Being the youngest in my family, I have never been able to experience my "little sister's" woes. Esperanza (age 8) and I had a nice bonding time the other day. She had several cards that she had made spread out on the table, as she was preparing to attend a birthday party that afternoon. She instructed me to choose my favorite, and I naturally chose the one with big read hearts that read "Te quiero."
A few minutes later, Esperanza came into my room. She closed the door, closed the window (so her parents on the patio couldn't hear) and began frantically pacing around my room. She said that she needed help, and that she was going to tell me a secret. The problem was that she felt that if she gave Jesús, the birthday boy, a card that said "te quiero," everyone would laugh at her. The secret was that Jesús "[le] ha gustado desde hace siempre" (she has always liked him. You know, LIKED him liked him). I understood the dilemma. She wanted to make the card special without being the laughing stock of el Parque de los Principes. We discussed his interests, and Esperanza said that he likes Sevilla (the soccer team, of course). I tried telling her that it would never work between them, since her family supports Betis, but it didn't translate well. I suggested that she draw the Sevilla logo on the more platonic card with the flowers. She loved this idea, thanked me profusely, and set up on my floor to draw it. We constructed the perfect heading: "Feliz Cumpleaños, Jesús! Tu amiga, Esperanza."
When she had finished, she ran into the living room to show her parents. That's when the truth came out: Esperanza had never been invited to this birthday party. She had heard about it from another kid, but never received her own invitation. She started crying, and I could feel my heart break. There is nothing worse than finding out that the man of your dreams does not want you at his party. Poor Esperanza.
Despite the sad ending, I was pleased that Esperanza confided in me, and that we had some girl-bonding time. I really need to spend more time with her before I leave.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Crazy Travel Plans
I am very stressed out about my next trip. I am going to explain the entire thing, for two reasons: 1) to get organized and hopefully feel less overwhelmed, and 2) so my readers can tell me it will be okay and share their knowledge of latenight international shuttles and such.
I have plans to go to Ireland with some friends from my program. However, I decided to head north earlier to visit an old family friend in Scotland. I am at the mercy of Ryanair, because I had to change my flight to Dublin rather than cancel it and get a new one. Here's the plan:
I. Monday, April 27th
-Train from Sevilla to Malaga
-Something (train or bus) to Malaga airport
-Ryanair flight FR656 to Glasgow: leaves at 9:25 pm, arrives at 11:35 pm
-Shuttle from the airport to a bus station: Midnight, arrives at 1:00 am
BIG STRESS NUMBER ONE: As you can see, I have twenty-five minutes to get on this shuttle. If I don't make it, the next shuttle is at 5:50 am. The plot thickens: it is unlikely that I would be able to pick up checked baggage in time to make this. Ryanair allows one small thing on board, weighing no more than 10kg (about 20 pounds). I will be traveling for a week.
-Taxi from bus station to my hostel
II. Tuesday, April 28th
-Bus or taxi from hostel to the Glasgow Queen Street train station
-Train to Oban: 8:21 am, to arrive at 11:27 am
BIG STRESS NUMBER TWO: I have to pick up my tickets with the card I used to purchased them. Did I tell you I was pickpocketed this week? I no longer have a bank card. The website provides a number to call if it is impossible to have that card. I called the number, on both my cell phone and skype. I am positive that I used the right dialing codes. My cell phone claimed the number didn't exist. Skype simply said, "You are not allowed to call this number." I sent them a frantic email, and they said they'd respond within five business days. I'm assuming the weekend doesn't count. It's Thursday night. Ahhhh!!!!
-Meet Valerie in Oban
BIG STRESS NUMBER THREE: Valerie and I have been emailing. Several days ago, she asked for the specific times and dates, and said that her computer freezes a lot, and to call her if I don't hear back from her soon. I haven't heard back from her. Tried calling. Guess what? This one didn't work either!! I sent her another email. No idea how to get in touch with her.
-Ferry to the Isle of Lismore
-Mere twenty-four hours on the island to recover from traveling, enjoy the amazing island,
and form life-long connections
III. Wednesday, April 29th
-Ferry to Oban
-Train from Oban to Glasgow: 12:11, to arrive at 3:30 (unfortunately the next train got me in
too late for my flight)
-See all of Glasgow
-Train or bus back to Glasgow Prestwick airport
-Flight to Dublin: FR777, 9:30 pm, to arrive at 10:20 pm
BIG STRESS NUMBER THREE: Identical to BS(ha, fitting)#1. The last bus that leaves the Dublin airport for downtown is at 10:40. Twenty minutes to book it.
-Reunite with friends in Dublin. Exhale for first time.
AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! Of course, I'll be all alone. At least it's all English-speaking. Suddenly my Valence trip seems like a walk in the park.
Any comforting words/inside connections at Ryanair would be highly appreciated.
I have plans to go to Ireland with some friends from my program. However, I decided to head north earlier to visit an old family friend in Scotland. I am at the mercy of Ryanair, because I had to change my flight to Dublin rather than cancel it and get a new one. Here's the plan:
I. Monday, April 27th
-Train from Sevilla to Malaga
-Something (train or bus) to Malaga airport
-Ryanair flight FR656 to Glasgow: leaves at 9:25 pm, arrives at 11:35 pm
-Shuttle from the airport to a bus station: Midnight, arrives at 1:00 am
BIG STRESS NUMBER ONE: As you can see, I have twenty-five minutes to get on this shuttle. If I don't make it, the next shuttle is at 5:50 am. The plot thickens: it is unlikely that I would be able to pick up checked baggage in time to make this. Ryanair allows one small thing on board, weighing no more than 10kg (about 20 pounds). I will be traveling for a week.
-Taxi from bus station to my hostel
II. Tuesday, April 28th
-Bus or taxi from hostel to the Glasgow Queen Street train station
-Train to Oban: 8:21 am, to arrive at 11:27 am
BIG STRESS NUMBER TWO: I have to pick up my tickets with the card I used to purchased them. Did I tell you I was pickpocketed this week? I no longer have a bank card. The website provides a number to call if it is impossible to have that card. I called the number, on both my cell phone and skype. I am positive that I used the right dialing codes. My cell phone claimed the number didn't exist. Skype simply said, "You are not allowed to call this number." I sent them a frantic email, and they said they'd respond within five business days. I'm assuming the weekend doesn't count. It's Thursday night. Ahhhh!!!!
-Meet Valerie in Oban
BIG STRESS NUMBER THREE: Valerie and I have been emailing. Several days ago, she asked for the specific times and dates, and said that her computer freezes a lot, and to call her if I don't hear back from her soon. I haven't heard back from her. Tried calling. Guess what? This one didn't work either!! I sent her another email. No idea how to get in touch with her.
-Ferry to the Isle of Lismore
-Mere twenty-four hours on the island to recover from traveling, enjoy the amazing island,
and form life-long connections
III. Wednesday, April 29th
-Ferry to Oban
-Train from Oban to Glasgow: 12:11, to arrive at 3:30 (unfortunately the next train got me in
too late for my flight)
-See all of Glasgow
-Train or bus back to Glasgow Prestwick airport
-Flight to Dublin: FR777, 9:30 pm, to arrive at 10:20 pm
BIG STRESS NUMBER THREE: Identical to BS(ha, fitting)#1. The last bus that leaves the Dublin airport for downtown is at 10:40. Twenty minutes to book it.
-Reunite with friends in Dublin. Exhale for first time.
AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! Of course, I'll be all alone. At least it's all English-speaking. Suddenly my Valence trip seems like a walk in the park.
Any comforting words/inside connections at Ryanair would be highly appreciated.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Proud moment.
I made a pun in Spanish!!
Yesterday, after lunch, Carmen was washing dishes. My glass and yogurt container remained on the table.
Carmen: Hay más? (Is there more?)
Carlos: Sí, espera. (Yes, wait.)
Me: No es pera, es yogur!! (It's not a pear, it's yogurt!)
Jajajaja. Never been more proud in my life.
Yesterday, after lunch, Carmen was washing dishes. My glass and yogurt container remained on the table.
Carmen: Hay más? (Is there more?)
Carlos: Sí, espera. (Yes, wait.)
Me: No es pera, es yogur!! (It's not a pear, it's yogurt!)
Jajajaja. Never been more proud in my life.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Big Crazy Exciting Incredible Journey Homeward Bound Travel Adventure Story
After a wonderful trip to Paris, Sasha and I sadly boarded the train that would take us back into Spain: to Valencia. We had had a hard time finding transportation back to Spain, since tourists flock in for the famous Semana Santa. Therefore, we were thrilled to find cheap (thirty euro) tickets from Paris to Valencia, a city that we both wanted to visit. We were also surprised to see that this trip was only two and half hours long compared to the nine-hour ride from Valencia to Sevilla. We decided that it must be the fastest train ever. Around 10:30 pm Tuesday night, we got off the train, ready to take our first breath of Spanish air in a week. We looked around, saw a “Sortie” sign (“exit” in French), listened to the conductors, and realized that we were completely still in France. This was the day that we learned about the great town of Valence, France. Suddenly it made sense why the trip was so short. There we were, two inexperienced travelers, late at night, in a foreign country. Our first response was to crack up. A long, adventure ensued. As you can see, we took a picture at every stop, as our hair got dirtier and our eyes got puffier.
After collecting ourselves to face the situation with fear and stress, as we should, we found the conductor to talk to. Note: we don’t speak French. We tried to explain our situation. He didn’t get it. Enter Helpful Guy #1. HG#1 was a fellow passenger who speaks Spanish and French. Finally communication occurred, and the two conductors on scene in addition to our helper shared our laugh. The main conductor brought us into the office. He was SO helpful. He spoke more English than we had initially thought, knew what to do in this situation, and kept a good sense of humor. My favorite part was in the height of the stress when he starting whistling something really cheerful, possibly an old Dixieland hit, whish was ironic for the seriousness of the situation. I called our hostel in Valencia to tell them we wouldn’t be coming that night. The lady who answered laughed the hardest of everyone yet to whom I have told the story. “¡No sabia que hay una Valencia en Francia!!!” Yo tampoco. With information from the conductor, Sasha and I considered some options:
Plan A: Look for a hostel in Valence, then continue south in the morning. I left a worrisome voicemail for my parents and sent a text to my brother to ask them to look online and find us a hostel. The downfall: Valence is tiny, and it would be difficult to find something that late.
Plan B: Get on a train to Montpelier, France, then Barcelona. The downfall: finding a hostel in Barcelona during Semana Santa would be impossible. Were it Madrid we could probably be taken in by friends’ sympathetic host families, but we had no connections in Barcelona.
Plan C: Take the 1:00 AM train back to Paris, and look for a cheap flight in the morning. Downfalls: we had spent hours looking for a flight before finding our miraculous Valence tickets, so there was no reason we’d find a flight then but not before. Also, as generous and hospitable as our hosts were, we did not want to show up at 4:00 in the morning. Even so, I called Ally, who has internet at her house, to look for a flight. During this international call, my saldo (pre-paid minutes) died. The only thing worse than being lost in a foreign country late at night is being lost in a foreign country late at night with no cell phone. In addition, my parents would soon come home to a voice mail (“we have a problem, call ASAP”) and not be able to get a hold of me. I used Vodaphone’s emergency saldo code (*111#) to get $2.50 (good thing, my worried mom called back).
Plan D: Midnight train to Toulouse, to Nordeau, to Valencia, to arrive at 3:00 the following afternoon. Perfect.
The conductor wrote out the stops for us, and luckily he clarified that we had to change at both stops. He wrote down our situation in French, gave it the official Valence station stamp, and came with us when the train arrived to talk to the conductor. Inside the train to Toulouse, the two conductors helped sort out our situation once again. They laughed, and kindly allowed us to complete our ride to Toulouse free of charge. There was abundant space on the train, and we each got a row of seats to ourselves. We attempted to sleep until the train arrived at 5:30 AM. Once there, our instructions were to find the 6:14 train to Nordeau and buy tickets on board, since the ticket offices don’t open until 7:00. The stop before ours, the kind, stereotypical conductor-hat and conductor-moustache adorned conductor found Sasha and me to tell us that the next stop was ours. Sensing something was up, Helpful Guy #2, a passenger sitting behind us, asked if we needed help with anything (in Spanish, which we established was a common language). He advised us to take the train to a place that starts with an S (which we kept forgetting the name of) at the border, and then continue to Valencia. He seemed to know what he was talking about, so we weren’t sure if we should aim for Saraband or whatever or Nordeau, as planned. We got off the train and scanned the departure screen for the train to Nordeau. There was nothing to be found. Sensing our confusion, a friendly, English-speaking police officer with a very funny voice came to the rescue. After several minutes of attempting to re-decipher our original conductor’s written route, he came to the conclusion that what looked like “Nordeau” was really “Narbonne,” and what looked like “6:14” was really “6:54.” This made a lot more sense. The police officer came with us to talk to the very impatient information guy, who confirmed the existence of this train. We asked about Swaziland or whatever but no one knew what we were talking about. We gave up and went with Plan A. This gave us an hour to explore the Toulouse train station. We waited until 6:00 for the pay-toilets to open and spent a worthy 50 centimos apiece. I bought my last croissant of France, and we stocked up on Peanut M&Ms from the vending machine. I was rifling through the puzzle books at the convenience store and was pleased to find the French version of the Games magazine paint-by-numbers puzzles I have always enjoyed. This made the remaining 239847238942 hours of our trip much more quick, fun, and intellectually stimulating.
6:54 AM
When the time came, we boarded the train and found the conductor. Although our story was no longer necessary to commute from Toulouse to Narbonne, we still told the conductor, hoping to get a sympathy discount or snacks or hugs or something. We still had to buy tickets, but we got prime seats (red and purple ones, nonetheless). I couldn’t help but fantasize that all European train conductors were alerted of our journey, and they were all in it together to help us. It worked in my head like the Twilight Bark in “101 Dalmatians.” All that mattered to the dogs (conductors) all over the continent was to get these puppies (Sasha and me) back to safety (Spain). I took pleasure in imagining our first conductor going home from work, his wife making him some tea, and him frantically waiting for news of our arrival. He could not be consoled until he knew that we had safely made it. Simultaneously, there would be a welcoming committee in Narbonne who would grab us and quickly escort us, without any bad guys seeing, onto the next train, where the kind old conductor would take care of us while on that leg of the journey.
Anyway, back on Earth, the conductor of this train (who whistled Gnarls Barkley’s “Crazy” with a cute vibrato as he printed our tickets) told us that in Narbonne, we’d have ten minutes to buy tickets and board the train to Valencia, and that we wouldn’t be able to buy tickets on board. We were very nervous about this, but he assured us that we’d be fine. The train had barely stopped when we bolted off, shoving travelers out of our way to get to the ticket booth. The line was more than ten minutes long. We went to the computer thing to buy them. It claimed that this train didn’t exist. With six minutes to spare, we sought a conductor. The one we found spoke no English at all, so I busted out my French. I was proud of how advanced I’ve become; instead of “Où est Espagne?” (“Where is Spain?”), I told him “Je voudrais Espagne” (I would like Spain). He brought us, along with an English-speaking Slovakian backpacker on his way to Barcelona, to the departure screen. He indicated that we should take the train to Port Bou, at the border, and then get a train to Valencia. This train was due to leave at 6:30 AM. It was currently 8:20. After some confusion, the Slovakian (who’s helpfulness was only slight, and therefore does not earn him the title of Helpful Guy #3) figured out that this train was two hours late. Since it was now about to leave, we risked the chance that we couldn’t buy tickets on board in favor of actually being on a train to Spain (that went mostly through the plain).
8:30 AM
As we had come to be accustomed, we looked for the conductor on the train. We walked twice through a million sleeper cars before we found him (with his shirt unbuttoned, not wearing his hat) and asked how to get to Valencia. He said we should get off at Port Bou then get the train to Barcelona. We asked one more time about Sacagawea or whatever, on the border, and he finally identified Cereber (it turns out it never started with an S). He said that either stop would work, but that Port Bou was better. Pleased that we were on our way to Spain, we told him we needed to buy tickets. He told us not to worry about it, covered his eyes, and stated that he never saw us. We took his cue and shuffled off to find seats and celebrate our second free train of the “day.”
We sat down, and a minute later a couple sat down behind us. This couple was memorable for two reasons: they were right in front of us in line at the Paris Catacombs the day before, and they both had long, fluorescent pink hair. We identified ourselves, and we chatted a bit. They’re British, and they’re touring Europe. They had had “travel problems,” as their morning train was delayed (HA! They don’t know the first thing about travel problems). They were on their way to Madrid, and also planned to change in Port Bou. Halfway through our commute, the train stopped at the Perpignan station. The conductors stormed in and sternly demanded that all Spain passengers get out. They finally explained that there was a bus directly to Barcelona, which I think was supposed to be helpful. We asked why we couldn’t stay until Port Bou and change trains as planned, and they confirmed that we still could. Wondering why anyone would choose a bus over a train, Sasha and I returned to our seats in the now almost empty car. We discussed what was going on, and a friendly elderly man sitting across from us entered the conversation. I’m proud to say that I honestly don’t remember if we were speaking English or Spanish. Either way, Helpful Guy #3 finally gave us answers. There is normally a train from Narbonne to Valencia, but it was cancelled. Cereber also has border control, but it has fewer trains out, hence the recommendation to stick with Port Bou. He explained that we would be taking the commuter rail to Barcelona, then the normal Renfe (Spanish train system) to Valencia. He said that they offered the bus because it goes directly to Barcelona, so it is theoretically faster. He, like many before him, loved our story.
11:00 AM
Excitement was in the air when the train stopped at the border control before entering the tunnel that would take us to Spain. My parents say that I’ve been through this exact tunnel before, eighteen years ago. Crazy! Two and a half policemen entered the train to see our passports: two adults and a gleeful, smiling fourteen-year-old wearing full police gear. I secretly hoped we would be arrested by the apprentice for stowing away (since we had no tickets), but in the end we settled for it being “Take Your Son to Work Day.” We went through the tunnel, and emerged in Spain! After being comforted by the sign reading “Salida” rather than “Sortie” and bidding farewell to HG#3, we took our places in line at the ticket window. We were SO happy to see a Spanish woman working. We proceeded to buy tickets, all in Spanish, and ask her every technical question we could think of just because we could. We told her the story as well, and she kindly welcomed us back to Spain. I celebrated our arrival by buying a chunk of Tortilla to augment my breakfast of Snickers and leftover Portuguese corn nuts.
The commuter rail to Barcelona went well, and we shared a laugh when we saw a station sign with the character “ç.” We remembered that the language of Barcelona is Catalan, not the Castilian Spanish that we speak, and that it includes the French character. Phew. Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to leave the station; our roundabout route could have been a serendipitous way to see the city. Across the station we spotted our pink-haired friends. We went to talk to them, and asked how the bus ride was. The man responded, “We’ve just been through hell.” He elaborated that “two-hundred” people were cramming to get onto this bus, and that it was hot and uncomfortable. He was frustrated to see that our train had gotten in at the exact same time, but admired our assertiveness in getting information and staying on the train. We joked about the other places in Europe that we would likely run into them, and at 2:30 Sasha and I got on our sixth train of the journey, headed to Valencia. It was great to hear Spanish again (Catalan didn’t sound too different, just like the Sean Connery version of Castilian Spanish), and we chatted with our neighbors on the train (including a lady with a cat!) and recounted our journey to anyone who would listen.
I did a lot of thinking on this train ride. It was incredible to me that we were on our way to Valencia. Sasha and I, the youngest of our families, somehow had made it from the foreign, scary, Valence to the back to a country where we know how to get around. I felt very glad to have three important things through our adventure:
1. Some traveling experience. I am extremely lucky to have had trips before this. In the past eight years, I have had four overseas trips (Italy with my family, Japan with school, Spain with school, and London with a friend). Even though three out of four were chaperoned and I had no hand in the planning, they still gave me travel experience. Even if I had not bought the tickets, I had been on trains in a foreign country. I can imagine that this would have been so much scarier if this were my first time overseas. So many people my age have not had the opportunities or finances for big trips, and I have taken all four of mine for granted.
2. Sasha. I cannot imagine going through this without her. Paris showed that we are great travel buddies, and we function so well together. I don’t know if I would have been able to laugh immediately after setting foot in Valence if she hadn’t been there. Our combined forces kept us moving south, and together we kept our spirits high. We shared candy, we took turns staying awake to pay attention to stops (as in I fell asleep every time I was supposed to keep watch, and she fell asleep every time she was supposed to, so it evened out), and we romantically reminded each other “We’ll always have Valence.” I am so glad to have had her there.
3. Luck. i. We speak two languages that, when spoken with a French accent, sound kind of like French. Also, lots of people spoke English. This could have happened in Siberia, or Greece, or Iceland, and then we’d REALLY be screwed. ii. We rode two of the trains for free. iii. We got comfortable seats on every train. iv. We weren’t in a wore-torn country. v. We’re cute young women. vi. We didn’t have lots of luggage. vii. It wasn’t the dead of winter. If any one of these things weren’t true, the trip would have been a whole lot worse.
Conclusion: Around 5:30 pm we made it to Valencia. We found our hostel, received laughs from the receptionist and other guests, and took the best showers of our lives. We ate Valencian paella, and after forty hours of being awake, finally went to bed. We arrived in Seville Thursday night, after a total of twenty-six hours spent on seven trains. This was an adventure that I will never forget, and a story I will always tell. Sasha and I are planning our next trip (to Italy in May), and making sure we don’t buy any tickets to Florence, MA or Venice, CA. With any travel troubles I have in the future, I will remember: at least I’m not in Valence. The end.
After collecting ourselves to face the situation with fear and stress, as we should, we found the conductor to talk to. Note: we don’t speak French. We tried to explain our situation. He didn’t get it. Enter Helpful Guy #1. HG#1 was a fellow passenger who speaks Spanish and French. Finally communication occurred, and the two conductors on scene in addition to our helper shared our laugh. The main conductor brought us into the office. He was SO helpful. He spoke more English than we had initially thought, knew what to do in this situation, and kept a good sense of humor. My favorite part was in the height of the stress when he starting whistling something really cheerful, possibly an old Dixieland hit, whish was ironic for the seriousness of the situation. I called our hostel in Valencia to tell them we wouldn’t be coming that night. The lady who answered laughed the hardest of everyone yet to whom I have told the story. “¡No sabia que hay una Valencia en Francia!!!” Yo tampoco. With information from the conductor, Sasha and I considered some options:
Plan A: Look for a hostel in Valence, then continue south in the morning. I left a worrisome voicemail for my parents and sent a text to my brother to ask them to look online and find us a hostel. The downfall: Valence is tiny, and it would be difficult to find something that late.
Plan B: Get on a train to Montpelier, France, then Barcelona. The downfall: finding a hostel in Barcelona during Semana Santa would be impossible. Were it Madrid we could probably be taken in by friends’ sympathetic host families, but we had no connections in Barcelona.
Plan C: Take the 1:00 AM train back to Paris, and look for a cheap flight in the morning. Downfalls: we had spent hours looking for a flight before finding our miraculous Valence tickets, so there was no reason we’d find a flight then but not before. Also, as generous and hospitable as our hosts were, we did not want to show up at 4:00 in the morning. Even so, I called Ally, who has internet at her house, to look for a flight. During this international call, my saldo (pre-paid minutes) died. The only thing worse than being lost in a foreign country late at night is being lost in a foreign country late at night with no cell phone. In addition, my parents would soon come home to a voice mail (“we have a problem, call ASAP”) and not be able to get a hold of me. I used Vodaphone’s emergency saldo code (*111#) to get $2.50 (good thing, my worried mom called back).
Plan D: Midnight train to Toulouse, to Nordeau, to Valencia, to arrive at 3:00 the following afternoon. Perfect.
The conductor wrote out the stops for us, and luckily he clarified that we had to change at both stops. He wrote down our situation in French, gave it the official Valence station stamp, and came with us when the train arrived to talk to the conductor. Inside the train to Toulouse, the two conductors helped sort out our situation once again. They laughed, and kindly allowed us to complete our ride to Toulouse free of charge. There was abundant space on the train, and we each got a row of seats to ourselves. We attempted to sleep until the train arrived at 5:30 AM. Once there, our instructions were to find the 6:14 train to Nordeau and buy tickets on board, since the ticket offices don’t open until 7:00. The stop before ours, the kind, stereotypical conductor-hat and conductor-moustache adorned conductor found Sasha and me to tell us that the next stop was ours. Sensing something was up, Helpful Guy #2, a passenger sitting behind us, asked if we needed help with anything (in Spanish, which we established was a common language). He advised us to take the train to a place that starts with an S (which we kept forgetting the name of) at the border, and then continue to Valencia. He seemed to know what he was talking about, so we weren’t sure if we should aim for Saraband or whatever or Nordeau, as planned. We got off the train and scanned the departure screen for the train to Nordeau. There was nothing to be found. Sensing our confusion, a friendly, English-speaking police officer with a very funny voice came to the rescue. After several minutes of attempting to re-decipher our original conductor’s written route, he came to the conclusion that what looked like “Nordeau” was really “Narbonne,” and what looked like “6:14” was really “6:54.” This made a lot more sense. The police officer came with us to talk to the very impatient information guy, who confirmed the existence of this train. We asked about Swaziland or whatever but no one knew what we were talking about. We gave up and went with Plan A. This gave us an hour to explore the Toulouse train station. We waited until 6:00 for the pay-toilets to open and spent a worthy 50 centimos apiece. I bought my last croissant of France, and we stocked up on Peanut M&Ms from the vending machine. I was rifling through the puzzle books at the convenience store and was pleased to find the French version of the Games magazine paint-by-numbers puzzles I have always enjoyed. This made the remaining 239847238942 hours of our trip much more quick, fun, and intellectually stimulating.
6:54 AM
When the time came, we boarded the train and found the conductor. Although our story was no longer necessary to commute from Toulouse to Narbonne, we still told the conductor, hoping to get a sympathy discount or snacks or hugs or something. We still had to buy tickets, but we got prime seats (red and purple ones, nonetheless). I couldn’t help but fantasize that all European train conductors were alerted of our journey, and they were all in it together to help us. It worked in my head like the Twilight Bark in “101 Dalmatians.” All that mattered to the dogs (conductors) all over the continent was to get these puppies (Sasha and me) back to safety (Spain). I took pleasure in imagining our first conductor going home from work, his wife making him some tea, and him frantically waiting for news of our arrival. He could not be consoled until he knew that we had safely made it. Simultaneously, there would be a welcoming committee in Narbonne who would grab us and quickly escort us, without any bad guys seeing, onto the next train, where the kind old conductor would take care of us while on that leg of the journey.
Anyway, back on Earth, the conductor of this train (who whistled Gnarls Barkley’s “Crazy” with a cute vibrato as he printed our tickets) told us that in Narbonne, we’d have ten minutes to buy tickets and board the train to Valencia, and that we wouldn’t be able to buy tickets on board. We were very nervous about this, but he assured us that we’d be fine. The train had barely stopped when we bolted off, shoving travelers out of our way to get to the ticket booth. The line was more than ten minutes long. We went to the computer thing to buy them. It claimed that this train didn’t exist. With six minutes to spare, we sought a conductor. The one we found spoke no English at all, so I busted out my French. I was proud of how advanced I’ve become; instead of “Où est Espagne?” (“Where is Spain?”), I told him “Je voudrais Espagne” (I would like Spain). He brought us, along with an English-speaking Slovakian backpacker on his way to Barcelona, to the departure screen. He indicated that we should take the train to Port Bou, at the border, and then get a train to Valencia. This train was due to leave at 6:30 AM. It was currently 8:20. After some confusion, the Slovakian (who’s helpfulness was only slight, and therefore does not earn him the title of Helpful Guy #3) figured out that this train was two hours late. Since it was now about to leave, we risked the chance that we couldn’t buy tickets on board in favor of actually being on a train to Spain (that went mostly through the plain).
8:30 AM
As we had come to be accustomed, we looked for the conductor on the train. We walked twice through a million sleeper cars before we found him (with his shirt unbuttoned, not wearing his hat) and asked how to get to Valencia. He said we should get off at Port Bou then get the train to Barcelona. We asked one more time about Sacagawea or whatever, on the border, and he finally identified Cereber (it turns out it never started with an S). He said that either stop would work, but that Port Bou was better. Pleased that we were on our way to Spain, we told him we needed to buy tickets. He told us not to worry about it, covered his eyes, and stated that he never saw us. We took his cue and shuffled off to find seats and celebrate our second free train of the “day.”
We sat down, and a minute later a couple sat down behind us. This couple was memorable for two reasons: they were right in front of us in line at the Paris Catacombs the day before, and they both had long, fluorescent pink hair. We identified ourselves, and we chatted a bit. They’re British, and they’re touring Europe. They had had “travel problems,” as their morning train was delayed (HA! They don’t know the first thing about travel problems). They were on their way to Madrid, and also planned to change in Port Bou. Halfway through our commute, the train stopped at the Perpignan station. The conductors stormed in and sternly demanded that all Spain passengers get out. They finally explained that there was a bus directly to Barcelona, which I think was supposed to be helpful. We asked why we couldn’t stay until Port Bou and change trains as planned, and they confirmed that we still could. Wondering why anyone would choose a bus over a train, Sasha and I returned to our seats in the now almost empty car. We discussed what was going on, and a friendly elderly man sitting across from us entered the conversation. I’m proud to say that I honestly don’t remember if we were speaking English or Spanish. Either way, Helpful Guy #3 finally gave us answers. There is normally a train from Narbonne to Valencia, but it was cancelled. Cereber also has border control, but it has fewer trains out, hence the recommendation to stick with Port Bou. He explained that we would be taking the commuter rail to Barcelona, then the normal Renfe (Spanish train system) to Valencia. He said that they offered the bus because it goes directly to Barcelona, so it is theoretically faster. He, like many before him, loved our story.
11:00 AM
Excitement was in the air when the train stopped at the border control before entering the tunnel that would take us to Spain. My parents say that I’ve been through this exact tunnel before, eighteen years ago. Crazy! Two and a half policemen entered the train to see our passports: two adults and a gleeful, smiling fourteen-year-old wearing full police gear. I secretly hoped we would be arrested by the apprentice for stowing away (since we had no tickets), but in the end we settled for it being “Take Your Son to Work Day.” We went through the tunnel, and emerged in Spain! After being comforted by the sign reading “Salida” rather than “Sortie” and bidding farewell to HG#3, we took our places in line at the ticket window. We were SO happy to see a Spanish woman working. We proceeded to buy tickets, all in Spanish, and ask her every technical question we could think of just because we could. We told her the story as well, and she kindly welcomed us back to Spain. I celebrated our arrival by buying a chunk of Tortilla to augment my breakfast of Snickers and leftover Portuguese corn nuts.
The commuter rail to Barcelona went well, and we shared a laugh when we saw a station sign with the character “ç.” We remembered that the language of Barcelona is Catalan, not the Castilian Spanish that we speak, and that it includes the French character. Phew. Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to leave the station; our roundabout route could have been a serendipitous way to see the city. Across the station we spotted our pink-haired friends. We went to talk to them, and asked how the bus ride was. The man responded, “We’ve just been through hell.” He elaborated that “two-hundred” people were cramming to get onto this bus, and that it was hot and uncomfortable. He was frustrated to see that our train had gotten in at the exact same time, but admired our assertiveness in getting information and staying on the train. We joked about the other places in Europe that we would likely run into them, and at 2:30 Sasha and I got on our sixth train of the journey, headed to Valencia. It was great to hear Spanish again (Catalan didn’t sound too different, just like the Sean Connery version of Castilian Spanish), and we chatted with our neighbors on the train (including a lady with a cat!) and recounted our journey to anyone who would listen.
I did a lot of thinking on this train ride. It was incredible to me that we were on our way to Valencia. Sasha and I, the youngest of our families, somehow had made it from the foreign, scary, Valence to the back to a country where we know how to get around. I felt very glad to have three important things through our adventure:
1. Some traveling experience. I am extremely lucky to have had trips before this. In the past eight years, I have had four overseas trips (Italy with my family, Japan with school, Spain with school, and London with a friend). Even though three out of four were chaperoned and I had no hand in the planning, they still gave me travel experience. Even if I had not bought the tickets, I had been on trains in a foreign country. I can imagine that this would have been so much scarier if this were my first time overseas. So many people my age have not had the opportunities or finances for big trips, and I have taken all four of mine for granted.
2. Sasha. I cannot imagine going through this without her. Paris showed that we are great travel buddies, and we function so well together. I don’t know if I would have been able to laugh immediately after setting foot in Valence if she hadn’t been there. Our combined forces kept us moving south, and together we kept our spirits high. We shared candy, we took turns staying awake to pay attention to stops (as in I fell asleep every time I was supposed to keep watch, and she fell asleep every time she was supposed to, so it evened out), and we romantically reminded each other “We’ll always have Valence.” I am so glad to have had her there.
3. Luck. i. We speak two languages that, when spoken with a French accent, sound kind of like French. Also, lots of people spoke English. This could have happened in Siberia, or Greece, or Iceland, and then we’d REALLY be screwed. ii. We rode two of the trains for free. iii. We got comfortable seats on every train. iv. We weren’t in a wore-torn country. v. We’re cute young women. vi. We didn’t have lots of luggage. vii. It wasn’t the dead of winter. If any one of these things weren’t true, the trip would have been a whole lot worse.
Conclusion: Around 5:30 pm we made it to Valencia. We found our hostel, received laughs from the receptionist and other guests, and took the best showers of our lives. We ate Valencian paella, and after forty hours of being awake, finally went to bed. We arrived in Seville Thursday night, after a total of twenty-six hours spent on seven trains. This was an adventure that I will never forget, and a story I will always tell. Sasha and I are planning our next trip (to Italy in May), and making sure we don’t buy any tickets to Florence, MA or Venice, CA. With any travel troubles I have in the future, I will remember: at least I’m not in Valence. The end.
Gibraltar Monkey Video
Gibraltar monkey video:
Youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EaTloeRzqyU
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/home.php#/video/video.php?v=1066648906432&ref=mf
Youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EaTloeRzqyU
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/home.php#/video/video.php?v=1066648906432&ref=mf
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Gibraltar--4/11/09
After a day of recovery in Spain, Kai and I spontaneously went to Gibraltar for a day. This was the strangest day trip of my life. Gibraltar is a four-square-mile British-owned territory on the southern tip of Spain. It was strange because we got on the bus in Sevilla, and seemed to get off in Great Britain itself. Everything was perfectly British (we had to change money), and it was a nice reminder of my trip to London and a preview of Kai’s impending one. We had no idea what language to speak all day, because the native language is English, but most employees are Spanish. The main attraction is, of course, the rock. We took a cable car up and spent the afternoon roaming around. The rock contains a Moorish castle, caves, and monkeys. The monkeys are the main tourist attraction, and also the most nationally important: when there are no more apes, the rock will no longer be British territory. There are just so adorable. They were all in family units, which generally had a mom, a dad, a baby monkey, and a kid monkey. They are free roaming, and there are cutely illustrated signs warning visitors not to feed the monkeys, show the possession of plastic bags, which the monkeys associate with food, or mock the monkeys (I violated all three—I gave one my orange, I rustled my sunscreen bag, and I pretended to pick nits out of Kai’s hair, since that’s all they do). Right off the cable car we saw the first family. I crouched down to extend my hand to the baby, and he jumped straight on my head. I guess the nit-picking is a really big deal, because the monkey was combing his little hands through my hair and gnawing on chunks. He found two big nits (bobby pins) and tried to get them out. This felt soooo good. It was the pleasure of a scalp massage and wearing a really fuzzy hat all in one. I was a little nervous about my ears, but I still enjoyed it. Putting a monkey on your head is apparently a great way to get attention, since a big crowd formed and the cameras were going nonstop. Kai took a video, which I will soon post. There was one moment of fear that he was going for my backpack zipper, inside of which he would have found a sandwich, three oranges, some ham-flavored potato chips (oh, Spain), and cookies. Luckily my hair was more fun. After I tried to shift so he would jump onto Kai, he went back to his mommy. His mom said something to him after! She put her face real close and definitely talked, it was not a sound I ever associated with Monkeys, but I wonder what she said. As a result of this interaction, I had a sick hairdo. He had pulled my bobby pins halfway out, so I had these “wings,” as Kai called them sticking up. I decided to keep it like that all day.
The second monkey encounter was several hours later, after hiking all around the rock. Kai and I arrived at the café at the summit, hot and tired. We sought refuge in the form of pre-packaged ice cream bars. We purchased them and stepped outside. A big, scary, full-grown monkey came out of nowhere. He saw my ice cream, and knew it was food. I held it high, out of his reach, forgetting that he was a monkey, and therefore that wouldn’t stop him. Next thing I know, he was on my back. I was terrified, and therefore could not enjoy giving a piggyback to a monkey, something I’ve always wanted to do. My instinct was to throw the ice cream to Kai. It worked, and the monkey jumped off and went for Kai. He threw it back, and we bolted to safety inside. It wasn’t until the bus ride home that I really became aware of the fact that I had played “Monkey in the Middle” with a real monkey.
In addition to England and monkeys, the rock was enjoyable as a natural wonder. We explored all the paths looking for the official Ape Den, and saw all sorts of flowers and trees. From every side we could see the sparkling, blue ocean. We saw the Spanish mountains, the strait of Gibraltar, and Africa. Our cable car driver pointed it out: it was a greenish peak through the mist on the horizon. I was disappointed that time and monkey didn’t permit my stepping on African soil (Morocco is an easy weekend trip from Spain), but I was glad to have even seen it. We decided to take the late bus back to have more time. Kai subtly rolled his apple to the big kid of a monkey family. It was so cute watching this little monkey sitting, eating the apple. He was a little ways away from his family, and they did not notice the treat he had found. The monkey stood up, apple in hand. I was expecting him to bring it to his family to share, but instead he took off up the cliff to find a spot to consume the apple in privacy. Unfortunately, about halfway up he dropped it. A mean, full-grown monkey scooped up the apple before the kid could climb back down. The sad little monkey returned to his family unit to get nitpicked while the baby breast-fed.
All in all, this day was wonderful and unique. Kai and I got real English fish and chips before boarding our bus back, and reviewed the fact that we saw Africa and played with monkeys, two firsts, on the same day. We agreed that we will probably never return to this site, so it was certainly a day to remember.
The second monkey encounter was several hours later, after hiking all around the rock. Kai and I arrived at the café at the summit, hot and tired. We sought refuge in the form of pre-packaged ice cream bars. We purchased them and stepped outside. A big, scary, full-grown monkey came out of nowhere. He saw my ice cream, and knew it was food. I held it high, out of his reach, forgetting that he was a monkey, and therefore that wouldn’t stop him. Next thing I know, he was on my back. I was terrified, and therefore could not enjoy giving a piggyback to a monkey, something I’ve always wanted to do. My instinct was to throw the ice cream to Kai. It worked, and the monkey jumped off and went for Kai. He threw it back, and we bolted to safety inside. It wasn’t until the bus ride home that I really became aware of the fact that I had played “Monkey in the Middle” with a real monkey.
In addition to England and monkeys, the rock was enjoyable as a natural wonder. We explored all the paths looking for the official Ape Den, and saw all sorts of flowers and trees. From every side we could see the sparkling, blue ocean. We saw the Spanish mountains, the strait of Gibraltar, and Africa. Our cable car driver pointed it out: it was a greenish peak through the mist on the horizon. I was disappointed that time and monkey didn’t permit my stepping on African soil (Morocco is an easy weekend trip from Spain), but I was glad to have even seen it. We decided to take the late bus back to have more time. Kai subtly rolled his apple to the big kid of a monkey family. It was so cute watching this little monkey sitting, eating the apple. He was a little ways away from his family, and they did not notice the treat he had found. The monkey stood up, apple in hand. I was expecting him to bring it to his family to share, but instead he took off up the cliff to find a spot to consume the apple in privacy. Unfortunately, about halfway up he dropped it. A mean, full-grown monkey scooped up the apple before the kid could climb back down. The sad little monkey returned to his family unit to get nitpicked while the baby breast-fed.
All in all, this day was wonderful and unique. Kai and I got real English fish and chips before boarding our bus back, and reviewed the fact that we saw Africa and played with monkeys, two firsts, on the same day. We agreed that we will probably never return to this site, so it was certainly a day to remember.
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