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December 3 Saturday Bicycle touring Spain from Seville Spain to Malaga Spain As we get on our touring bikes and ride up the street back to the train station we pass lineups of youth outside on the sidewalk waiting to get into nightclubs. They yell derisively as we ride past on our fully loaded touring bicycles. At least they don't throw anything. We arrive at the train station and get settled in for the night. At 2 AM we get kicked out of the train station. They close the building until 4 AM, we are told. We push our loaded touring bicycles outside and sit under an overhang. It's cold, but at least we're not right out in the rain. A chap comes along, singing in a glorious tenor voice. I clap. He comes over and sings in my face. He is pretty good, but he has been drinking. He says something to me that I don't understand. A security guard comes over and asks if there is a problem. "No," I say, as the guy leaves. At 4 AM we push our loaded touring bicycles back inside the terminal. I collect all my change together and phone Roger and Suzanne in Campbellton NB to check on the suites they have reserved in the Riviera. After today, I seriously need a vacation from my vacation ... and it's not over yet. Not by a long shot. I deposit a handful of coins into the telephone. As soon as my connection goes through, a baggage clerk decides this would be a great time to return four baggage carts to their rack outside the station. He proceeds to run them, one at a time, over the tile floor, clackety-clackety-clack. I have a difficult time hearing (to say the least) what Suzanne is saying. She tells me she thinks the name of the hotel (she doesn't have the itinerary in front of her) they are staying at is the Verrie. She tells me when they will be arriving there. Roger goes to get the confirmations to double-check the hotel's name while I chat to Suzanne. Before Roger returns, my $15 worth of change is used up. The connection is immediately cut off. Of course there is no one around to get more change from. I go and glumly wait in an uncomfortable plastic chair that have seemingly been formed to someone's maladjusted butt. Speaking of butts, I still have diarrhea. I make repeated trips -- about every fifteen minutes -- to the washrooms expelling something horrid. Sharon and I take out our Spanish phrase books and spend the next hour learning the required phrases. We make sure we have the correct money for the tickets. Susan stares off into space in a trance-like state. She hasn't spoken since we left the pizza place. We're a little worried about her. At 7 AM, a train for Madrid arrives. I see a guy in the ticket lineup with a Canada emblem on the back of his hat. I go over to say hi. He turns out to be from Edmonton and begins to recount the horrors he had yesterday with the train strike. "It was a madhouse in here," he says. "We've gotta get out of here," he adds. "We have tickets to a concert in Amsterdam." I stand watching the departure board for the platform the 8 AM Malaga train will depart from. 7:10 -- 7:30 -- 7:45. Nothing. At 7:50 AM, Gate 123 lights up. I run back to Sharon and Susan. The train is scheduled to depart at 8 and it just got in 10 minutes before it is supposed to leave. Great. It's going to be a mad dash to make it in time. We grab our fully loaded touring bicycles and push them as we run across the terminal to the gate. It turns out to be a sidewalk escalator going down to the trains. We awkwardly push our fully loaded touring bikes on and hang on ferociously to keep our bikes from running over patrons in front of us. We get down to the train platform. I see a guy coming along in a blue suit, with a tie and shiny buttons. He must be the Director. I grasp his hand and pump it up and down while saying, "Canada. Bicicleta España. Aeroplane Malaga. Bicicleta tren por favor. Possible?" "No problema. Aki." he says, pointing to the platform. "Mucho gracious," I yell as I charge
back up the stairway to buy tickets at the ticket office. The gent hands me the tickets and I go to run off when he yells, "Wait for your change!" Oh, yeah. I grab the change. The agent looks at his watch, gives me a grimace, and waves his hand at me. I have four minutes. I rush back down to the departure area and find Susan and Sharon where I had left them. We figure there must be a baggage car and waste valuable time going the length of the train looking for it. By the time we realize there is no baggage car, we are at the end of the train. Worried that the train is going to leave without us, I bench press my fully loaded bike up a steep staircase onto the train. I go back and lift Susan's somewhat lighter touring bike onto the same entry compartment as I am in. The compartment is full. Sharon is still on the platform. She is yelling something. Get on quick, I think. I lean out the doorway and see her get on just as we pull out. Susan and I smile weakly at one another and heave a sigh of relief. But it is a brief sigh. In a few moments, Sharon comes along to give us more bad news: Susan and I are on the cars that are destined to Granada -- not Malaga. We are told that when the train reaches Granada, they will pull a pin and the Granada cars will stay there, while the Malaga cars will continue on to Malaga. We have to get our bikes and gear onto the Malaga cars. The Malaga cars are several cars forward. Since my touring bicycle will not fit between the aisle of the train with the panniers on it, I unload everything from my bike -- my panniers, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, and tent -- and start making the move. I struggle with my gear through three cars before I encounter a ticket taker. He tells me "At the next stop get off the train." Yikes. I figure the jig is up. We're kicked off the train. Sharon shows up a couple of minutes later and says she is on the Granada cars too. And there's no use in my forward migration in my feeble attempt to get onto the Malaga portion of the train -- there is a partition between the Malaga-bound cars and the ones that are going to be dropped in Granada. Terrific. Even if I had managed to get all the way up to where Sharon was, I still couldn't have got through and would have been on the wrong cars. Sharon had thought she was on the right car because she asked some people before she got on. Now, they discover they got onto the wrong part of the train, too. Guess I shouldn't feel so bad when even the Spaniards can't get it right. I tell Sharon the ticket collector told me to get off at the next stop. She explains he wants us to take our bikes off and move forward a couple of cars. Ah, okay -- now it makes sense. But we don't know how much time we have at the next stop to accomplish this feat. Sometimes the train stops for less than a minute. The train stops. I fall down the steep exiting stairs. My fully reloaded bike falls on top of me. Sharon's bike packs get hung up on a railing going down the steps. She can't move her bike forward or backward. Finally another passenger comes to help her get it unstuck. I strain to lift my bike back on to the correct cars. Not good with a lingering bout of diarrhea. These train stairs are definitely not bike friendly. Thankfully, Sharon reaches down and helps Susan get her bike on, because Susan can't lift it. Sharon pulls it on with one arm. Wahoo. We're on our way to Malaga. I hope. I stand in the space between two cars, holding my fully loaded touring bicycle. The conductor comes along. He says I can't stay there because I am blocking the exit and the entrance, as well as the door to the toilet. I say, "Is it okay if I stay here and when people want to get on or off or use the toilet I'll move my bike to accommodate them"? He says okay. Maybe Spain's not that bad for bicycle touring after all. Sharon and Susan have been told that they have to move too. Not that they're blocking any exits or toilets, mind you. Rather, they're in the first class section. Sharon groans at this news. She asks if they can leave their fully loaded bikes there. "Oh, yes. Certainly," the ticket taker says. "Only you have to move. Your bikes can stay here no problem." Sharon and Susan come and sit in the section just adjoining where I am. Bikes and trains. Ha. And her I had thought it was tough taking a bike on a plane. Ha. Mere child's play. We pass through the Sierra Nevada's exquisite sheer cliffs. There are wonderful views of sheer cliffs. We zip -- and I do mean zip -- through fourteen tunnels in a row with dizzying speed down the mountain, swaying like a drunk buzzed out on cheap wine. I look out the train windows as we shoot from entire blackness in the tunnel to dazzling bright sunlight and then immediately enter another midnight black tunnel. My pupils are getting fried. In one of the zippy bits of daylight, I glimpse people on a sidewalk perched precariously high up on a mountain side. Wow! That would have made an amazing picture. After our rollicking ride, we arrive in Malaga. Note: If there's only one train ride you take in Spain, make it this one! I thought roller coasters were fun. We thank the conductor and unload our touring bicycles from the train. On the way to the airport, we stop at stop sign. I look across a vacant lot. It looks like a great short cut. Two drivers in cars must have read my thoughts. They tell us "Don't go there." We arrive at the airport terminal to find out that the saga in not over. Air Iberia wants Susan to call Air Canada to get this straightened out. Of course everything is closed in Canada. It is 4 AM back home. Susan tries anyway. The phone is difficult to use. I stop a man and ask him to help us. It take a long time to get through. Susan tries calling Air Canada numbers that are on the back of her itinerary. No answer. She tries calling her travel agent. No answer. How about an agent in England or Madrid maybe? Susan picks up the phone. She needs to get the number from the operator. It dawns on her. She looks at me. "The operator is going to speak Spanish, isn't she?" "Well," I answer, "we are in Spain, darlin'." Susan tries anyway. Sure enough, the operator speaks Spanish. Susan gets hung up on. We give up for the time being. We get on our fully loaded touring bicycles and cycle off to hopefully find a campground near the airport. Sharon and Susan go to a motel to use a fax machine. She is going to leave a message for her travel agent. It's a good idea. Susan is about ready to have a deluxe hernia. "What's the worst that can happen?" Sharon asks her. "You'll arrive home a bit late." "I hate to be late," Susan says. Iberian Air won't give Susan their fax number. "Phone Madrid," they say. My, what great customer service. Susan took a cab to the airport. She returns with the new ticket she had to buy to get to England where the Air Canada portion of her flight begins. At least her replacement ticket was on sale. Susan's teary eyes are nearly dried. We're hungry! Let's all go to a restaurant for a farewell meal! Susan say she'll buy. It is 10 PM. Perfect. The restaurants should be just opening. How long has it been since we ate? Or slept? At the restaurant we are met at the door by a maître d'. Seated in the restaurant, we noticed people are dressed to the nines. Yikes. looks like a pretty fancy place. We are in our cycling clothes. The maître d' seats us right beside the salad bar -- right where everyone who comes up will be able to get a good view of the cretins. Susan and Sharon decide to have wine to celebrate the happy ending. As I've mentioned -- we're in our cycling clothes which are somewhat grubby at this point in time, and I haven't shaved in a few days. We look a little like rubbies, no doubt. The other clientele is quite upscale. Three waiters hovered around us. The maître d' seated us. A waiter took our order. Another fills our water glasses. And a third displays a choice of wines. I order a beer. Sharon asks his recommendation. The waiter brings a litre bottle for their inspection. Since only Susan and Sharon will be drinking the wine, Sharon, with the maître d' within earshot, tells the wine fellow that "it is too much." The maitre d overheard Sharon's comment, but misinterprets it as "costs too much" The waiter returns with a 3/4 litre bottle -- more expensive wine, but less quantity. The 3/4 litre bottle is more expensive than the litre bottle was. The maître d', upon seeing Sharon nod her head okay for this new more-expensive wine, blurts out "1000 pesetas!" The entire restaurant patrons turn and look in our direction. Oops. Major faux pas by Mr maître d'. He had misunderstood that Sharon had meant a smaller amount of wine when she said "too much," not a "smaller price." For some reason, we didn't see much of the maître d' after that. I'm sure he had to be thinking, "How can these bums afford to eat here?" The combination of no sleep and alcohol make for a tipsy walk back to the campground. I stop at a phone and try to contact Roger and Suzanne, but I can't get through. It is 1 AM. Susan's flight is at 7:30 AM. We set our alarms for 5:30 AM and, past exhausted, crawl into our sleeping bags. |
