Saturday, August 20, 2005

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

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.