Wanderlost 2

by Simon Williams

  The mafia ensemble breaks into an infectious smile. The waitress appears at my side on the beckoning of the lead man in the reflective copper suit. She indicates that she is there to take my drink order. I point at the passionfruit mojito. She dutifully returns a minute later with a cocktail glass overflowing with deliciously sweet alcohol, with two umbrellas. I give my homie a thumb up. This is how to kick off the second 30 years of my life.

  The following afternoon I prepare to leave Eschenbach I will make my way by train to Switzerland. Suzanne and her Dad take me to the station. The sister somehow gets out of bed three hours before me and makes it to school on time. As I say thank you to the mother she holds up the packet of condoms for Suzanne and her father to see. Then she presses them into my hand with a stern expression on her face to remind me that, this is her house. I made the mistake of crossing her. She knows that I will now be subjected to a super uncomfortable 15-minute drive to the train station with the father. When given a choice between taking on a gang of German Mafiosi or a German mother it is a no brainer. I choose the German mafia every time.

  Stone the crows

  The slow, overnight train from Barcelona to Madrid may not have the lure and panache of the Orient Express, but don't discount what sleepless delirium can do to make this excursion memorable.

  The three of us stand on the platform at Barcelona Sants station waiting to board the Estrella 373 train. Sheilds, Jim and me. The eager expectations of nine hours of cramped bliss in a 6-person sitting compartment nipping at our heels. It is always fun when mates travel together. Sheilds and I have been mates ever since our first-year at university in Australia. Jim, her English boyfriend, has grown on me and is a top bloke. Loves his rugby, his cricket, and adores his golf. The type of guy who I am not that upset about the possibility of having to have sit on my lap for the better part of half a day. Or me on his, depending on who gets his arse onto the seat in the cabin first. The building that houses the train terminal is as massive as an airport. It is a good thing we came together as we would never have been able to find each other if we had to meet here.

  That statement is not entirely correct as we had found each other at the same station three days before. We arrived into Spain under different modes of transport. Sheilds and Jim via a plane to Barcelona airport. Myself via a train from Monaco that, due to the knock-on effects of a train strike in Toulouse, required me to get off during the dead of night in a small town in the French countryside. I had to find a hotel room then wake at 5am to catch a connecting train into Spain.

  We had set up this trip for during their Easter break from their job as teachers. I am in the middle of six months of goofing off circumnavigating the globe for my 30th birthday. Communicating via email as I Eurailed through Belgium, Netherlands, Germany, and Italy, we arranged to meet at the Barcelona train station on a given date. Contingent on me not having the time of my life in the Cote d'Azur. I was unaware there are two main Barcelona train stations, and so were they, until they exited the plane. Without any knowledge of where I was inward from, or what train I was coming on, they took a punt that I would be arriving in to Barcelona Sants.

  Being in the right terminal only meant that they were standing in front of the correct haystack to search for the needle. Barcelona Sants is a zoo. We were due to meet up at 1pm with my train arriving promptly an hour before. Sheilds, knowing me as well as she does, probably guessed that as long as she and Jim were anywhere within 100 meters of me at one minute after the time we had arranged to find each other she would know in a timely manner if she was in the correct train station. I am a stickler for being on time. If I am waiting for someone and it is one second after the arranged meeting time then that self-centered, bastard is late as far as I am concerned. The clock in the train station strikes 1:01 pm. My irritation rises precipitously. Things not going exactly to plan. The situation already looks hopeless. What would be the chances for us to randomly bump into each other? Zero? Buckley's? Double zero on roulette? I don't like leaving things to chance. This requires me to escalate matters.

  I walk to an open area that as close as I could approximate was equal distance from all four walls of the cavernous building. There I start to yell at the top of my lungs.

  'Sheilds! Sheilds! Fucking Sheilds, where the bloody hell are you?' I don't stand on ceremony when someone is obviously lost trying to locate me.

  Despite being buried in an avalanche of teeming hordes of Spanish travelers on a busy Saturday afternoon an area a few meters in diameter clears out around me, like I am standing in the impact crater of a small meteor. Jim and Sheilds have no trouble sniffing me out in about five seconds.

  'Thank god we found you,' exclaimed Sheilds, 'did you know there are two train stations in Barcelona?'

  My response to her question was blunt. 'No. Why would I know this? I have only been in Spain for two hours. Half of that time sitting on a train that I got up at 5am to catch. Do you know how much sleep I didn’t get? Who the hell schedules a fucking train at 5am? You know who, the bloody French!'

  Sheilds doesn't bat an eyelid. 'Well there are two. We took a guess that this is the one you would be at.'

  'Well good, because this is the one I am at. God knows how pissed I would be if you went to the wrong train station. Don't blame me. Who the hell needs two train stations? I was hoping I would like the Spanish. Starting to feel worried they are as bad as the French.'

  So that was the events of three days before during the great mathematical train station discovery of Barcelona. We share an enjoyable time over the next few days in the Catalonia capital. The tourist sites of this city are a who's who of European landmarks: Sagrada Familia; Casa Batllo; and glorious beaches. Jim and I spend a long night out at the MareMagnum nightclub area in the marina. Then decide to go looking for a random bar located west of La Rambla. Someone told us of an urban myth that the bar serves a drink so potent it will kill those who drink it. Why that appeals to us I have no idea? Hey, let's go drink ourselves to death. But like quickly, not by taking years while extracting a terrible toll on our families like normal alcoholics do. In my defense this is a better myth to chase down while drunk than one involving a woman and a donkey in Tijuana while sober. The things people do while on holiday when intoxicated. What else were two upstanding, inquisitive, young men going to do at 4am?

  Jim and I survive that adventure to be ready to hit Madrid. As we wait on the platform I notice an attractive young lady standing by herself. Time for me to put my three days of complete immersion Spanish lessons to good use. 'Por favor, como esta?'

  'Your Spanish is terrible,' was the return brick she lobs into my face.

  'You're American?' I reply.

  'And you're certainly not Spanish.' Then follows an uneasy stand-off punctuated by an awkward silence. I didn't have any follow up prepared as I had bet all my cards on the hope that she would be an innocent Spanish girl who would be smitten with my brave attempt at her native tongue. She eventually smiles and holds out her hand, 'my name is Nicole.'

  'Pleased to meet you, Nicole. Would you like to come and sit with me and my two mates for the trip? We have wine.'

  She laughs, 'sure.'

  Telling her we have wine is a bit of an overstatement. We have a single bottle. One bottle isn't going to go very far between two people, let alone three. Here I am inviting in a fourth. Obviously, I am over-romanticizing the shared experience of European train travel before the carriage has even left the station.

  Stone the crows - part 2

  Sheilds, Jim, Nicole, and I work our way down the carriages. We pass through the dining car to arrive at the entrance to our cabin. I slide open the door and am surprised to find the room full of people. It is a six-person sitting cabin and there are eight bodies squeezed in. Not just any people either. They are gypsies. Another uneasy stand-off follows, this one broken by my overwhelming Australian sense of curiosity.

  'Do you have fucking tickets for this room?'

  The faces on the gyps
ies disclose their complete surprise at being called out for overtaking a cabin that was not theirs. 'We are gypsies, we mean you no harm.'

  'I don't give a shit. If you don't have a ticket for this room get the hell out,' I reply.

  The seven men and one woman stand up and file down the corridor towards the dining car. Once they leave we discover that astonishingly there are still two other young women in the room. They were shoved up against the wall and completely hidden by the mass of gypsy flesh that had invaded the small space. Two medical students from Colombia who are greatly relieved that I have apparently come to save them from a fate worse than a six-hour car ride to Granada in the backseat of a 2-door Fiat. We all introduce ourselves. Jim and I are now incredibly annoyed that Sheilds only allowed us to buy one bottle of wine for the journey. A case of beer, two 4-litre wine casks, and a bottle of Schnapps would not have been sufficient. Then the last occupant of the cabin arrives. A young blonde girl from France who is off to visit her sister in the countryside of Spain. Bugger, we really could have used two bottles of Schnapps. After telling her of our early morning search for the 'bar of death' in Barcelona, Sheilds had unilaterally elected herself to be the voice of reason for the rest of the trip.

  The seven of us find space to sit down on the two facing bench seats. Sheilds, Jim, and the French girl on one side. Nicole, I, and the two Colombian Medics sardined in on the other. Sheilds has known me a long time, I get the sense she is happy for me. Reveling in a moment of unaccustomed female attention. The bottle of wine is opened, shared, and consumed before the line of carriages begin their departure from the station. Oh joy, only eight hours and fifty-nine minutes of sobriety on a train to endure.

  Despite this hardship we manage to find a common bond. The seven people in the room share a wonderful expression of everything that is amazing about the soul filling happiness of travel. Even without the benefit of two bottles of Schnapps. We are all under 30, all blissfully ill-informed about world politics and the divisions existing between people of different nations over imaginary borders drawn on a map. Personally, I have always been a huge proponent of a free trade agreement between Columbia, France, the US, and Australia. We all talk enthusiastically, sharing stories of our lives and our countries of origin. The two Columbians don't speak English, but Nicole is able to assist with translation. We have nothing much in common outside of the seating number on our tickets, but we only needed to share one mutual element. Our unbridled excitement at being out and about in the world. If I had to name one single four-hour period of my life as the happiest, this would be it.

  I take a photo of the group of us bunching up on the door side of the compartment with my camera. It has a function that allows me to use a remote-control device that clips onto the side. This is years before the ability to take selfies with a smart phone. I doubt the cabin was wide enough to extend a selfie stick. Having a camera with a remote control was a huge technological development.

  At 1.14am we reach the French girl's destination. I escort her to the stairs with her bags, to receive an appreciative, lingering kiss on the cheek. Returning to the cabin it is apparent that some of the magic we have been experiencing is now losing its enchantment. We are all exhausted. Nicole yawns then tells us she will retire to her sleeper cabin. I chaperone her to her door and we arrange for her to join Jim, Sheilds, and I on our strategic night out in Madrid the next evening. Our lodging has a policy that if guests are not inside by 11pm the doors are locked until 6am and no access will be granted. We plan to test our all-night party mettle against the ruthless, fun-avoidance regulations of our budget accommodation.

  Nicole gives me a lingering kiss on the cheek and we say goodnight. I make my way back to my cabin and as I get closer the sound of singing and accompanying guitar gradually increases in tone. It is coming from the dining car. My cabin is quieter now. Everyone is trying to get some sleep, so I sit back down between the two Colombians. For my legs to be comfortably supported by the chair on the other side I must slide down till my coccyx is off the seat I am sitting on. It is an incredibly awkward position to be in but there is no other direction for my body to be able to spread out. The two girls on either side snuggle in closer to me for warmth. Even in the darkness I could see the smirk on Sheilds' face. She mouths the words, 'you think you're in heaven, don't you? You big dork.'

  If I am, then I now know one horrible thing about heaven they don't you in church. You can't sleep. I lie uncomfortably for an hour trying to find any position I could be relaxed in with one girl's head on my lap while I support the other girl's head nestled against my chest. I am getting the short end of the stick in this ménage. This scenario always appears so blissful in adult films. With blood and feeling draining from my legs I finally must stand and stretch out. Realizing there isn't enough room to fit four comfortably in the cabin, let alone the advertised six, I open the door and step out to weigh up other options. One of the Columbian girls stirs out of her sleep by my movements and follows me outside. The gentle melody of the guitar is still softly strumming away in the dining car. I nod my head in that direction and, with bleary eyes, we wander off in search of some space to sleep.

  The dining car is completely empty, save for the eight gypsies I evicted from the cabin earlier. The seats at the table are much narrower than the ones in the sitting compartment, but I manage to lean against the wall while the Colombian girl sits next to me. Then she rests against me as if I am her favourite big, Australian pillow. She falls happily asleep. It is still an uncomfortable position for me, but a measure of less un-comfortability than in the room with the two Colombians sleeping on me. Words I don't think any other man in history has ever uttered.

  My eyes close and I am seconds from being afforded a small measure of slumber when there is a loud, vigorous strumming of guitar strings close to my head. 'Guadalajara!.... Guadalajara!' Stone the crows, what is going on? This is followed by rousing cheers and clapping from the gypsies as the energetic guitar string plucking carries on. Fuckers. They are going to pay me back with sleep deprivation. My eyelids weigh a tonne. I pry them open but all I can see is an out of focus blur of light.

  As my focus returns, I can clearly tell that all the gypsies are gawking at me while they sing, dance and clap. "We are gypsies,' says one of them to no one in particular, but I can tell who he is talking to. 'We don’t sleep at night, we party.' An obvious reference to the fact that I am non-Roma, or 'gadje,' as every black, white and Chinese person who doesn't travel in a covered wagon and spend their day pick pocketing tourists is referred to. The group launches into another series of typical Romani musical melodies that to me are neither entertaining or soothing.

  Gypsies have been banned and expelled from several European countries at various times during history. Charles V, the ruler of the Holy Roman Empire in the 1500's, decreed that, 'whoever kills a Gypsy, will be guilty of no murder.' By the 1700's things had become more civilized with the Holy Roman Emperor, Joseph I, declaring that only adult male gypsies were to be hanged without trial. While women and young males were let off with a flogging and banishment. I thought the Black Plague was the only problem during the European middle ages. Apparently, gypsies were overwhelming the continent as well. It seems the Romani people are now exacting their revenge by making modern overnight train travel in Europe intolerable.

  If there was ever a perfect ideation of the phrase, 'caught between a rock and a hard place,' then it would be me in my current situation. I am either unable to sleep with two girls lying all over me, or unable to sleep with one girl lying all over me while a band of gypsies torments me with acoustic music. I have read a lot of Frommer's Guides to Europe and Let's Go travel books, never once have I seen any suggestions for dealing with a preposterously shitty situation like this.

  The hand clapping, singing, and eclectic guitar playing carries on relentlessly for the next three and a half hours, until the train finally glides into Madrid's Atocha Train Depot. Sheilds and Jim are sufficiently well rested w
hile I step off the carriage in a devastated state of consciousness. The two young Colombians bid us farewell. The one who slept on my stomach, while blissfully unaware of the impromptu concert in the dining car, gives me a lingering kiss on the cheek before she walks away.

  A chirpy and refreshed Nicole bounds up to us as we take a moment to orientate ourselves on our next move towards the subway to the hotel. 'So, we still on for this all-night party attempt tonight?'

  'You bet,' cry Jim and Sheilds.

  'And what about you, Simon?' Asks Nicole.

  'I want to fucking die.'

  My annoyance at having no sleep stretching all the way back to my early wake-up call in France. Since I arrived in Spain all my late-night adventures have ended with me wanting to find a way to kill myself. However, like a true champion I back up that night and…. Well that is story for another time.