We left for Barcelona this morning from Carcassonne. We took the 8:05 train to Narbonne. In Narbonne, we realized our ticket was for the 7:40 train, not the 8:05 train. We missed the direct train to Barcelona. The fact that there really was an 8:05 train to Narbonne can only mean that God has a fantastic sense of humor. And the adventure begins...
After this devastating realization, we laughed at ourselves (reluctantly), shrugged our shoulders and went with it. The shortest way to Barcelona was to go to Cerbere, then on to Port Bou Espagne, then on to Barcelona, putting us there at 3:00 pm. Our only option... Okay, we'll take it.
An hour later, we board the train to Cerbere, but just barely. We're eating our chocolate croissants in the cafe and seeing what Rick Steves has to say about Barcelona when Ashley notices that our train has been delayed 15 minutes. Considering that it's a bit of a chore to carry our luggage up and down stairs, I recommended we leave then to find the platform. As we step out of the station, Ashley asks an employee for confirmation (you learn to ask a lot of questions when traveling). He says, "No, this train doesn't go to Cerbere you stupid Americans." He said it all in French, so I'm not positive, but I imagine that's what he said. Well I take off down the platform with no real purpose, I just felt that going straight seemed like the right direction to walk in. I hear Ashley yell my name, and as I turn, I see her climbing on board the same train that Pepe Le Pew said wasn't our train, and it's leaving NOW. If you've ever been left in a strange place (accidentally) by your parents when you were little, you know the fear that started creeping up. I take off, sprinting as fast as I can, polka dotted suitcase in tow, neck pillow swinging from the strap of my backpack like it was possessed.
Are you on the edge of your seat? You should be. It was dramatic. To ease your minds, I made it. I heaved my suitcase up in sync with my step up (this train had three steps to climb.. Awesome). As I was looking up (in utter exasperation) to find the next step, I felt myself falling backwards. The heavy polka dotted bag... I reached out for Ashley, just knowing that I was going to have to wave goodbye from a horizontal position on the platform. At the last second a surge of adrenaline hit, and I propelled forward, almost knocking Ashley down. To make it more fun, the doors on board (the ones in between cars that shut automatically and can be opened by pressing a button) closed after 5 seconds. No lie, 5 seconds. You better have your crap together if you want to get through those doors. Too bad we didn't... After a while, pressing the button just became fun. My foot got locked between the doors, my suitcase fell forward, my backpack fell violently to the floor, and Ashley got knocked into the luggage storage rack thanks to me and the bump of the train. A French couple looked at us like we were disgusting girls that needed to learn some etiquette. Blasphemy.
Could our day get any more interesting? Yes.
The station at Cerbere is a ghost town. Ghost towns only have vending machines. I get an Orangina (a really tasty Italian soft drink), and Ashley gets some coffee from a machine. She's brave, that one. I remember I have edible souvenirs from England and France in my bag, so we broke those out (sorry Dad). Almost two hours later, we get ready to walk to the platform to board our train. A little side note about our luggage... Ashley has spent the past three months in England, so she has some stuff. I packed light so that she could shift some things over to mine to lighten her load. Despite our efforts at consolidating, her luggage wheels have lost their will to live, and my bag has been expanded to its max and is front heavy. (It falls over a lot.) Call us wimps if you'd like, but I've never despised stairs more in my life. It's the same feeling I get when I know I have to run 5 miles. It's necessary, but requires mental preparation. Two French men (looked to be grandson and grandfather) witnessed the entertaining show we put on every time we climb up stairs. We carry our luggage up one case at a time. One of us grabbing the front handle of the case, the other lifting the bottom. It's quite effective. Lord bless them, they both grabbed a case and put it on the train for us when it arrived. Since we only had one stop to go, we left our luggage in the middle of the conjoining cars, but I put my backpack in the luggage rack.
We land at Port Bou Espagne, and our two strong angels help us get our luggage off the train. We purchase our tickets to Barcelona, start walking to the platform, and I think, "Why do I feel so light?" I let go of my suitcase (it falls over) and sprint to the last train we were on. I left my backpack! (I guess this is what your parents felt like when they realized that you were left in that strange place.) Luckily the train was still there and empty. An employee saw me running toward the train and motioned me on board. "Pink bag?!" I say this like he will 1) Understand English and, 2) Make my bag magically appear. He seems to understand and tells me to run down to the end of the train. I have no idea why I should run to the end of the train where I know my bag is not, so I start running through the cars looking at every luggage rack on the way. No pink bag. I step off the train with sunken shoulders when the same guy motions me to walk toward the back of the train where he is. He motions me on board where I see the conductor rummaging through my bag. "Merci!" I exclaim, while thinking silently that he better give me my stuff back. Being an American, I understand the threat an abandoned backpack can be, but a pink backpack with a Smurfs pin and a megaphone key chain that says 'Cheer' might be one to cross off the list.
Long story short, we're now on a train to Barcelona. Today may have been frustrating, but we haven't laughed this much since we started our journey.
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