The series of train rides from Segovia to Normandy took less than 24 hours and were easier than the trip down to Spain. That said, it made for a very long haul. The days left on my Eurail pass were slipping by and I needed to maneuver myself as best I could while I could freely move about. Good thing I love to look out the window and observe what’s going on outside.
Monday, 16 July 1984, 5:00PM, Charmartin Train Station, Madrid
After another rough night’s sleep, that included a sleepless two hour time-out when I simply listened to the radio (and heard The Surfaris sing “Wipeout”!). In the morning, I got up, cleaned up and packed the majority of my stuff, and set out on the town to take care of business. That included changing French francs into pesetas, purchasing stamps for my bundle of postcards, and checking out of my room by noon. I left my bag in the lobby with the ever-vigilant, although lifeless looking, old guy who worked the front desk.
Hunger playing a major influence, and with time to kill before picking up my laundry at 1PM, I went over to the hamburgeseria for breakfast— a double burger, big plate of greasy fries and a beer. I’m really eating crap lately.
As my final pesetas ticked away, I did some modest provisioning for the upcoming train trip back to Paris. I’m not looking forward to this ride.
The leg of the journey featured a train ride relay of over 1,000 miles from Segovia to Madrid, to Irun, Paris and finally Bayeux. Where was the bullet train when I needed it?
With nothing left to do, I found a shady spot to sit on the steps across from the Plaza de Franco and examined my map of Madrid.
“Americano?” a voice asked out of nowhere. I looked up an saw an American girl.
“Oh, si, yo soy americano,” I replied with a gringo grin. In the conversation that followed, I learned this girl from Georgia had been studying for two months in Segovia. A friendly conversation ensued. Not too exciting.
When she left, I went to pick up my laundry. The snotty lady who I dealt with when I dropped off my clothes told me that my clothes weren’t ready. Then she began yammering away at me in unintelligible Castilian. I got the impression this was meant to torture me. I was thinking of appropriate names to call her, when a little old man broke in, and asked if I spoke English. He interpreted what the laundry lady said and told me my clothes would be ready in 15 minutes. Hm.
I ended up chatting with the old man, who saw my UCLA t-shirt and noted that many people think the “c” stands for Christian. This started a monlogue, offering few chances for me to interject. With15 minutes to kill, I was happy to keep him talking. The old man let go stream of consciousness story fragments that didn’t quite logically follow, starting with his father, a Tulane University Class of 1898 graduate, his own dislike for Spanish drivers and the Castilian dialect, his experience at the 1932 Olympics, Spanish anthropology, the fact that there were more Jews in Spain than in Israel (a statement he qualified by quoting Confucius who said something about not believing everything you’re told), and then the old man wrapped it up noting that he had been coming to this laundry for 20 years “in this backwards country” and he had given English lessons to the girl behind the counter. The two had been joking with each other when I walked into the laundry. This bit of oratory, and my well-timed head nods, lasted well over 15 minutes.
When the girl saw that the old guy had taken a liking to me, she pulled my bag of clothes from under the counter and proclaimed them ready. I paid and bid farewell to the old man. After that I returned to the hotel lobby and stuffed my backpack with freshly laundered clothes. I thanked the lifeless man behind the front desk and then began the death march to the train station, a 25 minute walk in the midday heat. Half way to the station, I realized that I neglected to return my room key. Under the burning sun, I considered myself well past the point of no return, so I continued to the station, or my next popsicle– whichever came first.
Tuesday, 17 July 1984, 9:30PM, Centre D’Accueil, Bayeux, France
Hot and sweaty, I sat at the train station sucking on a popsickle acquired at one of the many stands located around Segovia that dealt solely in ice cream. A sweaty Japanese tourist sat down next to me and struck up a conversation. His English was very rough, and partially explained why he laughed at whatever I said, whether it was humorous or not. We took the same train back to Madrid, and on it, he started asking me questions based on his understanding of our earlier conversation.
“So when you finish school, are you going back to East Germany?” Ok, not so good on listening comprehension.
The part of the conversation that he understood best was when he noticed the UCLA logo on my shirt, which he immediately recognized. I explained that there are many Japanese people in Los Angeles, which he didn’t seem ready to believe.
In Madrid, I bought a Coke at the train station bar with my last 100 pesetas. I don’t even drink Coke. Then I found my next train. Madrid was over 90 degrees again, so I didn’t bother boarding the train until the last minute to avoid the stuffy compartment. The train departed 30 minutes late anyway.
The 16 hour journey to Paris wasn’t a total nightmare, nor was it pleasurable (or even eventful) My fellow compartment companions included: an American woman, 40 years old, who spoke fluent Spanish (she was a flake); a young Spanish couple who were nice but not talkative; an old fart Spanish man who had smokers’ cough and an abrasive personality; and finally, a refugee from the cast of Saturday Night Fever, who spent most of his time walking up and down the length of the train to a disco beat that only he could hear.
We pulled into Paris on time. Feeling extremely scummy after the long, hot and at times very sweaty trip, I headed straight for the station showers in the basement. After getting cleaned up, I hit the information counter to find information on trains to my next destination, the Normandy coastal town of Bayeux. That train departed from the Gare St. Lazare, so I made my way there. I think I’ve got the hang of Paris now, and all of its train stations. Also picked up a bite to eat before jumping on my next train.
On the train to Bayeux, I sat with two American guys from “around Detroit” who were hilarious. Also in the compartment was a preppie jerk high school senior from Omaha, Nebraska, dressed in Argyle sweater, blazer and penny loafers (with pennies in them). It was a pleasure to listen to the banter of the two Americans. They were headed to Ireland on tonight’s ferry. It would have been fun trip to join them but I still have more of France to see, so I jumped off the train in Bayeux, the first French town to be liberated after the D-Day invasion of Normandy.
Finding the Bayeux tourist office was a challenge but within an hour of setting off from the station, I had found it, set up accommodations and had settled into my new lodgings at the D’Accueil. I’m not sure what this place’s story is, but $6.11 got me my own room (with a sink) in a dormitory style complex. Down the hall are unlimited showers and toilets (no toilet seats!). I must add that the toilets contribute yet another design to the growing collection. Fortunately my digestive tract is now rock solid due to efforts to stem the flow of my couscous curse. I’m sure I’ll be using these facilities before I go, and will of course be testing out whatever the French excuse for toilet paper is.
C’est la vie!
Time for another detailed drawing of curious Euro-plumbin designs you don’t see at home. And I always wonder why if you invest in an indoor toilet, why not go the whole way and get a seat for it too?
