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December 15 Bicycle touring Spain from Granada Spain to Alcazar Spain Several hours later we're still nowhere near our hoped for destination on the French Riviera. More bicycle touring misadventures from La-la Land. The trains in Spain mainly leave without us on the plain. We made it successfully to our first destination in Linares. There, we waited three hours until 12:35 AM for our connecting train and were bluntly told "You are not taking those bikes anywhere on this train." As we stood on the platform showing them our reservation tickets they blithely pulled away without us. Into the office we go. The agent looks some schedules up and starts to explain. We stare at her blankly. She says something like, "You don't understand a bloody thing I'm saying, do you?" It turns out she's going to talk to the Interventor -- the train head-honcho conductor guy -- for us and try to get us on the next train to Alcazar at 2:53 AM. We watch her run around frantically and grimace. She takes our tickets and we follow two guys down the stairs that cross under the tracks and up the stairs on the other side at a near run -- up and down the stairs while lifting our fully loaded touring bikes over the steps. We go to the first car behind the engine -- it's a freight car. They have great difficulties opening the door. One guy pinches his finger. He is not happy. The door eventually slides open (this may have been a ploy to buy more time) and we push our bikes on and I lean them against the side of the rail car. The ticket agent woman is back now with our tickets stamped for authorization on this train and the next to Barcelona. She is telling Sharon to run; I am still inside the freight car. I hop out and run down the platform at least equaling an Olympic record. At the first car Sharon tries the door. It opens. We pile in. As the train pulls out, I still have the door open. Our helpful ticket agent is waving goodbye to us. I wave goodbye to our helpful ticket agent. As we pass, she holds out her arm and I pluck our tickets from her hand. Our happiness is brief. Moments later, we discover we are trapped between the main cars and the freight cars. It is unheated and freezing cold. We are there half an hour before we arrive at the next stop. I look out. Only one person is on the platform, way down on the end. We debate whether we should try to run to another car. Since we don't know how long the stop is, we decide against running to another car. As it turns out, of course, we wait for another train to pass before we leave. As we are lamenting our misfortunes, thinking I should have taken up lock picking instead of going to school, or at least was smart enough to carry tools with me at all times to remove items like window, doors, etc., when three ticket takers come along to unlock the door and set us free. They all have boozy breath and were probably chortling over a snort while the loco foreigners froze in the back. One fella shows us to a sitting compartment. I shake his hand and thank him profusely. No sense in burning any bridges this early into the journey, I figure. We arrive in Alcazar at 5:19 AM and rush down to get our bikes off. Three people from the station are unloading PakExpress parcels from each cargo car. Ours is the last, of course. Sharon's touring bike has fallen over. The guy picks it up and my bike falls over. We get our bicycles unloaded with only my front fender rubbing, as far as I can tell. Our connection is 8:23 AM to Barcelona. It is frigid and foggy. First we go into a smoke-filled loud music bar cafeteria and stand around. When we can't handle the smoke and noise any longer we find a quieter waiting room, but just as smoky. Several bodies in various reposes are laying across uncomfortable wooden or wire chairs. I read the entire book of Revelations while waiting, which cheers me up. At 8:23 AM. we are once again left standing on the platform while waving our authorized tickets at the Interventor who is bent on taking his little train home without playing with us. The guards shake their heads as they lead us whimpering away to the station office. Another phone call and another stamp on our ticket -- this one in red instead of blue! That should do it. Supposedly, at 12:23 PM the ticket agent will talk to the Interventor of the next train and hopefully get us on a train rerouted past Barcelona to France. Stay tuned. Many hours later at the Alcazar train station in Spain The wayward train travelers saga continues. Why not? It's not that easy to take a fully loaded touring bicycle on a train in Spain. At 11 AM, one of the police guards sticks his head into the waiting room and says something about two trains. I wave and reply happily that, yes, we're still here, but soon we will be gone. He shakes his head and closes the door. I later learned that he knew what was transpiring against us and was trying to warn us of what was to come. When I smiled cheerily and waved he must have thought, "You poor bugger -- you don't even understand what's going to happen to you." In retrospect maybe it was better that way. Travelling is said to be boring with a few moments of sheer panic thrown in. Guess what? At 12:00 PM, a new boss (a big boss) came on shift. He comes and finds me in the waiting room -- which is pretty easy I assume, since I am the only one sitting beside two fully loaded bicicletas in a big empty echo-y room. (By the way, the tile paintings are interesting. They depict scenes of rural life which cover three walls from chest height down. Other ink sketches done by one artist adorn the wall in about twenty places showing some Don Quixote scenes and his horse is very well done. It is somewhat appropriate that I am admiring the character of Don Quixote, as he is usually typified by having a romantic vision and a naive, unworldy idealism.) Anyway, the new big boss says in no uncertain terms that bicycles are not allowed on this fast train that is coming in. He insists we have to pay an additional 8400 pesetas to have our bikes shipped by PakExpress (in the same type of cargo car as last night -- but our bicycles will arrive two or three days later -- maybe). I audibly gasp at the sign of this figure as he writes 8400 pesetas, since I hadn't understood his speech. I say, "Grande." He asks if I have the money. I say "No, I spent it, because I thought I would be in France." He says some other things. I shrug. He asks if my companion comprehends Spanish. I say "Nada," but I call Sharon over anyway. She is usually good for a couple dandy fatalistic motions and faces in times of adversity. The train station manager calls a woman from downstairs who is the resident expert English translator. "Please speak slowly," are her first words. She re-explains what the train manager said -- sort of. The gist is we can't go on these types of trains. I say, "We got here on one, didn't we?" He say we have to pay the 8400 pesetas for our bikes to shipped by their lonesome. Sharon rages remarkably spectacularly (the big boss understands this language). Sharon says we could have bought a plane ticket for less and been there in one hour. The English translator kindly repeats this statement to the big boss. He is not pleased. But realizing we are not going to pay more money since we have none, he leaves to return to his office sanctuary, leaving us in the capable hands of his trustworthy English translator. We ask if there are regional trains that we can take our bikes on instead of an express. "Ah, yes," she says. She re-routes us yet again, and, rather remarkably, actually succeeds in sending us backwards -- in place that is. Then again, possibly in time, too. She scribbles out my old authorization and writes a new train number over top. Sharon and I are lamenting because the new routing ends in some unheard of place with the instruction: "See the big boss when you get there." We are sulking mightily as we hear the fast train pull in on the other side of the station. We stand around looking forlorn, not wishing to see another train we were supposed to be on leave without us. Then we think. "What can be lost going over?" We slowly walk over. The undercover guy sees us and says "This is your train! Get you bikes on!" He points down to where two engineers, the Interventor, and two policemen are standing waiting for us. Everyone knows about us. I run down to them and say "Bicicletas possible?" The Interventor, with a huge smile says, "Yes. Hurry." They have been waiting for us. I bolt back to the waiting room where we have left our fully loaded touring bicycles and hurl my bike through one side of the door that had hours earlier taken both to be open in order to get my bike inside earlier this morning. It was freezing cold last night, I could see my breath. In less than two minutes both of our touring bikes are on that express train and being secured to a sidewall with bungee cords. The Interventor says, "I have two bikes." I say, "Yes, but you are very fast; we are very slow." The train pulls out of the station. I'm hoping the big boss man doesn't realize and come running out of his office. Then again, he's probably glad to be rid of us. Amazing how a few minutes ago I was feeling lower than an snake's belly button and now I am as happy as a clam sitting in First Class watching a Spanish-dubbed Sci-fi movie with free headphones. It was quite the send off -- even the policio. Luckily big cheese was nowhere in sight. I kept expecting to see him at an upcoming train station to haul us back. The door to the engineer's room was open as we were trying to secure our bikes in place to the side of a car, over a motor, and still leave room for the personnel to walk by. Through the open cab door, we certainly got a great view of the track whizzing by in front of us. These express trains really hustle. The scenery is fantastic. High mountains on
one side, desert, orange groves, and sea on the other. Some places
we go by are ramshackle, in the middle of nowhere. Not a great
place to get left. It really does look back in time. At Barcelona, we stop for a few minutes. A fellow gets on and sits across the aisle from us. The Interventor comes along and checks everyone's ticket except ours -- even though he is a new guy starting his shift. He has been thoroughly briefed on our situation. It pays to have friends in high places if you decide to take a fully loaded touring bicycles on a train in Spain. The ticket taker looks at us and says "Velos" with a knowing nod. The fellow across the aisle, Glen, has gotten on a faster train than the ticket he bought, so he gets charged an extra ten bucks on the spot. Same with a family of five ahead of us, but it's fifty bucks for them -- ouch. I ask Glen if he speaks English. Yes, he says, he's from Canada. Vancouver, he says. Or at least that is his mailing address. He has lived in Florence Italy for the past ten years with his boyfriend. He studies languages and travels a lot. He used to be a private music teacher. He tells us a story. He was in Morocco in Fes and they chose a guide like one has to do in order for the other 'guides' to stop pestering you. Glen chose a fellow out of a group of young men hassling them, since he was the only one who hadn't said anything. Everything went swell until the time came to pay and the rest of the gang re-appeared. Now the agreed upon price was no longer valid and they wanted more. Glen said no. They said they had beat up people in the past. Glen's friend told them their wives were 'shopping right over there in that store' and they were school teachers with two bus loads of students and they would hire them all as guides tomorrow. Their ruse worked and they got away, but Glen says he was afraid of the situation at the time and feels he has traveled enough to be worldly, unlike us two babes in the woods. I was glad we, babes in the woods, had decided not to go to Morocco even for a day. At 10 PM we arrived at the frontier French town of Cerbere. We had gone a long ways in ten hours and were very pleased to get out of Spain and into the bicycle friendly country of France. The customs agent asked where we were from and then waved us inside without asking any questions or to see our passport. I enquired at the info desk about bicycles -- having learned that just maybe it is better to ask in advance -- so they can talk to the train operator if need be. He informs me that it costs $40 each to take our bikes on the train. Really? Our guide book said it was no charge. Just as we're forking over our credit card Glen comes over to interpret for us. The info guy tells Glen that we can take the wheels off our bikes off -- then it will no longer be a bike and will be considered baggage. He even gives us tape to do it. Legally, if we take them like they are, we are supposed to pay extra. But he theatrically covers his eyes and says he will look the other way when we go by. Glen insists on buying us a pizza. It is delicious. We haven't eaten in a long time. I don't know how long. Our train is scheduled to leave at midnight. We haul our fully loaded touring bikes down stairs and up more stairs to reach a platform. We scout out a likely looking car and are just ready to lift our bikes on when an Italian conductor steps off the end car next to us. That wagging finger is in our faces again. I am sorely tempted to bit it. We tell him that we can remove our front tires, rear tires, panniers, etc. "No! No! No! No bicycles on my train," he shouts, breathing boozy breath into my face. The train leaves. Once again, at midnight, Sharon and I are stranded on a train platform watching forlornly as darkened and mostly empty cars pass us by. I have to laugh. Sorry, but that's the sort of guy I am. Sharon, however, is not so cheerful. We wrestle our bikes back down the stairs and into a hallway. The lights in the station turn off. That was the last train until morning. I go look for a washroom, but the station is under renovation. I return without finding one. We lean against a wall, huddled together with a sleeping bag pulled over us. |
