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We stuck around London for the first night of our
break to see a concert at the Shepard's Bush Empire, but come Sunday morning we were on a train to Nice, without much idea of what to do from there. We were new to this Europe thing. London was treating us surprisingly well--we were studying there in the midst of a long drought and so far couldn't tell why everyone said it was so rainy. We'd taken a few weekend trips, but now we had a week to find freedom. Nice sounded nice, full of balmy Mediterranean sun and topless French women by most accounts.

*** iMpORtaNT tRAveL tiP #1: Bring a guidebook and do your homework. It can save a LOT of time, money, and aggravation. Let's Go and Lonely Planet are the standards if you're on a budget.

Ok, not that we'd done any research on the subject but it sounded like a fine place to start. I was carrying 30 British pounds (entirely in coins), a Europass, and a guitar and expected things to work out just fine.

On the long train to the Cote d' Azur, we met three
girls from the midwest who were actually studying in Nice and were on their way back from spring break in London. It was oddly congruous you'd say. Anyway they confirmed any ideas we had about people from Missouri by being super-friendly and over-generous. They informed us that the bus drivers were on strike in France (this happens about once a week) and that the hostel in Nice was 4km from the train station. We'd never make it walking with all our stuff, so they let us stay with them for a couple of nights and even cooked us dinner. We couldn't believe it!

Nice wasn't exactly cooking the first week in March.
In fact it was more reminiscent of a retirement
community on its last leg. The few people at the beach were the local hard-core tanning set, withered by years of ultraviolet radiation. Our visions of once prudish American girls letting loose on the shores of the Mediterranean were dashed.

When we asked the midwestern girls where else they'd been, they were all pretty complimentary of Barcelona, so we decided that would be our next stop. We got on an overnight train to Spain.

In the middle of the night, I awoke to some lurching
and the sound of grinding metal (not like Pantera or
Megadeth, but actual gears and such). But I fell back asleep and didn't think much of it. That is, until the conductor woke us up the next day and announced that we'd arrived. It didn't look a whole lot like a cosmopolitan city out there. I asked him, "Estamos en Barcelona?" He laughed. "No, no!" he said, pointing to a map, "Estas aqui, en Irun!"

*** iMpORtaNT tRAveL tiP #2: When you get on a train, check the destination of the actual CAR you're
boarding. There should be a sign right on the door, or ask the conductor.

After some initial outrage and confusion, we
discovered what had happened. They'd split the train apart in the middle of the night, sending one half to Barcelona and the rest of us idiots to the other side of the country.

So we were stuck killing a day in Irun, waiting for
the 10 p.m. overnight train back across the country.
Walking around this little border town in the Spanish
sun, we didn't find too much to do. We were on the
Atlantic and so we tried to find a beach, but didn't
have any luck. We'd walk to the park and see the local kids play soccer and then head back to the train station and so forth. On one of our treks we met this guy decked out in full cowboy garb. He looked like Steve Martin in The Three Amigos, only totally bad-ass: long greasy hair; dark, leathery skin; and the lost, vacant eyes of a man who's seen too much bloodshed or something. He was everywhere after that. We saw him all day, drifting around looking for his herd. Walking around Irun, seeing this guy dressed like a madman, one had to ask... "Quien es El Gaucho?"


That was about the time--or maybe before or after---we went to the liquor store. I practiced my best Spanish, asking the lady, "Tienes cerveza fria?" She smiled and said no, so we got a bottle of Jack Daniels and some warm Coronitas.

The rest of the day, Adam and I sat in the park
drinking like the men you might tell your kids to stay
away from. But it was an interesting time: we wondered what we might do with our lives after college, chatted with a lost dog for awhile, and struck gold with an idea about an amusement park outside of Amsterdam. We lost track of time and eventually had to head to the train station to wait out the last couple of hours.

The beers were long gone and so was most of the JD by the time we boarded the train to Barcelona. We were beat. We grabbed a couple of beds, set up camp, and after a while Adam went to the bathroom to puke while I stayed with our stuff. The conductor came in shortly after, and I showed him my Europass. That didn't seem to do the trick. He wanted "una reservacion."

I said, "I don't have a reservation, but I have this
nice new Europass!"

*** iMpORtaNT tRAveL tiP #3: A Europass is not an
almighty voucher for freedom of transport. You almost always need to pay a reservation fee or supplement for each individual train ride, but it's usually only $5-10, except on high-speed trains.

He wasn't impressed, so I had to pay him what sounded like an awful lot of money. I'd been in Spain just a day and didn't have a clue what the conversion rates were--again, a guidebook may have been of use here--but I was pretty sure I didn't have 2200 pesetas. He said he could take French or Spanish currency, but I just had a lot of British change that wasn't very helpful at all. I'd been using a credit card but he wouldn't take it. I told him mi amigo might have some money but then the train came to a stop, and without further discussion he booted me off!

So I was stranded and broke (but for plastic) and it
was nearing midnight in a little city called San
Sebastian. I briefly indulged myself in some self-pity
before I got up and started looking for a cheap hotel
that would accept a nearly-maxed credit card. The
beach was beautiful and the night was warm, but I
wasn't sure if I could sleep outside without getting
in trouble, or worse, robbed and beaten senseless.
Turns out San Sebastian is a posh and pretty safe
place to be, and it probably would've been ok. Instead I wandered for over an hour before a nice hombre directed me to the only place still open that I could afford.

I woke up and decided I had to get to Barcelona
somehow to meet up with Adam (who was convinced the conductor had lied to him and that I was still hiding on the train somewhere). I went to the train station and they wouldn't accept credit card for a simple reservation. I needed cash. So I played guitar on the oceanside boulevard with my case open, and as it neared sunset the crowds began to come. Rich and beautiful Spaniards and other Europeans spent the evening strolling by the water, and I was one of many street performers that entertained them for tips. After a few hours I'd made enough for dinner and a train reservation, and had even been invited to stay the night with some locals. I told them thanks but I had to find my friend.

On the train to Barcelona that night, I wrote a song
about the whole misadventure. I was smiling. It had
worked out all right, all things considered. When we
reached the Mediterranean the next morning, I went
straight to the beach and took a nap by the water.
There was a rose planted in the sand and it made for a nice welcome.

I didn't find Adam, though he'd been looking for me at the station. Barcelona's estacion, by the way, is
probably the nicest you'll ever find. Sadly, I only
got to spend a day in that amazing city before it was
time for a grueling 16-hour train ride back to London.

But no worries, I've since made up for it with a more in-depth and better researched trip through Spain. Still, it's a toss-up as to which I miss more.