what a way to spend a birthday, here on the other side of the world. it boggles my mind to think how just yesterday, i flew across continent and ocean to spend a day wandering the city of lights, only to night train into spain. here, on the leg into barcelona, i am jotting this down on my swaying locomotive, which has just left the little border town of portbou. as i whisk by green hills and open plains, with the mediterranean sea to my left, i don't think i'm in los angeles anymore, i say to myself. forests and towns are strewn about the landscape - deep fluffy greens beside ridged red brick. as we pull into a station, an old man in a black beret passes by my window. with toothpick in mouth and cane in hand, he saunters slowly along the train, walking towards the nearest door a few meters down and out of view. his face alone speaks volumes of where i am now - this, is basque country.
after several muffled shouts followed by the almost in-unison slamming of train-car doors, i am quickly speeding past countryside once again. a train attendant, dressed in blue, hands out complimentary earphones, which would allow us to watch the free in-train entertainment video that just switched on on the television screens overhead - orangutans and julia roberts. waving my hand as he passes, no gracies, i say.
the sky outside is a beautiful light blue, marked by a few bristle-brushstrokes of white wispy clouds. the morning red-orange sun warms the church steeples of sleepy towns we cursorily breeze through, leaving no trace of our evanescent presence except for perhaps a rumble of track and a scatter of birds. despite my growing desire to just hop off and take in the unspoiled sights and a breath of fresh country air, i restrain myself knowing that whatever i leave today, i save for other adventures tomorrow - adventures where i'll see new things, try new foods, and meet new people, like the rail worker i chatted with in portbou just before my train arrived.
walking along the station, i spot a middle aged man looking bored, wearing a rough 3am shadow and a fluorescent yellow vest over his clothes. he sits on the walkway with his legs hanging over the ledge above the tracks, and lighting a cigarette, i walk over, offering him one. no gracies, he replies and attempting to strike up some sort of conversation, parlez vous francais? i ask. oui, he says and i ask him in french how to say "bonjour" in catalan. bon-dia, he replies. gracies, i say. bon-dia. it was indeed una bon-dia and a good start on a new journey of culture and learning, where it was time to stamp out any previous ethnocentric notions that america was the center of the world.
portbou, enroute to barcelona.
after several muffled shouts followed by the almost in-unison slamming of train-car doors, i am quickly speeding past countryside once again. a train attendant, dressed in blue, hands out complimentary earphones, which would allow us to watch the free in-train entertainment video that just switched on on the television screens overhead - orangutans and julia roberts. waving my hand as he passes, no gracies, i say.
the sky outside is a beautiful light blue, marked by a few bristle-brushstrokes of white wispy clouds. the morning red-orange sun warms the church steeples of sleepy towns we cursorily breeze through, leaving no trace of our evanescent presence except for perhaps a rumble of track and a scatter of birds. despite my growing desire to just hop off and take in the unspoiled sights and a breath of fresh country air, i restrain myself knowing that whatever i leave today, i save for other adventures tomorrow - adventures where i'll see new things, try new foods, and meet new people, like the rail worker i chatted with in portbou just before my train arrived.
walking along the station, i spot a middle aged man looking bored, wearing a rough 3am shadow and a fluorescent yellow vest over his clothes. he sits on the walkway with his legs hanging over the ledge above the tracks, and lighting a cigarette, i walk over, offering him one. no gracies, he replies and attempting to strike up some sort of conversation, parlez vous francais? i ask. oui, he says and i ask him in french how to say "bonjour" in catalan. bon-dia, he replies. gracies, i say. bon-dia. it was indeed una bon-dia and a good start on a new journey of culture and learning, where it was time to stamp out any previous ethnocentric notions that america was the center of the world.
portbou, enroute to barcelona.
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