at all. I zig-zagged my way through the ropes and walked right up to the first available airline clerk.
Nervously I handed her my passport and told her I was on my way to Barcelona. “OK. Do you have any other passports?” she asked. So I handed her my Spanish residency card.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a Spanish residency card,” I told her.
“So you’re a dual citizen?”
“Well, no, not a citizen, but I have Spanish residency,” I explained.
“But where do you live?”
“I um, we um, I live in Spain,” I stuttered. “My trip to California was prolonged by the whole, ya know, situation.”
“So you’re a permanent resident?”
“A temporary resident?” I countered.
“What’s the purpose of your travel?”
“I was here on business,” I told her. “I mean, I’m heading home to my family, to my wife and kids.”
“OK,” she said. “Just hold on to this residency card and be prepared to present it when you get to Germany. They have some pretty strict rules there.”
“Don’t I know it,” I muttered to myself.
From there I made my way to the right gate, encountering no form of congestion whatsoever. The vast majority of snack bars and gift shops were closed, and there was certainly no shortage of seating.
On the loudspeakers, a message constantly reminded us to keep our distance and wear our face masks at all times. This announcement had replaced all the usual warnings about minding your luggage and never leaving your bags unattended. Evidently airport security was only capable of addressing one threat at a time, and I suppose the cowardly terrorists were all respecting the lockdown anyway.
Flying with health precautions and social distance
Sitting around the deserted airport, the opportunities for people watching had been greatly reduced. I tried to get a sense of what kind of people — besides myself — were insisting on traveling under these extreme conditions. Perhaps they were first responders, medical workers or military, but it was hard to draw any definitive conclusions.
At the boarding gate, the announcements all had to do with reminding travelers to have their documentation in order. Without proof of citizenship or permanent residence in the country of final destination, we would have a long trip to look forward to, to AND from Frankfurt.
Meanwhile they continued to remind us all to keep our masks on and to maintain our six feet of distance, even as we boarded the plane. Then they announced that the flight was completely full, underscoring the need to check in punctually and to take all necessary precautions for health and safety. Although no one ever attempted to take my temperature.
Much to my relief however, it became clear as we boarded, that what they meant by “completely full” was nothing like what we would have described as completely full back in the times formerly known as normal. Somewhere between half to two-thirds of the seats on the overseas flight were empty. This created a reassuring illusion of abundant personal space, even though the overhead carry-on bins seemed every bit as crowded as usual. And the extra space to spread the elbows and stretch the legs made it no easier to get any decent sleep on the flight.
Besides the empty seats and the ubiquitous face protection, it was like any other flight. They served us some rather palatable lasagna, and later came around with a choice of turkey or a mysterious vegetarian sandwich. I even enjoyed a couple of Hollywood classics from Alfred Hitchcock and Peter Sellers.
Onward and Upward
The first leg of my journey took us from SFO to FRA, and apart from the mandatory face masks and all the empty seats, it was no different from any other 10-hour transatlantic flight. At one point they handed out some sanitary wipes, and the young man in front of me needed frequent reminders to keep his mask on. Otherwise, the socially distanced seating plan did little to improve the paucity of leg room or the general state of discomfort.
As we entered German airspace, the captain came over the loudspeaker and explained that anyone who planned to step outside of the airport in Frankfurt would need to fill out the special immigration form. Without a German passport or a permanent residency card, or some very specific exceptions, no one would be allowed to step foot in the Vaterland in this time of pandemic.
This caused some amount of commotion in the cabin, as German paperwork inevitably does. A few passengers who planned to go directly out of the airport, onto a bus, and out of the country, were especially confused about whether they needed permission to be in Germany. Lucky for me, I was only changing planes, and the German authorities would have nothing to do with me.
So I disembarked, stretched my legs and made my way through the airport, which was only slightly more crowded than the international terminal in San Francisco. Having arrived in Europe at long last, my first order of business was to purchase a German pretzel, something of a cultural education in itself.
Abundant signage made it clear that we were expected to maintain our social distance even as we waited in line for the bakery, but not everyone was so willing to comply, especially the belligerent Scotsman behind me. Reaching the front of the line, I had my first experience communicating in a foreign language through face masks. Anyone who considers German to be a coarse language deserves to hear it spoken by a foreigner through Personal Protective Equipment.
After all this, the pretzel itself was something of a let down. The best of German bakeries, which are in fact some of the best bakeries in all the world, are not to be found in the waiting area of Frankfurt International Airport. Far better was the sushi I had procured in the San Francisco Airport. But then again, after wearing a face mask through the duration of a 10-hour flight, it takes more than a salty sourdough bagel to rejuvenate the palate.
Welcome to Spain, now keep your distance
Preparing to board to next flight that would take me to Barcelona, we went through the same procedures which had now become quite familiar. They told us to have our documents — passports and residency cards — at the ready. And they reminded us once again to be mindful of social distancing as we boarded the plane. This all led to a smattering of confusion and bit of a delay, but nothing insurmountable.
And still, I was rather surprised that the Germans, legendary for their fastidious hygiene, never once took my temperature getting off or on an airplane amidst the climate of coronavirus.
Despite the various efforts at crowd control outside the gate, the flight from FRA to BCN was completely packed. I didn’t see one empty seat on the plane. And the no-frills flight included neither beverages nor hand sanitizer. Honestly, I’d expected a little more from Lufthansa.
But before we landed, they distributed a very serious immigration form for Spain. They wanted to know our citizenship and residency status, contact and emergency contact information, the purpose of our travel, and the state of our respiratory health.
And yet, entering the country turned out to be remarkably easy. They crew let passengers off the plane ten at a time, and we were greeted in the passageway by a team of customs agents. They directed me to the last agent on the right and I presented him with my passport and residency card.
He examined the documents and nodded his head. Seeing that I had both U.S. and Spanish identification, he asked me where I lived. “Montellá,” I told him.
“Montreal?”
“Montellá,” I repeated. “In the mountains.”
His eyes began to scrutinize me with suspicion. “Spain,” I declared.
“Aha,” he replied, and quickly waved me through.
Mandatory Spanish quarantine for newcomers
Making my way to the baggage claim, I encountered one more line of Spanish officials. This is where we had to submit the questionnaire we’d filled out on the plane. In exchange for this form, another look at my ID, and a perfunctory signature, they handed me some detailed instructions concerning my 14-day self quarantine.
According to the rules of COVID-19, I am required to remain isolated for 14 days. I’m not to leave the house for any reason, except to get groceries or go to the pharmacy. I’m also supposed to take my temperature twice a day and keep a record of the results. I gave them my phone number, and they can call me at anytime to inquire about my temperature and general condition.
Hopefully no one reports me for hiking in the woods on a daily basis. The good news is that I remain asymptomatic with a very normal temperature. My family is supposed to keep quarantined with me for these two weeks, and so we’ve been enjoying some good quality time together, picnicking in the backyard and catching up on stories of the pandemic from either side of the pond.
Organizing transportation under Spanish lockdown
One of the more interesting uncertainties in this whole process was how I would get from the airport to our village up in the mountains, two hours north of Barcelona. Spain had imposed a very strict lockdown during the pandemic, as the virus had hit Madrid and Barcelona pretty hard. Checkpoints were common on roadways, and people were not allowed to drive more than about 20 km from their homes.
All this left us to wonder whether my wife could legally drive down the mountain to pick me up from the airport. Otherwise I would have to spend the first 3 or 4 hours of my quarantine riding public transportation and walking around the city. According to the hotline set up by the Spanish government and health department, my wife would need special permission to make this drive, and that permission did not come through in time.
Much to our disappointment, I would now have to find the special bus that runs from the airport into the city center. Then, having already spent about 20 sleepless hours in transit, I would have to walk from Plaza de Catalunya to the main bus station. Under ideal circumstances, that’s about a 20 minute walk. But if you think these were ideal circumstances, then you haven’t been reading very closely.
Normally we make this trip from Barcelona up the mountain by train. But of course, the trains were not running at this time. I’d never even been to this bus station, but eventually I found it. And like the airports, the place was seriously understaffed. The information kiosks were all closed, and it was basically every hombre for himself. And if that doesn’t convey the spirit of Spanish quarantine, then I don’t know what does.
But don’t worry, I was able to purchase my ticket from the machine, and the bus boarded about 40 minutes later. And that took me exactly where I needed to go, to my wife and kids who had waited too many months for me to come home, and were now jumping up and down waving their arms at the oncoming bus.
