Blog's not done yet!

Do not fear, my blog's not done yet! There's still a lot I haven't written about...Portugal, Scotland, Ireland, Greece, Rome, and hospitals. In the meantime, remember Manolo from choir? Well here he is!

Mueres?

At around 3:00 am last night (except a few weeks ago), a friend and I were walking along the river on the way home. A guy approached us, and kindly explained that he needed help; something was going on with his car (we did not understand his fast Spanish). He was being very nice, but we didn’t understand the problem so we turned to leave. In defeat, the man (mid-twenties, white, blond, small, cute) dropped his nice-guy act and tried to be scary. “Tengo una pistola,” he said, sticking his “gun” through his shirt. He turned to Daniel and yelled, “¡Dame dinero o mueres (give me money or you die)!” The situation got a lot less scary when he accidentally exposed his gun, which was actually a bright blue inhaler. Unfazed, he kept demanding money but reluctantly admitted defeat when I asked to see his gun. I was considering suggesting that he choose either the nice-and-needs-help routine or the scary-has-a-gun one for the future, because they didn’t mix well, but opted for getting the hell our of there instead. The important lesson learned was that bringing a guy along doesn’t automatically guarantee safety, and I’m glad that I got to learn this lesson through the least threatening mugger in the world.

Paris!!! Finally!!!

Sasha and I just got back (at the time of initial writing) from an absolutely wonderful trip to Paris. Surprise! We fell in love with the city! It was perfectly picturesque, just like in the movies, complete with outdoor cafes, accordion players and bridges over the Seine. It was also great to be traveling again and to get a change of scenery. This trip proved Sasha and I to be great travel buddies. I was sure we would have some sort of conflict, because we’re good friends and we’d be exhausted and together non-stop for a week, but there was really nothing negative. Our traveling desires and our wants and needs were identical. This trip was also another accomplishment for our quickly advancing independence; we kept reminding each other that we [almost] pulled off a perfect Paris trip without too much experience. We were also proud of how frugal we were! It certainly helped having free housing, but we ate well for little money and got in free at a lot of tourist sites (many cashiers deemed us European enough to get the European student discount: free). I really wished I spoke French, and managed to switch my Rs’ pronunciation to attempt a few phrases. We went from saying “merci” with a Spanish R to “gracias” with a French R once we returned to Spain. In [only] four crepes, three baguettes, and two chunks of cheese we had an unbeatable trip to Paris.

Day 1:
My day began at 5:23 am Friday morning, April 3rd when I woke up to head to Paris. I love waking up that early for exciting things, and going to Paris certainly counts. I walked through the dark to the Bus 5 stop near my house, which was surprisingly crowded. I took this bus to the airport shuttle stop, where more young people were gathering. The airport shuttle was 80% students from my program, and almost everyone was going to either Paris or Italy. It turns out our flight was a popular one, we knew half the plane! Sasha joined the shuttle at a different stop, and we soon arrived, for my first time, to the Seville airport. After a short flight and the smoothest landing of my life (yeah Transavia.com!), we found ourselves in the Orly Sud airport. A couple trains later, we emerged from the Gare de Nord train station in Paris. Our first move, per the recommendation of Sasha’s mom, was to leave our luggage in a locker at the station. We couldn’t go to our host’s house until 7:00, so we were glad to see that this was an option. We immediately set out walking to explore the Montmartre area. Ten steps into our journey, we witnessed something that neither of us ever had before: a mass Muslim prayer. There were hundreds of people, some kneeling on rugs, some on cardboard boxes, all facing east. We were definitely culture shocked, but we were so glad to have seen such an event. Diversity, in general, was a nice change. We headed right towards Sacre Cour, the famous cathedral with the “onion bulbs” atop the hill. This was a Friday afternoon, and church was in session. I was glad our timing was right, because the music was a sight for sore...ears. The nuns were singing, and the audience joined in. This in itself was truly incredible. The cathedral’s acoustics have been artificially boosted, so the entire place was filled with the eerily beautiful sound. Sacre Cour is a good tourist spot because of its view of the city. Unfortuately it was very cloudy out, and we could not see much. We could still, however, appreciate being in the exact spot where Amelie executed the wild goose chase for Nino, and were unfortunately a little too sleepy to reenact it. At this point, desperate for our first crepe, Sasha and I wandered around the little Montmartre streets, comparing the abundant crepe stands. We chose one, and sampled our first “crepe complete” (jam, egg, and cheese). [Note: proofreading this now. Took several times reading over that last statement to find the problem. “Jam” is not “jamón” in English. They luckily did not put jelly with the egg and cheese, but rather ham.] These were, of course, incredible. After getting a feeling of Montmartre, we headed back to the train station to retrieve our luggage before crossing the city. This proved to be easier dicho than hecho. The Gare du Nord station is SO confusing. We wasted so much time trying to figure out how to buy tickets, how to find the metro, etc., and with the addition of undercaffeination and the reunion with heavy backpacks, we were pretty cranky. We finally got on the metro and emerged at St. Michel. All crankiness disappeared when we caught our first glimpse of the Notre Dame. We walked around this area more, and stumbled across the fabulous Shakespeare and Co. bookstore. I told Sasha that my mom lived above it when she was studying abroad in Paris (my mom later corrected the story: she had gone in and they asked her if she was there about renting the room. No residence ever happened). After a while, we proceeded on the 12 train to the 15eme district, where we would be staying. Our hosts were Florence and Jean-François Allegre, friends of Sasha’s family friends. They are a couple in their sixties: Florence teaches high school students and Jean-François is a children’s book publisher. Needless to say, since he is a French children’s book publisher, Jean-François is a Tintin fanatic, and I was thrilled to see action figures all over the house. Florence speaks very good English, and Jean-François understands it pretty well. When we got there, thirsty, Florence wanted to ask if we wanted seltzer or plain water. Due to the language barrier, she asked us if we wanted water with or without “pshhhhh,” which of course entered Sasha’s and my vocabulary forever.
After settling in, Sasha and I went out for a quick bite. We headed to the middle of many tourist sites so we could see them by night. Of course, we stumbled into the most expensive area to look for a cheap dinner. On top of that, many restaurants were closing and we were still on Spanish time. We finally settled for the cheapest option: twelve euro salads (amazing ones) at a typical French outdoor restaurant. We went home and slept sooo well. It was great to have Sasha, because she is an experienced yoga-doer. She led a little stretching session before going to bed each night.

Day 2:
Saturday morning we headed to the St. Michel area. There was one thing we wanted: Nutella crepes. We succeeded in procuring them, and experienced a new level of heaven. We then headed to St. Michel to meet up with our tour. Ally had told us about New Europe tours. In several major European cities, guides run four-hour walking tours around the city for free. At the end, participants tip the guide what they would have paid for the tour. This was the highlight of the trip, for sure. Our tour guide, Philip, was from New Zealand and studied in London or something. He was fabulous: he was funny and really animated, and gave these huge interactive historical demonstrations (Sasha got to be Napoleon’s wife at one point). We walked all over the city, saw everything, and learned so much about French history. Some stuff we learned:

1. Napoleon’s tomb is in the Invalides. He is buried below floor level, so to see him one must bow down to the fallen emperor. Hitler visited Paris, and had no interest in seeing the major sights. Instead, he went to see Napoleon’s tomb. Refusing to bow down to him, staff installed mirrors on the ceiling so Hitler could see him.

2. Standing in front of the Louvre, there are the three arches perfectly lined up, each half the height and width of the arch proceeding it (the Arc du Triomphe being the middle one). However, one German tourist pointed out that they aren’t perfectly lined up. After some research, she was proven correct. Government officials talked about demolishing the Louvre and rebuilding it ten feet to the right. It was decided eventually that this would be far too expensive (I think the figure was about ten million euros), so it was left out of line. However, a building is currently being moved in Berlin for the same reason.

3. There are many faces carved into one bridge and the area around it. The story behind it, of course, was that the king threw a party and everyone got pretty drunk. The king hired the artist in attendance to sketch the guests. These carvings legendarily depict the King’s drunk friends. Philip declared these as the first Facebook.

4. To determine how the subject of a statue died, look at the horse below him. If the horse is standing still, the rider died of natural causes. If the horse is in a trot, or has any leg up, the rider was murdered. If the horse is bucking, the rider died in battle.

5. The roundabout around the Arc du Triomphe is the most dangerous in the world. It has twelve roads and no signs. Therefore, there is some sort of accident every thirty minutes. Philip said that, statistically speaking, if we climb the Arc and watch for half an hour, we’ll be sure to see an accident. Sasha and I tried and didn’t see our own accident, but we saw the remnants: a police car parked next to a car pulled over.

6. The Eternal Flame marking the tomb of the unnamed soldier under the Arc du Triomphe has not been eternally lit. It went out when a Mexican tourist, upset that France beat Brazil in the World Cup finals, urinated on the flame. He was put right on a plane, never to return to France. A few years later, Australian tourists were caught cooking hot dogs over the Eternal Flame. They, too, were put on a plane, never to return to France. Philip suggested that if we’re ever stuck in Paris, penniless, with no way to get home, we simply have to somehow tamper with the flame to get a free ride home. Sasha and I regretted not doing this when we were stuck in Valence.

And so much more. I highly recommend this tour for anyone who’s in Paris (or Madrid, Munich, and others, google “New Europe Tours”). We were disappointed that we had already done Montmartre, because Philip was leading a Montmartre tour that evening. Philip, Matt from Vegas and I discussed other tours he could create. Because of how often it came up, we decided that a Paris Beheading tour would be fit. There were also several instances of castration. We combined these tours into the Severed Appendages of Paris tour, which would surely make millions.

After the tour, Sasha and I proudly got kicked out of the most expensive hotel in Paris. Philip pointed it out and told us that it’s easy to stay there for free. All you need to do is win the Tour du France! We entered just to use the bathroom, but the doorman immediately suspected that we weren’t guests and asked us to leave. To cope with our defeat, we headed straight for Café Angelina: a spot recommended by many trusted tourists (Ella Reily Stocker and Tito Crafts). In line, we admired the little pastries, many of which were laden with golf leaf. We ordered the Chocolat African, which was amazing, thick hot chocolate that came with a fancy dish of whipped cream (Tito explained that you can put it in the hot chocolate, eat it with your spoon, or just eat it with your face). We thought we ordered a fruit tart to go with it, but it was really just more chocolate. When we left we were literally drunk on chocolate, clutching our stomachs.

Before the sugar crashed, we conquered the Musee d’Orsay. This museum, set up in a former train station, has the biggest collection of Impressionist art in the world. Since the galleries close earlier than the whole building, we had a mere forty-five minutes to see it all. Sasha completed her first “uh-huh, uh-huh” tour, which was luckily enough to seee the greats. We were so excited to see the famous pieces of art in here, and were equally glad we shared each other’s enthusiasm (this was the art quota test of our travel companionship). We agreed that we are lucky to have been brought up appreciating art and knowing these artists. This museum would not have been as exciting if I had not regularly watched “Linnea in Monet’s Garden” as a kid and if Sasha had not watched “Brian in Van Gogh’s Patio” or whatever.

After the museum (and a sugar crash and search for caffeine), it was time to conquer the Eiffel Tower. We waited in line forever (forty-five minutes) to find out that we were in the elevator line. We crossed to the stairs line, where there was literally no line. We stomped up the stairs and got over the line error by the first floor. It was so beautiful, seeing the city lit up at night. Once at the top, we celebrated by finishing the chocolate tart from Angelina’s that we had snuck into my bag. This was a truly Parisian moment, reveling in the fact that we were on top of THE Eiffel Tower in THE Paris. Furthermore, ever hour on the hour the flashy lights go off, which is absolutely beautiful. We were in line for the 9:00 flashing, on the tower for the 10:00, and we had just gotten down for the 11:00. Climbing the Eiffel Tower is my one memory from my last visit to Paris, for which I was about three years old. I clearly remember climbing the stairs and seeing something yellow. I was glad to see that my memory did not fail me and that the upper elevator was, in fact, yellow.

Day 3:
Sunday was busy. We got up early and got on the metro to the Louvre, which is free the first Sunday of every month. We planned on beating the crowds by entering through the basement metro entrance. Every other tourist planned this as well, and the metro was very crowded. Luckily, we booked it and managed to beat all lines. Phillip our tour guide had warned us that one “cannot conquer the Louvre, the Louvre conquers you.” This was the exact experience we had. We went first to the Mona Lisa. It was...disappointing. It was tiny, in glass, in more glass, and with a rope creating a large buffer zone. The place was packed, and we had to fight our way in to see her. The only reason I ever wanted to see her live was to get really close, but with all the protection there was no way to do so. There was a bad glare, so fans are really better off seeing any reproduced version of her. We saw a bunch of the museum (including some, but not enough, Spanish stuff) and got yelled at for eating our apples on a windowseat. In the Louvre we bumped into two groups of people we know! First were family friends of Sasha who are teaching in Granada this semester. Secondly were a few Clarkies who are studying in Scotland. Crazy!

After we accepted defeat a few hours in, we decided to head to the train station to proceed to Versailles. On the way, I yielded my biggest success on the language front: I asked a man with a baguette “ou est baguette?” (“where is baguette?”) to which he simply pointed to the bakery right in front of us. Our baguette (for dinner) was half gone by the time we arrived in Versailles. I had thought that Versailles as a town was the tourist attraction, not just the chateau. After the Louvre we were so pooped that we were glad there it was just one stop. The Chateau was obviously incredible, and between the audioguide and Phillip’s tour from Saturday we learned quite a bit. We walked around town a little bit and bought another baguette, some brie, and a bottle of cheap wine for dinner. We took the train back into Paris and set up on the pedestrian bridge. We shared our stupendous supper as we saw the Sunday sun set over the sparkling Seine. The night concluded with a stroll through the lit-up Champs-Élysées.

Day 4:
Monday was our day to do some big tourist things. We started out at our favorite crepe place on St. Germaine then headed to Notre Dame. We had just beat the crowd; when we left there were a million people waiting. It was nice to be awake in Notre Dame, the last time I was there I had been asleep on my dad’s shoulders. We unfortunately didn’t climb the tower because the separate line was very long, so there’s something to do next time. After a panini and a coffee, we went to Saint Chapelle. I had not heard of this church before, but it was one of the highlights of the trip. The second floor features fifteen massive stained glass windows telling the story of the bible. Each window is very intricate and has different shapes inside. The light is incredible, and it is incredible even for those non-religious folk (as Philip had warned us). We proceeded to the Marais district to meet up with two co-workers from last summer: Erin Q, my closest friend at the camp where I worked, and Inger from Denmark who was visiting. Erin is studying abroad in Paris. With them we walked through this district where there were un monton of little street shops. Included in these was a vintage clothes store, which is one of the things I miss most about the states. I left with a red felt wraparound skirt and a matching red Madeline-ish hat. We ended at the town hall were a protest against Bolonia, a European education reform, was going on. I only knew about it from graffiti in the bathrooms of the University of Seville, but Erin explained it better. The protest took the form of walking in circles through the courtyard in front of the town hall, so we participated for a few laps.

After bidding farewell, Sasha and I proceeded to the Arc de Triomphe. It took us a while to figure out how to get onto the island in the rotary on which sits the structure. We finally found a secret underground tunnel that brought us under the road. We climbed and admired the view. As Philip suggested, we watched for awhile in hopes of seeing a car accident, but all we saw was a police car parked next to a pulled over car, which we believe to be the immediate aftermath. That night we were going to stay for dinner with Florence and Jean-François, so we searched for a dessert to bring. Pastry shops in Paris are ubiquitous until you need one. We finally found a nice place, and were enthralled by the cakes and petit fours in the window. Because of the language barrier, I drew a diagram of the display, and colored in the ones we wanted. The lady was amused, but didn’t really get it. Sasha’s family friend and Florence herself had both warned us against Florence’s cooking (“I’m a bad cooker”) yet our dinner was spectacular. It was nice to really have time to chat with them and hear about all their trips. We learned that the amazing photographs around the house were all taken by Florence. After dinner, Jean-François ran off and returned with two beautiful Paris pictures books published by his company. I was really touched that he gave them to us, because we didn’t know him very well, and we had just crashed there for a few nights. I have learned some new French vocabulary from reading the book, which explains all of the beautifully illustrated Paris sights.

Day 4:
Tuesday was sadly our last day. We planned to leave our stuff at the apartment, doing some last things, and coming back for it before the train. However, Jean-Francois invited us to leave our luggage at his office downtown. This was very helpful, since we’d have much more time. On top of that, Florence offered to drive us in. It was great to get a car ride through Paris to purely look around and not have to navigate. We arrived at Jean-François’ office, which was absolutely wonderful. It was a complete children’s book workshop. There were posters and books everywhere, the walls were covered with children’s book characters, the place smelled like paper, and everyone kindly greeted us. We dumped our stuff and headed to the Tintin goods store. It was a wonderful place, with SO much Tintin stuff, but it was all very expensive. Jean-François must have spent hundreds of euros on his collection. We proceeded to find our last crepes and get the last views of some landmarks. Our primary goal was to find Rue Mouftard. After a very long time of searching, we found it. It was a cute little street market with fruit, fish, and chocolate abound. We headed next to the catacombs, the most highly recommended stop. We waited in line for a while and took turns ducking out to buy bread and cheese; thanks to the fluorescent pink hair adorned tourists in front of us (although little did we know how much we’d be seeing them) it was easy to find our spot in line. The catacombs are AWESOME. People were getting sick way back when because the cemeteries were overflowing. They moved all the bodies to the old mines. Some guy arranged the bones to fit as much as possible; as a result the walls are lined with stacks of neatly arranged bones. It was hard to resist playing Jenga with some ulnas. Some had patterns of skulls built in, some had crosses. It was kind of gross at first, but also just really really awesome.
After the catacombs we booked it to the Rodin museum which we refused to leave Paris without seeing. It had cleared up by then (it had been raining all day) and we had a beautiful sunny view of The Thinker. The quick stop at this museum was a great way to end our trip to Paris. Content, we headed back to J-F’s office to get our luggage. As we descended the office building with our luggage, we ran into Florence who was walking by in case she saw us. We were pleased to see her again to fill her in on our last day, and she was glad to have found us for shoe opinions. Her son is getting married in June, so she was deep in preparations. The current stage was shoe-selection. She brought us to the store where she showed us some adorable flats that we both approved.
Sasha and I headed towards the Gare du Lyon train station and stopped for Chinese take-out on the way. We boarded the train to Valencia (so we thought) with thoughts and dreams of Paris swimming through our heads. We hummed “La Vie en Rose” until we fell asleep.

Cute Host-Sister Moment

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.

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.

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.

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.