The Well-Worn Interrail Map
Like so many other British and Americans, James and I cannot speak another language. English is pretty much it for us. We’ll both happily try our hand at Spanish, French, Italian, etc, although I’m sure we butcher the pronunciation. (I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve asked a question in another language, only to be answered in perfect English with a slightly patronizing smile. Once, in Paris, I asked a complete stranger what time it was and was so happy to be answered in French that it didn’t occur to me I hadn’t actually understood the answer until I had walked away.) Had either of us understood Spanish, we would have never gotten kicked off the train that day.
We left Barcelona Saints Station at 8:45 in the morning on a train bound for Montpellier. From there it would just be a short jump to Aix-en-Provence, and we’d be camping among the lavender fields sipping wine and eating cheese. Yet the closer the train got to the Spanish/French border, the more crowded it got. Not only was it getting crowded, but the people who were getting on the train all seemed to have seat reservations. (James and I did not.) Backpacks in tow, we made our way up and down the carriages looking for two empty seats that didn’t have a tell-tale ticket. There were none. So we stood in the vestibule between the carriages, shouting at each other to be heard over the noise of the train.
Inevitably, the conductor hurried past us, only to do a double take and return to demand to see our tickets. This is where I first learned about supplements. Although James and I each held a valid Inter Rail ticket for travel throughout the whole of Europe and had paid close to £300 (nearly $600) for it, many train routes outside of France required that passengers pay a supplemental fee. I’m only speculating, but I think it’s because the Inter Rail company is French, so they probably receive the majority of the fare money, while the rest of Europe probably sees very little of it. So in order for them to make money as well, they charge fees, and if you haven’t paid the additional fee, you’ll run into problems.
We were asked to leave the train.
Portbou, Spain
We found ourselves in Portbou, the last stop on the Spanish side of the border. The next stop, Cerbère, was only a 15 minute train ride through a tunnel in the hills, and the next train wouldn’t be for several hours. What else could we do but explore for a little while?
Portbou felt tiny and secluded, with a population of just over 1000 people. Houses and buildings crowded down to the narrow seafront that was already heaving with sun worshipers. Portbou was important to the republicans during the Spanish Civil War because it was one of the few places they could get supplies from Europe. Today it serves as a rail freight transfer facility. The station connects to two tunnels into France, each with a different gauge of rail track. One is an Iberian gauge used in Spain and Portugal, the other is a standard gauge that serves the rest of Europe. None of this, however, seemed important once James and I caught a glimpse of the turquoise water of the Mediterranean.
Portbou Marketplace
From the station we wandered until we came to the seafront that lies inside a sheltered bay. The golden hillsides seemed to rise out of the water like they were there by accident. Small boats were pulled up out of the tides, and there were people snorkeling and sunbathing in the shallows. We found an open air market and bought a few things for our dinner that night: tomatoes, red onions, bread. For lunch we bought chorizo and fruit, enjoyed sitting on a low wall watching the shoppers. Soon it was time to catch our train into Cerbère, on the other side of the border.
Fifteen minutes later, we emerged into France and were lined up for passport checks, the first I’d had since leaving England. A bored official merely glanced at the cover of my US passport and waved me through. I waited for James, who was similarly waved through once he flashed his UK passport.
The first train for Avignon was promising. We found seats easily and were assured there was no supplement to pay. Back in France, we were adjusting our minds to say S’il vous plait instead of Por favor, Merci instead of Gracias. James and I began to watch the south of France roll past our windows. And then we pulled into the station at Perpignon and stopped. And we waited. And waited. And got off the train, stood on the platform, and waited some more.
Finally the passengers from our train were herded onto another train bound for Avignon. This train was crowded, stuffed to capacity with travelers. We stowed our backpacks with some others in a luggage rack and found places to stand near the vestibule of the train carriages. This train was also slow, as if the added weight of extra passengers were almost unbearable. Bending from my upright position to look out of the windows, I thought we must be in the most desolate place in the whole of France. The track looked like it was floating over huge salt marshes. Here and there were sunken docks and rotting wooden boats whose owners had left them behind. Everything was flat and various shades of olive grey. Once in awhile, I’d see a low band of bright pink – flamingos! Dozens of them! Imagine finding flocks of flamingos where you’d least expect it…
Interrail Ticket
Around 7:00 that night, our train pulled into Narbonne and terminated. Having realized that we’d never make it Avignon that night (we were only about halfway there after a whole day of travel), we decided to stay the night. However, with no campsite we could find and no available rooms at any of the nearby hotels and hostels, James and I decided to go with Plan B: Skipping the south of France completely and catching an overnight train into Italy. We made reservations on the 1:20AM train and went into town.
Dinner was a fluffy omelet in a small café, with lots of bread, and lots of wine. Back at the station, two old steam engines arrived to re-fill their water tanks around midnight. Whole families turned out to watch, their little boys excitedly hopping from foot to foot. There were even a few policemen watching and taking pictures of the engines with their cell phones. The noise when the engines left the station was deafening.
Exhausted after a whole day of traveling, I sat down on the platform to wait for our overnight train. With my backpack at my back and my legs flung over James’ backpack in front of me, I fell into sleep.
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