When it came time to return home from my lengthy, satisfying visit to the States, my only goal was to find the cheapest flight possible. The search included arrivals into Barcelona, Paris, Nice, Milan and even London. Even my mother got into it, calling out Travel Zoo deals that arrived in her inbox. After fiddling with all the factors one fiddles with in search of a deal, I finally found a super cheap direct flight from JFK to Barcelona, strangely via Air France. Hey, it’s not for me to ask why – I snapped it up and let Cal know when I’d be back.

Our quiet, quirky town of Montpellier is roughly four hours by train from Barcelona, a trip I’ve taken many times – most recently, and memorably, in order to have lunch with my aunt and uncle before their cruise left for other Mediterranean shores. Piece of cake, I thought. I knew just what to do.

My first surprise came when I arrived at JFK. The flight was not being operated by Air France, but from their partner Delta. For those of you who have not had the misfortune to know both of these terminals at JFK, let me explain why this was a letdown.

View from the plane window

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