Laundry in Barcelona

Saturday, August 20, 2005

2010-05-27T08:59:00.000-07:00

Exhausted from a day of travel on numerous trains from Barcelona to the south of France, I slept on the platform in Narbonne, cushioned by backpacks, waiting for the night train that would take me and James into Italy. When the train pulled into the station, I awoke long enough to stow my backpack, find a seat, and show my ticket and passport to the conductor. Wrapped in my sarong from Hondarribia, I fell back into sleep. It was the best rest I ever got on a train.

When I awoke in the morning, I peeked under the curtain covering the train window and was greeted with the deepest blue skies, the stateliest palms and the whitest and grandest buildings I’d seen on our trip. My only views of the French Riviera and Monaco were from a moving train, stolen from under a heavy curtain. Markedly different from the grey salt marshes of yesterday, the scenery boosted my spirits. I was almost in Italy!

"Nude (Study), Sad Young Man on a Train", oil on cardboard by Marcel Duchamp

From the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, Venice

We arrived in Ventimiglia early and were ushered through another passport check. (Again, James and I were waved through without ever opening our passports.) We caught a train to Genova, then another train to Genova Sampierdarena, then another train to Genova Brignole. From there, we boarded a train for Pisa, where we met another young couple who were on vacation from America. As they struggled aboard with their giant suitcases, James and I helped them to stow their luggage. The four of us stood together and chatted as we made our way through Italy. They were on vacation for two weeks, and had brought double the amount of baggage that James and I had. They were surprised that we were traveling for a month and had only one backpack apiece. Looking at her well-groomed hair and fresh, put-together appearance, I couldn’t help but mentally compare it with my unwashed hair, day-old clothing and all-around “train face.”

As we pulled into Pisa, we glimpsed the Leaning Tower from the window. The other tourists on board emitted shouts of excitement and flung their forefingers in the direction of the Tower. I thought it was small. A part of me even thought “That’s it?” I was glad we were just passing through Pisa. (Several years later, after I moved back to California, I flew to London to meet James, and then we flew on to Pisa for a week long vacation. Our hotel was right around the corner from the station, and I couldn’t help but remember my initial reaction to seeing the Tower. Turns out, the view from the top is pretty spectacular.)

From Pisa, James and I changed trains to one heading to Florence. The American couple were headed the same direction, so we again helped them with their masses of luggage. By this time, I was able to put on my giant backpack without a struggle and without tipping over, and taking an extra suitcase was no sweat. The four of us exchanged email addresses and parted ways once we got to Florence. They were off to find their hotel, we were off to find a campsite.

We chose Campeggio Michelangelo since it’s the closest campsite to town. My trusty Lonely Planet book was kind enough to include directions and bus instructions. After a short ride through the city, the bus began to climb the bowl-shaped hills that surround Florence. It wound through leafy lanes, and every once in awhile we’d catch a glimpse of the Duomo nestled in the center of town.

The Well-Worn Map - Barcelona to Florance

When we finally checked into Campeggio Michelangelo, we were exhausted. Finally, after two days of travel and eight trains through three countries, we could relax with a bottle of Spanish wine in the lingering Italian twilight. Exploration could wait – for now, all we wanted was a bit of rest on solid ground.

Campeggio Michelangelo

Friday, August 19, 2005

2010-05-16T16:11:00.000-07:00

James and I were about halfway into our month-long European interrailing trip when we began running into train trouble. Our plan, once we left Barcelona, was to travel back into France to spend a few days in Provence. I think we were doomed from the get-go.

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.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

2010-04-16T20:02:00.000-07:00

You can’t go to Barcelona without seeing something Gaudi-related. It would be like going to London and not seeing Tower Bridge, or going to Los Angeles and not seeing the Hollywood sign. So on our last day in Spain, James and I went to see Gaudi’s unfinished cathedral, La Sagrada Familia, which promised to be a “once-before-you-die” experience. I had spent the past four years taking any opportunity I could to see the interiors of cathedrals, so how could I resist the chance to see one that’s been under construction for over 100 years?

Apparently James and I weren’t the only ones who wanted this “once-before-you-die” experience. Hordes of people and tour buses galore lined the streets leading to the church. We heard every language imaginable as we traipsed past vendors selling disposable cameras and holographic postcards of the pope and the Virgin Mary. And there, rising out of the crowds, were the towers of the Apostles and construction cranes overhead.

La Sagrada Familia, Barcelona

We waited in a long line to enter through the large glass doors under a modern stone scene of the crucifixion. The façade looked nothing like I’d imagined. From pictures I’d always seen a building that looked as if wet sand had been dripped all over it, like the witches castles you can make on the beach. But this building was smooth, with pale, carved stones and mosaic tiles.

The Crucifixion

Inside, we visitors were roped into the perimeter of the building. The center was very much a construction site, with equipment, machinery and piles of mosaic plaques open to the elements. But oh, the rest of the cathedral. Pillars carved like tree trunks supported an arched ceiling carved with stars and leaves. Stained glass windows threw bright rainbows of light over everything. You can only imagine how magnificent it’s going to be once completed, with nature and religion all mixed up inside. Because the cathedral’s financing has always been directly from donations, construction is slow, and I doubt very much I’ll ever see the completed structure.

We exited the building through heavily carved doors opposite from where we had entered. This was obviously the older side of the building, begun first in 1882. Hard to believe that Gaudi wasn’t at the forefront of this cathedral from the beginning. He was only appointed to the position of Project Director after its previous director resigned in 1883. Gaudi redesigned the cathedral to what we see today. This older façade showed scenes of the nativity among aged, heavily textured stonework. One of the most wonderful things I noticed were statues of turtles forming the bases of the columns. This architecture literally drips with imagery, making it absolutely stunning to take in.

Doorway

The Nativity

After so much visual stimulation, James and I took it easy the rest of the day. We stopped for tapas and ate outdoors in the sunlight. Mussels in sauce for James, skewered spiced meat and potatoes in hot sauce for me. We make one last venture to the Mercat de la Boqueria for chili peppers for that night’s pasta sauce before jumping back on the bus to take us to the Tres Estrellas one last time.

Whatever inner peace I may have soaked up at the cathedral that day was shattered during my evening shower at the campsite. While in my cubical enjoying the hot water, I noticed a movement at the top of the cubical wall. As I watched, a male’s dorky haircut, acne-spattered forehead and eyes that were trained upon me slowly emerged over the wall. I cupped scalding hot water in my hands and flung it at his face as hard as I could, screaming a few choice swear words at the top of my lungs. He vanished, and I toweled off in a hurry to find James. We searched out a security guard and tired explaining what had happened, but unfortunately, we were in the middle of Spain, unable to communicate in French to the guard, who couldn’t understand Spanish or English.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

2010-04-06T22:24:00.000-07:00

Even when you’re traveling, you still have to think about domestic things like dinner and laundry. We were ten days in, and our underwear situation was getting pretty dire. James and I needed to find ourselves a Laundromat or else we’d have to start re-using, and that’s just gross. Our campsite, the Tres Estrellas, although certainly rambling as my Lonely Planet book had promised, was not equipped with a washer or dryer. So into the city we would have to go.

On the bus into Barcelona, James and I consulted my Lonely Planet book. We found one little listing of one little Laundromat somewhere off Las Ramblas, but conveniently, no street names and no idea of scale on the map. It looked extremely close to the Barcelona Mar Youth Hostel, so we figured if we could find that, we could figure out where to do our laundry. (By the way, on the bus ride between Barcelona and the campsite, we kept seeing women at the side of the road waiting or hauling white plastic chairs to the roadside. We soon realized that these were “working women” who were awaiting clients.)

Working Girl

James and I somehow found our way to the tiny Laundromat tucked away in the back streets of Barcelona off a quiet square. We felt very far away from the bustling boulevards, although Las Ramblas was just a few streets over. We sat on small plastic chairs reading while we waited for our washing to finish. It felt so strange to be doing something as normal as laundry in Barcelona.

Walking Distance

We weren’t too far away from the Museu d’Art Contemporani de Barcelona, so when we finished we took our bag of freshly laundered underwear and visited the museum. What I remember most about finding the museum was that it was in a square that was filled with light. Emerging from small streets snaking their way between tall buildings was like suddenly opening your eyes. The white stones were absolutely brilliant. The Museum of Contemporary Art was light and airy, with dark galleries and high ceilings. There was an exhibition by Francis Alÿs called “Walking Distance from the Studio.” James was familiar with the body of work and was excited to see the video installations of Mexico City. He was also particularly inspired by the building itself, and later painted two images of it.

Painting by James Keniston

Unable to resist the market, we explored again to find food for that night’s dinner. The sights and smells were mouthwatering, from the salty cured meat to the fresh seafood, the sweet fruits to the spice stalls. We purchased mushrooms, red wine, green beans, and steak. There’s nothing like a well-cooked steak in a garlic and red wine sauce with mushrooms and green beans cooked and eaten outdoors while the sun sets. I think most food you eat while camping tastes better because you’re outdoors and you’re hungry.

Meat Market

Fish Market

James and I discovered that while the Tres Estrellas was large and rambling, it wasn’t large and rambling enough. We had been assigned a space in the “young” section of the campsite with other teenagers and college-aged students, young 20-somethings who were on vacation to party. They drank and sang and played bongo drums and didgeridoos all night long, screaming with drunken laughter and general shenanigans. James and I, who were on vacation to see and experience as much as we could, were awarded an extremely poor night’s sleep, only being able to rest after everyone had passed out cold. In the morning we walked past mountains of beer cans and wine bottles, discarded musical instruments, and young men asleep on inflatable pool rafts with strange assortments of clothing. Fortunately, we would only have one more night at the campsite before moving on.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

2010-03-01T20:35:00.000-08:00

Once I read a book about a woman who travels around the US on the train with her camera, which, as a budding photographer, I found highly irresistible. She wrote about having “train face.” Years later, after an overnight train through Spain into Barcelona, I finally understood what she meant.

Looking in the mirror of the women’s bathrooms at Barcelona-Saints Station, I decided I definitely had “train face.” It’s what a night of poor sleep in a cramped, cold compartment with the conductor’s flashlight illuminating the semi-darkness every hour looks like. I needed some breakfast (ie. Coffee!) and I needed it fast.

I emerged to find James sitting on a bench, encumbered with our two huge backpacks, equally afflicted by “train face.” We found coffee and pastries at a food stall and welcomed the sugary food. We sat amid the morning commute, I with my vice-like grip on my backpack, remembering the story of theft and lies from my Lonely Planet “Rite of Passage” book that took place in the very station we were seated in. We consulted my copy of “Europe on a Shoestring” and decided to try out the Tres Estrellas campsite. The catch was that it wasn’t actually within Barcelona. It was a bus ride to the town of Castelldefels, south of the city.

Barcelona

We set off from Saints Station to find the Plaça Espanya and our bus. Along the way we met two backpackers from New Zealand who were looking for a place to stay in Barcelona. We swapped stories, and after everything we said, they would reply “Aw, true?” After we split up, James talked about dunnys until we found our bus.

Eight and a half miles later, we found ourselves on a stretch of highway near an airport. On the left side of the highway were campsites, including our destination. Unfortunately, we were on the right side of the highway with no overpass in sight. We got off the bus with a French couple who were also looking for accommodation. The four of us stood by the side of the highway, looking wistfully at the other side. A team of road workers took pity on us, and told us they would watch the traffic for us and tell us when it was safe to cross. Collectively taking a deep breath, the four of us took off running toward the center divider, our backpacks bouncing uncontrollably and hitting us in the heads with each step. We somehow managed to roll ourselves over the concrete divider, and then dashed across the rest of the highway to sanctuary. (We later discovered that if we stayed on the bus for just one more stop, we would be right next to a pedestrian overpass.)

On the way to Castelldefells

After pitching the tent and freshening up, James and I caught the bus back into Barcelona for the afternoon. We stopped at the Plaça del Catalunya, right at the mouth of Las Rambles, a pedestrian boulevard selling everything imaginable. From street performers to caged birds, Las Rambles had it all, including access to one of the best markets I’ve ever seen. The Mercat de la Boqueria seemed to go on forever, yielding endless stalls of fresh produce, eggs, seafood, meats and cheeses. The sheer abundance of foods took us both by surprise, and we spent ages just looking at everything.

Mercat de la Boqueria

Tearing ourselves away from the fresh goodies in the market, James and I continued down Las Rambles toward the seafront and the statue of Christopher Columbus. We wandered back through the Barri Gòtic and La Ribera, getting lost among the tiny, twisted medieval streets. We could almost feel the ghosts of Pablo Picasso and Joan Miro in the oldest section of the city. We saw the cathedral tucked among the high grey stone walls and discovered squares exploding out from the narrow streets.

La Merce Basillica

Barcelona

Barcelona’s older section was a visual feast and a virtual Where’s Waldo of architectural details. A stone courtyard yielded fountains, mosaics and elaborate wall plaques. Easily the largest city James and I had been to thus far on our trip, Barcelona overwhelmed me. The streets bustled with electric anticipation one moment, yet quiet repose seemed attainable just around the corner.

Candle Seller

We couldn’t resist heading back to the Mercat de la Boqueria to pick up our dinner. €2 later, we had some of the freshest vegetables we could find to make a vegetable stew back at the campsite. We made our way back to the Plaça del Catalunya to wait for our bus.

Monday, August 15, 2005

2010-02-09T19:17:00.000-08:00

A little over a week into our trip, I was nearly used to sleeping on the ground with only a thin roll mat and sleeping bag, my balled up sweatshirt for a pillow. Terrified of having my passport and money stolen, I wore a money belt safety pinned to the inside of my jeans or skirts during the day, and slept with it pinned to the inside of my sleeping bag at night. Although this was slightly uncomfortable and made for some tricky maneuvers to pay for anything, the alternative was not something I wanted to think about. I’d already had that experience the first year I spent in England, and didn’t need a repeat in another European country. Paranoid? Yes. But did I return to England with passport and money intact? Yes.

Hondarribia, Spain

We woke early on our final day in Hondarribia. One thing about sleeping in a tent – once the sun is up and shining on it, it’s way too hot to sleep. So James and I were getting in a lot of early mornings. Relaxation called to us that day. We packed up our gigundo backpacks, rolled up the sleeping mats, and took down the tent. After checking out of the campsite we made our way into town to spend our day on the seafront.

Basking in the Sunshine

James fished from the rocks jutting out into the water. He had a small cork paddle with fishing line wrapped around it that he’d taken on a trip with his best friend years ago. I sat on the rocks reading and wandered on the sand collecting green sea glass. Although “sea glass” sounds romantic, it’s really nothing more than old, broken beer bottles that have been tumbled around in the ocean with the sand. No more than someone’s old garbage.

Sea Glass

We went to the shop on the corner for our lunch of fruit, bread and chorizo. We even found a small bottle of wine to enjoy while basking in the Spanish sunshine. As we ate our food along the seafront, we watched the feral cats. They lounged on the grass, in trees, on the rocks, under the rocks. There was a black and white cat with two kittens hiding under the rocks. We felt sorry for her and cut up small pieces of our chorizo for the little family.

Family of Feral Cats

Later that day, James and I gathered up our things and caught the bus to Irun. We were taking the overnight train to Barcelona via Pamplona and Zaragoza. Our seats were two of six in a car, and they pulled down and out to extend into small, relatively comfortable sleepers. It was absolutely freezing. I had pulled on my numerous layers to little effect. I sat shivering next to James, wishing I’d brought a blanket. Noticing my discomfort, one of our companions leaned over and said that Spanish trains were always freezing. He told us he was an actor at a theme park in Zaragoza and was returning for his fourth season. He left in the night while we slept.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

2010-02-04T08:06:00.000-08:00

Bus Ticket

Once again in Irun (“Irun? Irun? Why would you want to go to Irun?”), James and I found ourselves communicating rather poorly to the woman behind the glass partition that we each wanted a bus ticket to Bilbao. With only one seat remaining on the early bus, our only option was the 11:00. With a few hours stretching between now and then, we set about finding a place to pass the time.

Cafe in Irun

We settled on a long, narrow café with lots of counter space and a few small tables toward the back. Happy to be rid of my gigantic backpack for the day, I relished being able to sit at a table without trying to stuff all of my possessions under it. (I think backpacking means you learn very quickly to enjoy the simple pleasures.) Several cups of coffee later we buzzed back to the bus station and rode along the coast to Bilbao.

The Guggenheim

For many, the city of Bilbao is synonymous with The Guggenheim. Certainly for me and James, two art people who take most opportunities to visit all the museums and galleries we can. The main objective of our day trip to Bilbao was to visit The Guggenheim, to marvel in its architecture, to revel in its exhibitions, to soak it all in.

Certainly, the architecture was impressive. The museum was surrounded by water, giving the illusion that it was floating. “Puppy,” a towering dog covered in flowering plants by Jeff Koons, stood at the entrance. The interior, however, I found to be a bit disappointing. It was dark and cavernous, and there wasn’t as much art as I was expecting. On the ground floor was a Richard Serra installation, and wandering among his giant monoliths was an amazing experience. Higher up in the galleries was an exhibition of artifacts from the Aztec empire, which was interesting, but not exactly my “thing.” I suppose what I really wanted to see was European art and artifacts, not items from the part of the world I hailed from.

Carousel

Bilbao reminded me of San Diego, with its wide boulevards and hills in the distance, its public parks and Spanish fountains. Being a Sunday, all seemed quiet. Wandering through the Doña Casilda Iturrizar park, we noticed a lot of construction going on at the outskirts, and it seemed out of place next to a child’s playground with a colorful, ornate carousel. Inside the park, however, were peace and tranquility, no sounds but children laughing, birds calling, and the rush of water from fountains.

Nuns Enjoying Ice Cream in the Park

James and I caught a late bus back to Irun, arriving just in time to see the last bus to Hondarribia leaving the bus stop. With no taxies in sight, our only option was to walk the rest of the way to our campsite along the darkened roads and highways.

Saturday, August 13, 2005

2010-01-29T22:34:00.000-08:00

Just one week after leaving England for our month-long European interrailing adventure, James and I awoke to find ourselves in the north of Spain, on a playground in a small town called Hondarribia. As we slept, more campers arrived on foot and pitched their tents so that the long, narrow playground was filled. We could hear cutlery clinking and smell eggs cooking in the restaurant above us.

I hurried to the shower block, eager to start exploring. I found dozens of Spanish girls jostling for space in front of the mirrors, armed with curling irons and mascara wands. I had vowed to abstain from hair styling and anything but the bare minimum of makeup for the entire trip, so I was happy to have my shower and get out of there. The girls all seemed fierce, and not the Tyra kind of fierce.

People were checking out of the campsite and moving on, so James and I were able to move our tent to an actual pitch. We would leave the playground for the next group of backpackers who arrived on foot. Our new pitch was squeezed in between two other tents. The quarters were so close that the edges of the tents touched and we could hear everything that our new neighbors were doing. And I do mean everything. We packed our day packs and left in a hurry.

On the way to Plaza de Armas, Hondarribia

Fisherman's Houses, Hondarribia

We made our way toward the center of town in the bright morning sun. Our wanderings brought us to picturesque fisherman’s homes with potted geraniums hanging from the balconies, laundry gently swaying in the breeze. Exactly what you’d picture for a small Spanish town. The small streets began winding their way upwards toward an archway and the Plaza de Armas beyond. The Santa Maria de la Asuncion stood there, its Gothic and Baroque towers overlooking the harbor, surrounded by high stone walls. Once a fortress of defense, Hondarribia was attacked over and over during its long history for its strategic location at the mouth of the River Bidasoa. Now it’s just a peaceful sea town, declared an historic artistic monument.

Seafront, Hondarribia

James and I explored the seafront, with its many small shops selling to the many, many tourists. I bought a sarong that was to be one of the most versatile souvenirs of the trip. I loved the views toward France over the Txingudi Bay and the way part of the coastline seemed to be formed in long stone steps. All over the seafront there were feral cats living in the rocks. Here and there residents and visitors had left dishes of food and water out for them, and they hungrily snatched bits to take away to eat in private.

James, Hondarribia

We headed back to our campsite, but not before stopping off for a late afternoon drink in a small seafront bar. James enjoyed his beer and I my vino blanco. The owner of the bar ambled over with two small plates holding crabmeat salad on crusty bread. With a surprised “Gracias,” we dug in.

After our tapas, REALLY on our way back to the campsite this time, we stopped at a corner store (literally on the corner) to pick up our dinner: bread, tomatoes, onions, garlic, carrots, broccoli, red bell pepper and shrimp. We feasted on bruscetta and stir fry, sitting on our sleeping mats outside in front of our tent. We chose to ignore the everything our fellow campers were doing and to enjoy the relative peace and quiet of the evening.

One week into our month-long trip, James and I were happy and excited, satisfied with all we had seen and done thus far. We made plans to take the bus to Bilbao the next day.

Friday, August 12, 2005

2009-11-23T08:58:00.000-08:00

James and I rose early that morning. As we’d moved farther south, I no longer had to don layers and layers of clothing throughout the night to keep warm, which made packing up our backpacks that much faster. By now, we felt we were really getting the hang of these early morning starts. We would be making our way to La Rochelle’s train station to begin our journey further south still, into Spain.

On our way to the station, we met a Polish man from Warsaw who was on his way to Poitiers. Curious about our travel plans, he loudly and wholeheartedly congratulated us when he discovered we would be leaving France that day. “The French are f***ing bastards,” he exclaimed. “You’d go crazy within the year if you ever lived here.”

Our first train journey of the day took us to Rochefort. No cheese for us, just breakfast at a small yellow roadside café with lace curtains and an hour or so wandering a tiny park in the middle of a busy road. Just before beginning the next leg of our journey, I made a mad dash to the bathrooms, only to find them closing for cleaning. I slipped into one of the stalls before the maintenance people could close up. When I emerged, I discovered that in my haste, I hadn’t bothered to read the sign on the door. I was in the men’s. C'est la vie.

Back on the train a few hours later, this time to Bordeaux, James and I found ourselves squeezed into a bank of four seats with our enormous backpacks and somewhat enormous fellow passengers. The train was crowded, hot and sticky, and smoke from the smoking compartment was slowly leaking into the air around us.

James on the train, somewhere in France, heading south

Tempting as it was to stay in Bordeaux and taste the wine and explore the countryside chateaux, we decided to push on to Spain. Our next journey was to Dax. I was surprised to see pine trees racing past the window of our carriage.

From Dax, we caught a train to Hendaye. We were almost, almost to Spain. It was late afternoon, and we were both exhausted. We were so close to the border we could almost taste the tapas. We approached the ticket window and said we’d like to go to Irun, the first stop into Spain. “Irun?” the woman behind the counter asked. “Irun? Why would you want to go to Irun?” She didn’t add “You stupid idiots” to her question, but you could that’s what she was thinking from the way she stared at us. (A few years later, back in California, I met a woman from Hendaye. She asked if I’d ever been since I seemed to know where it was. I told her I’d only passed through on my way to Irun. “Irun?” she replied. “Irun? Why would you want to go to Irun??”)

Finally, we arrived in Spain.

Hondarribia, Spain

James had been to Irun before, and he remembered a bus to the next town over, Hondarribia. He knew there was a campsite there, so that’s where we decided to go. The campsite was right where he remembered it, and they even had his information in file, albeit incorrectly – their records showed that James was Irish, when he is, in fact, English. No matter. They were booked solid and were turning people away, but our luck held (or maybe we had perfected our pathetic look), and we were told we could pitch our tent on the campsite’s playground after it closed that evening. We stowed our backpacks in the office and made our way to the campsite bar to kill some time. It was a dark room, with strands and strands of colored glass beads covering the windows. I ordered a red wine (vino tinto) and was surprised to find that it was served cold, straight from the cooler. I was even more surprised at how refreshing it was in the heat of the afternoon. Later, when it got dark and we pitched our tent on the playground, James and I made our way into town for a late dinner of burgers and sangria. Too tired to explore, we drifted off to sleep on a playground in the north of Spain, ready to start our Spanish adventures.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

2009-11-11T17:19:00.000-08:00

James concocted some truly tasty meals while we were camping. The combination of cooking outdoors on a tiny camping stove and access to fresh ingredients made all the difference. This is a two-part meal of cooked prawns and stuffed bell peppers that James named after our campsite, Camping du Soleil.

“Prawns du Soleil”

Part 1:

prawns (smaller pack of large prawns)
1 tomato (chopped)
6 mushrooms (quartered)
1 clove of garlic (minced)
basil
salt and pepper
olive oil, to cook

Cook garlic and mushrooms a few minutes until softened. Add prawns, then seasonings. Add tomato and cook until tomato is soft.

Part 2:

1 red pepper (halved and de-seeded)
1/4 baguette (ripped up into small pieces)
olive oil
1 clove of garlic (minced)
basil
salt and pepper

Char the pepper halves over a flame or in a pan. Combine bread, garlic, herbs and oil in a bowl. Stuff the mixture into the pepper and serve with the prawns.

James, La Rochelle

C'est magnifique.

Wednesday, August 10 - Thursday, August 11, 2005

2009-11-11T17:11:00.000-08:00

One thing that became apparent time and again on our inter-rail journey that summer is that you couldn’t have a firm plan of where you would go and what you would do. James and I weren’t even a week into our trip and already our plans had had to change numerous times. Our goal, after leaving Pontorson and Mont St-Michel, was to make it to Bordeaux, where we would sample the wine in the sunlight that nurtured the grapes, explore the countryside, and maybe even get a glimpse of a chateau or two. (Again, this was the influence of Charlie Brown.)

Instead we made it as far as La Rochelle, which my Lonely Planet book promised to be “a lively and increasingly chic port city.” We decided to give it a try as it was getting later in the day and our chances of making it to Bordeaux and a campsite before dark were looking smaller and smaller. We disembarked the train at La Rochelle-Ville in the late afternoon and made our way to Camping du Soleil, hoping against hope that it wouldn’t be full.

We must have looked really pathetic, James and I, wearily trudging along in the heat with our backpacks, because for the second night in a row we were squeezed onto a pitch even though the campsite was already booked solid. On this occasion, we would be sharing a pitch with another couple who had a single tent and no car. It wasn’t ideal, but beggars can’t be choosers.

La Rochelle

One of the main focal points of La Rochelle seemed to be two towers dating from the 14th century that stand at the entrance of the harbor. To guard and protect the city, the people of La Rochelle stretched an enormous chain between the two towers. Sometimes the best solutions really are the most simple. James and I admired the towers from afar, resolving to leave the bulk of our exploring for the following day. Our main priority, having established a place to pitch our tent, was to find something to cook for supper.

The campsite was louder than the last two had been, and the showers smelt of urine. This was also my first encounter with the infamous Asiatic toilets. I was unnerved to discover a lack of toilet seats on the non-Asiatic toilets, and as a result, I “held it” for as long as possible. This only resulted in extra-long wees that made my thigh muscles ache as I hovered above the seat-less toilets. In this, I’m afraid, my American-ness showed through like a neon sign.

James and I were woken up that first night by a steady pitter patter of something hitting our tent, leaves or small pinecones or bugs or even rain. In the light of day, we discovered piles of small stones and rocks at the side of our tent nearest to the other couple’s tent. We were glad when the campsite owners moved us to a newly vacated pitch.

Writing Postcards With a Pint of Jupiler

Thursday in La Rochelle dawned slowly. We ventured out into the already hot morning to explore. We spent the day wandering around the streets of the city, visiting a model museum that housed, among other things, a motorized battle between two ships on the high seas and narrated entirely in French (obviously). We stopped at a sidewalk café that served Jupiler, a beer James had first tried in Belgium when we’d gone a few years previous. We found a market and bought the fixings for that evening’s meal. We tried, in vain, to find a beach where we could swim, but instead found only the rocky sides of the harbor with a dead jellyfish washing to and fro.

La Rochelle

In an effort to avoid the ants that were running rampant throughout the pitch, James had hung our string bag of food items (olive oil, apples, salt and pepper, dried herbs) over the fencepost closest to our tent. Much later that night, after the campsite quieted down and nearly everyone was asleep, we were woken by a strange rustling noise. James stuck his head outside and recognized our angry rock-throwing pitch-mate from the night before walking swiftly away from our food net, perhaps having discovered that there was nothing steal-able inside.

Dawn couldn’t come fast enough for us; we were heading to Spain in the morning.

Tuesday, August 9, 2005

2009-11-01T14:44:00.000-08:00

Although I left Bayeux without viewing its famous tapestry, I did manage to see some giant earwigs having a grand old time on the ties of our tent. Bugs creep me out. So imagine my terror when James and I disassembled our tent for the first time. I’m reaching blindly under the top layer to untie it from the poles, and inch-long earwigs are having a party under there. I shudder thinking about it even now.

Terror aside, we managed to take down the tent, pack up our little campsite, hoist our gigundo backpacks high, and make our way to the train station to catch the 7:48 AM train to Pontorson, our next stop.

The Inter-Rail Ticket, Thus Far

Our first task upon arrival was to find our next campsite. After wandering around trying to find the “shop-lined D976” and the Camping Les Portes du Mont St-Michel described in my Lonely Planet book and failing, we came across Camping Haliotis (which we immaturely nicknamed Camping Halitosis). Although it was still early, there were no available pitches for us to rent. Once it was established that we were on foot and had no car, however, someone found a small patch of grass just large enough for a tent. We gratefully accepted the offer and went about setting up.

We bought our bus tickets to Mont St-Michel and ate a lunch of baguettes and grapes in the shade on the roadside, watching the traffic. As we ate our grapes, a group of teenage girls wandered past. We weren’t the only ones to notice; a young man on a motorbike began performing tricks as he sped through the intersection, hoping to attract their attentions. I’m sure he managed to attract more attention than he’d bargained for as the wheelie he was attempting went terribly wrong, the back wheel of his bike flying out from underneath him, throwing him into the road. The bike landed on its side, and after hesitating there for a second or two, began to spin in wild circles in the road. The young man, with more of a bruised ego than body, jumped up and ran to his bike, trying to bring it under control. When he finally managed to shut it off, he looked up to find himself surrounded by shop owners, other drivers, and passersby, all yelling at him and gesturing wildly. The girls stood by in fits of giggles. Obviously, the young man had failed to make the impression he was striving for.

Mont St-Michel, France

What attracted me to visiting Mont St-Michel most was the description of its location – surrounded by sand stretching out into the distance at low tide, and surrounded by water just a few hours later when the tides turned. It sounded really magical, and I had to see it for myself. Unfortunately, it looked like half of Europe had the same burning desire, and we spent the majority of the bus ride stuck in L.A-like traffic.

Abbaye du Mont St-Michel

Once we were on the Mont, James and I made our way through its narrow, twisted and turning streets, hoping to find an area that wasn’t populated entirely by fellow tourists. We didn’t see any cars once we passed through the front gates. The labyrinth of streets all seemed to lead upward to the giant 11th century abbey at the top of the Mont, our destination.

Cloisters

To me, most European churches feel gigantic, but the Abbaye du Mont St-Michel was especially enormous. We were allowed to explore the main cathedral of the abbey, wander through the cloisters, view the crypt, and every time we thought we’d seen everything, we’d discover another door or staircase leading to another part of the abbey.

Abbaye du Mont St-Michel

Instead of stained glass windows forming Biblical images, these windows were simply tinted and arranged in patterns, making the space feel much lighter and less oppressive. The views across the sand toward the mainland of France were amazing. We could see people on the sand, but we were so high up they appeared as tiny as ants.

Prayer Candles

We picked our way down to the middle part of the island and found another, much smaller church. It was dark inside, but filled with hundreds of prayer candles in colored glass votive holders. After exploring a little more, we also found an attached cemetery on multiple tiers.

From Mont St-Michel

Later that evening, James cooked a dinner of Toulouse sausages, onions and mushrooms in red wine, with carrots and green beans on the side on his tiny camping stove. Fresh food cooked outside never seems to taste as good when you try to re-create it indoors at a later date. We sat on the grass outside our tent in the fading light, enjoying the food and local wine, and finished the meal off with a cup of Irish Crème coffee brought with us from Wales and brewed in the small coffee press we’d brought from James’s home. We may have been camping, but we were camping in style.

Monday, August 8, 2005

2009-10-10T08:40:00.000-07:00

After a sobering morning at Omaha Beach, one of the D-Day invasion sites, James and I caught the bus back to a small town we’d passed through earlier, Port en Bessin. We may not have been saying much, still digesting what we’d seen and experienced at the American Cemetery, but our stomachs were certainly doing some talking and were ready to do some digesting of their own!

Port en Bessin is a tiny place, set a little ways up a hill overlooking the harbor. There’s a tower-like structure further up the hill to the east, and a drawbridge that allows boats to sail in and out of the marina. We visited a small grocery store on the western side of the bridge and bought the fixings for a feast: baguettes, salami, cheese and nectarines, along with zucchini, mushrooms, tomatoes and pasta to save for dinner.

Port en Bessin, France

James and I waited to cross the waterway with the residents of Port en Bessin, waving at the passing boats. A young girl greeted us with “Bonjour!” There really isn’t anything quite as charming as children greeting you with accents and language foreign to you. During my first few days in England, when I was asking myself what exactly I had done by moving to a country I’d never even visited before, my doubts and questions melted a bit the first time I heard a child’s voice calling “Mummy!” When in self-doubt in a foreign land, listen to the voices of children.

James and I ate our salami and cheese baguettes on the hill overlooking the harbor, saving our nectarines for dessert. It was the most relaxing thing to sit in the sun feeling the warm sea breeze, watching the boats. Sitting on the hillside watching the residents of a tiny seaside town bustle about their daily lives, it began to really sink in that I was traveling.

Port en Bessin, France

We wandered around the streets for a little while, looking at the houses and shops and surrounding hills. The town was very picturesque, and looked exactly the way I’d imagined a French town would look. (Part of me wonders if this has anything to do with watching Snoopy cartoons when I was younger, particularly the ones where Snoopy is the Red Baron and they’re all staying in a chateaux. Those shows certainly influenced me more than they probably should have in other aspects - when I was in high school, I chose to take French instead of Spanish, even though Spanish would have been infinitely more useful to me in southern California.) Finding that a place looks just the way you’d imagined it has been quite a rare experience for me. The more time I spend imagining a place and all of its grandeur, the less it lives up to my expectations. The reality ends up rather, well, ordinary.

St. Andre, Port en Bessin, France

Before we caught the bus verts back to Bayeux and our campsite, we found a church to check out. One of my favorite things about Europe is the amount of churches that can be found, and how accessible they are. In a blur of candles, incense and marble, St. Andre’s stands out in my memories because it was filled with nautical items. Where you’d expect to find saints lining the walls, there were model boats. Holy water was contained in a huge clam shell. Being so close to the sea, it’s only natural that it should obviously have such significance in people’s lives.

Back at Camping Municipal de Bayeux, James and I set up the tiny camping stove we brought and began cooking dinner. (Well, James cooked, the gas canister stove terrified me. I had visions of accidentally starting a fire/explosion if I tried to use it.) Our pasta and vegetables eaten, we decided to explore a little during the last remaining hours of daylight and made our way to the Cathédrale Notre Dame. I took entirely too many pictures of its exterior.

Cathedrale Notre Dame, Bayeux, France

We returned once again to the campsite, ready to settle in for another cold night. This time I was prepared. I laid out extra tank tops, long-sleeved shirts, socks, scarf, sweatshirt and towel in the order I’d be layering them on throughout the night.

We would leave early the next morning, having never seen the famous Bayeux Tapestry.

Monday, August 8, 2005

2009-09-30T22:49:00.000-07:00

I awoke tangled in a sleeping bag, travel towel and scarf, and sweating in my many layers of socks and tank tops. It was my first day in Bayeux, and James and I were on a mission.

Omaha Beach, Normandy, France

We had decided during our planning stages that we would visit the D-Day Beaches of Normandy. It would be an especially meaningful experience for both of us because our grandfathers had each taken part in the D-Day invasion during World War II. James’s grandfather was a tank commander for the British Army. He went ashore on Sword Beach during Operation Neptune in 1944.

My grandfather's flight log

My grandfather was a ball turret gunner on a B17 Flying Fortress called “Pretty Baby,” and flew two missions over the D-Day beaches, which my family discovered only recently. We have his flight log and there are two entries for June 6, 1944, both labeled “Invasion Coast, France.” He was stationed in England for part of World War II, and participated in over 30 missions between May and September of 1944. He flew over mostly France and Germany, but he also flew over Belgium, Czechoslovakia and Denmark a few times.

"Johnny and His 'Ball', 3-44"

My grandfather next to a ball turret on a B-17

Crew of Flying Fortress "Pretty Baby"

My grandfather is in the top row, second from the left

My mom tells me that her father never talked about the war, which I gather is pretty common. James’s grandfather rarely talked about his fighting experiences, only the camaraderie he felt with his fellow veterans.

My grandfather is on the right

James and I caught a bus from the Bayeux train station that took us through the French countryside toward the beaches. After what felt like forever, we took a chance and got off the bus. We wandered down the road and found ourselves at the American Cemetery on the bluffs above Omaha Beach.

American Cemetery, Normandy, France

No photos, movies or books could have prepared me for the sheer scale of white crosses and Stars of David. They went on forever, rows and rows of them. When you see the enormity of the memorials and realize that each white marble marker represents a person who was lost, and that there were many, many more beyond what you can see, it’s hard to not feel emotional. I saw a woman crying in the chapel, and many others with tears in their eyes. I wondered if they were searching for the graves of family members.

American Cemetery, Normandy, France

James and I wandered among the markers, reading some of the names, noticing the flowers left. Some graves had wet sand rubbed across the carved names, locations and dates, pressed into the letters and numbers so they could be read easily. This single cemetery contains the remains of 9,387 people. There are 13 more American World War II cemeteries on foreign soil*. That’s only American cemeteries. From that, just try and imagine how many were lost. It’s unreal.

We took the path down the bluffs and onto the beach itself. It was a beautiful day, with hardly any clouds in the sky. We could see beachgoers farther down the coast, and the wind carried only the faintest sounds of laughter over the surf. James and I were quiet. I think we were both lost in our own thoughts, imagining what it must have been like for other young people, two in particular, in the same place we were standing in 1944.

Omaha Beach, Normandy, France

*Figure taken from a leaflet prepared by The American Battle Monuments Commission, Normandy American Cemetery

Sunday, August 7, 2005

2009-09-21T08:27:00.000-07:00

France from the Window of the Ferry

We arrived in Le Havre on Sunday morning. James and I, having spent a fairly sleepless night in and in the vicinity of our “reclining seats,” tried perking ourselves up with a breakfast and strong coffee. Here we were, at the very outset of our European adventure, tired to the bone already.

The very first glimpse of France in the dawn light did more for our spirits than any coffee could. France, and the whole of Europe, seemed to blossom before us out of nothingness. We had a rough itinerary together, and we were eager to disembark the ferry, catch a train, and disappear into the countryside.

France From the Window of the Ferry

Unfortunately, being a Sunday, train service was rather limited, which neither James nor I had taken into account. Also, as Le Havre is at the tip of a finger of land, there didn’t seem to be a direct train to the west. Our best bet would be to catch a train inland to Paris and change to another train back out to the northwest coast. The earliest train to Paris was in a little under 3 hours.

And so, we waited.

James, our backpacks, and I all sat on the marble floor of the Le Havre train station and waited, our butts growing cold and numb. Aside from the local pigeons, we didn’t see anyone else. I pulled out Europe on a Shoestring and began looking for what our next destination would be. We both decided that Bayeux looked like a good bet, especially since its campground looked cheap.

We caught our train to Paris, arriving at Saint Lazare station to grab a quick lunch of salami in a crusty baguette (a meal I would soon get really tired of), and hopped a train to Caen. We had a few hours to kill before catching another train to our final destination of Bayeux, so we decided to kill a few glasses of wine (“Je voudrais un vin blanc, s’il vous plait.”) while we waited at the tiny bar we could see from the station. I felt oh-so-European, sitting on the sidewalk at a tiny round table, sipping my wine and watching the world pass me by. Of course, I probably looked oh-so-touristy, with my giant backpack’s straps wrapped around my legs, my google-eyed stare darting left to right without ceasing, the unmistakable whiff of overnight ferry and fried breakfast caught in my hair. Ah well, c’est la vie.

Bayeux Station

When we finally pulled into Bayeux and realized we had no idea how to get to the municipal campsite, our fatigue got the best of us. We took a cab from the station, vowing that this was to be the first and only time we’d splurge on a taxi while we were traveling.

Our five minute taxi ride took us straight through town to the campsite, where we eagerly pitched our tent. That first night was one of the coldest, and brought back strong memories of my beach-camping experience. As the night wore on and the sea air got colder and colder, just about every item of clothing I’d brought found its way onto my body: jeans, socks, tank tops, more socks, long-sleeved shirts, sweatshirt, even more socks, scarf, finally even my towel. Unable to sleep for the second night in a row, I started to dread the coming month.

Saturday, August 6, 2005

2009-09-16T22:12:00.000-07:00

It was time to go. Somehow my enormous backpack and I managed to get from my flat at Old Street to James’ house in Stoke Newington without taking anybody out. After a few final preparations (Passports? Cameras? Underwear? Check, check and check.) and a final home-cooked meal of chicken kievs and potatoes, we were ready to begin our journey. His parents drove us to London Waterloo station, wished us well and waved goodbye. We boarded our evening train to Portsmouth, and then we were off, my stomach in my throat.

A bookworm by nature, I had limited myself to bringing only 3 books to last me a month: Rite of Passage: Tales of Backpacking ‘Round Europe from Lonely Planet, Deep France: A Writer’s Year in the Bearn by Celia Brayfield, and the Lonely Planet’s Europe on a Shoestring: Big Trips on Small Budgets. (Can we see a trend here?) I pulled out Rite of Passage and began to scare myself silly. With stories of hostels that smelled like vomit and being mugged not once but twice in Saint’s Station, Barcelona, this was probably not the best choice of books to bring with me while experiencing my first backpacking adventure. With some distance and time, I can chuckle and empathize with these writers and fellow travelers, but at the time it just terrified me.

In no time, James and I were in Portsmouth, where we would leave behind Britain and all of its familiarity. As dusk fell around us, we made our way on foot to the harbor, where we had two seats on the overnight ferry to Le Havre waiting for us. Still a beginner at this backpacking thing, I felt like I was walking through neck-high water: exerting all the effort and not getting very far very fast. What a relief it was to find the ferry terminal.

As we pushed off, James and I stood on deck at the railing, watching England slowly slip away from us and be swallowed by the night. “I’m in the middle of the English Channel!” I thought to myself, mentally conjuring up a map of the world with a big X over southern California and an even bigger X in the space between Britain and France (You Are HERE). Just living in London alone had been a huge mind-bender at times (I live HERE?), so embarking on a European adventure was almost beyond belief.

The ferry to France takes longer overnight than it does in the daytime, so we had a long night ahead of us. The reclining seats we’d booked were disappointingly uncomfortable, with cold plastic covers and unmovable arm rests, and in actuality only reclined maybe 12 inches. Apparently our fellow travelers were just as disappointed, because before long, virtually all available floor space was taken over by sleeping bags and bodies. I bedded down in the aisle between the seats, only to be stepped on repeatedly throughout the night. The room we were in felt like a movie theater without a screen, or a conference room with no podium or stage. Just lots of bodies, anticipation brewing like a strong pot of coffee, making sleep impossible.

Late July, 2005

2009-09-13T16:01:00.000-07:00

I didn’t think I’d be able to stand up, much less walk. My borrowed purple backpack was a monstrosity, almost as tall as me, and stuffed with tank tops, underwear, a camping stove, and whatever else I thought I’d need for the next month. It was all part of the crazy idea James and I had come up with to backpack around Europe after we graduated from art school. Crazy to me, anyway; I’d never dreamed of doing anything like this, and up until a few months earlier, had always said I hated camping and had no desire to do it. (This claim was based on one night in a tiny tent on the beach with my church youth group when I was 12. My sleeping bag wasn’t warm enough, my socks were damp, and the youth pastor’s kids threw rocks at my tent all night.)

Nevertheless, James and I came up with a plan: after we finished art school at our respective universities, we’d take a month to travel around Europe by train, carrying everything we needed in our backpacks, and find cheap campgrounds to pitch our tent in along the way. By the time we returned to London, my 3 year student visa would have expired, and I’d have to pack up and move home to southern California.

That July was an eventful month. After a rigorous campaign, London won the bid to host the Olympics in 2012. The Red Arrows flew over the city toward Buckingham Palace in celebration. The following morning, London’s underground and bus systems were attacked by suicide bombers. Thankfully, none of our crowd was lost or injured.

My family flew in for our graduations. Degree shows came to a close. James and I had a weekend trip to Wales, where I experienced the joys of peeing outdoors, along with many other firsts. (Lentils being one of them. Also sleeping in a sauna and seeing the Milky Way.)

And then it was time.

I looked at my backpack, innocently sitting on the floor of my room. I somehow contorted backwards, stuck my arms through the straps, and tried to straighten up. And immediately fell backwards onto my bed.