continued from the previous post.
searching for a map of some sort - any sort - i take a pamphlet advertising what appears to be special ticket prices off a stand and on a rudimentary line-drawing of the metro line, look for the name of my previous station. passieg de gracia. it looked slightly familiar to the words written on the wall of the station that i was only able to quickly glance at before it became a complete blur. walking towards a large section of wall marked sortides/salidas and footed by a series of ticket windows, i picked one of several long lines, and lit a cigarette, one of several i would have that day. as i waited, reminding myself that this was not california and that i could smoke indoors, i looked around at the people about me, trying to get a feel for the overall tone or mood, what the culture was like. despite most people's clear agitation with the slow progress of their lines, crossing their arms, glancing ahead, smoking, or tapping their feet, plenty of others were simply lounging around on the benches, perhaps waiting for their trains. i approached the ticket window, asking habla ingles? poquito, the man replied, ad i slowly explain what had happened, using as few words as possible and hand motions to indicate "friend left" and "door closed." he understood but was unable to help me, as this was a window for internationally departing trains only. sending me to another window down the way, he conveyed, where i gathered, i could purchase a different ticket. gracies, i said.
selecting another line and finishing another cigarette, i reached the window and asked habla ingles? no, the man replied. parlez vouz francais? i ventured, thinking that being a spanish-french border region, they might speak some french. no, the man replied again. kicking myself for not brushing up on and remembering more of my miniscule amounts of high school freshman and sophomore year spanish, i pulled out the map i had and circled passieg de gracia station, indicating "one fare" with an outstretched index finger. it's not like people preferred to speak spanish here anyway; this was catalunya. in broken-butchered spanish nevertheless, i tried miming and explaining my situation. train... amigo salida... la porta cerrado... estoy aqui. he seemed to roughly understand, nodding or frowning a sympathy, and pointed me to a set of escalators on a far wall. down, the clerk gestured, and thanking him, i walked over, past the track-number-marked up-escalators which brought me to ground level some two hours ago. i was headed back under the city...
sants station, barcelona.
searching for a map of some sort - any sort - i take a pamphlet advertising what appears to be special ticket prices off a stand and on a rudimentary line-drawing of the metro line, look for the name of my previous station. passieg de gracia. it looked slightly familiar to the words written on the wall of the station that i was only able to quickly glance at before it became a complete blur. walking towards a large section of wall marked sortides/salidas and footed by a series of ticket windows, i picked one of several long lines, and lit a cigarette, one of several i would have that day. as i waited, reminding myself that this was not california and that i could smoke indoors, i looked around at the people about me, trying to get a feel for the overall tone or mood, what the culture was like. despite most people's clear agitation with the slow progress of their lines, crossing their arms, glancing ahead, smoking, or tapping their feet, plenty of others were simply lounging around on the benches, perhaps waiting for their trains. i approached the ticket window, asking habla ingles? poquito, the man replied, ad i slowly explain what had happened, using as few words as possible and hand motions to indicate "friend left" and "door closed." he understood but was unable to help me, as this was a window for internationally departing trains only. sending me to another window down the way, he conveyed, where i gathered, i could purchase a different ticket. gracies, i said.
selecting another line and finishing another cigarette, i reached the window and asked habla ingles? no, the man replied. parlez vouz francais? i ventured, thinking that being a spanish-french border region, they might speak some french. no, the man replied again. kicking myself for not brushing up on and remembering more of my miniscule amounts of high school freshman and sophomore year spanish, i pulled out the map i had and circled passieg de gracia station, indicating "one fare" with an outstretched index finger. it's not like people preferred to speak spanish here anyway; this was catalunya. in broken-butchered spanish nevertheless, i tried miming and explaining my situation. train... amigo salida... la porta cerrado... estoy aqui. he seemed to roughly understand, nodding or frowning a sympathy, and pointed me to a set of escalators on a far wall. down, the clerk gestured, and thanking him, i walked over, past the track-number-marked up-escalators which brought me to ground level some two hours ago. i was headed back under the city...
sants station, barcelona.
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