You have been drifting for so long

One of my favorite things about traveling within Europe was the convenience of traveling by train or bus. The simplicity of being able to purchase a train ticket on a whim, just because you felt like going somewhere new. This simplicity and convenience allowed me to see a large part of Spain while I was abroad.

After a few of these quick trips, I started to look forward to the bus or train journeys just as much as actually seeing the locations themselves. I would find myself planning out not only the details of my trip - hotels, restaurants, clubs - but also my relaxing hours aboard the train. There is something refreshing about traveling by train. I think that I needed those hours with my thoughts to process everything that I had seen and all the changes that had gone around around (and within) me.

Or maybe it was just the novelty of it - here in the US taking a leisurely train ride is pretty much unheard of. We are so focused on getting to our destination as quickly as possible that we overlook the fact that half of the enjoyment is actually getting there.

Is it strange that to this day, riding on any form of public transportation throws me into such nostalgia that it practically makes me cry? One of my fondest memories of traveling in Spain - resting my head against the warm glass of the train window as we rode through the country on the way to Salamanca. I had my walkman on (as always) and I was watching the sights roll by. Numerous "Toro" billboards, rolling hills, and crumbling buildings. I loved every second of it. It's funny how a seemingly insignificant memory like that made such a mark on me. I can remember that train trip more clearly than anything that I actually did in Salamanca.

I think that one of the joys of travel is having the ability to detach yourself for a moment and spend sometime alone to reflect on your experiences. Whether it be sitting down in a cafe with a journal or by daydreaming while you ride on to your next destination.

The Not So Nice Trip

It was the first weekend in June 2003, and I was nearing the end of my time in Spain. My study abroad group and I were getting restless - stuck between being homesick and completely not willing to leave Spain yet. I myself, was torn - just a few weeks ago, I was more than ready to go home. Now, I couldn't imagine not being in Spain. I tried to do what the rest of my friends were doing - make the best of those last precious weeks!

One of my friends came up with a great plan. Four of us - Lindsey, Karen, Gildade and I- would spend the first weekend in June traveling to the South of France. We'd go by train to Nice and take a short trip over to Monaco. I was thrilled - who would've thought that this poor college girl from South Florida would have the chance to visit one of the most glamorous areas of the world - the French Riviera! We discussed it for about two seconds before we all agreed that it was a fabulous plan. Train tickets were bought for June 2nd.

June 2nd came and we found ourselves sitting on the floor of the Atocha train station in Central Madrid. Our backpacks scattered around us, we played cards and daydreamed about all the amazing things we'd do in our four days in the South of France. Our plans were as follows:

1) Take the overnight train from Madrid into Nice.

2) Find a hostel. Book rooms for 3 nights.

3) Take another train into Monaco for the day and sight-see.

4) Catch another overnight train back into Madrid on the 4th day.

It all seemed so simple, straightforward and exciting. At about 10pm, we boarded our train and settled into our 6-person cabin. If you've never had the "pleasure" of traveling on a Renfe overnight train, basically like three coffins stacked on top of each other in two rows. Fabulously comfortable. Me and my slight-bit of claustrophobia were not going to have a restful night. Just as we'd settled into the top two bunks on each side (there were four of us traveling) and got out our bottle of three-euro-priced Merlot and paper cups... two elderly women abruptly opened the door to our cabin and came inside. They said a quick hello and settled into the two vacant, bottom beds. Crap.

We really tried not to be "Obnoxious Americans" - sipping our cheap wine quietly and trying to keep the laughing to a minimum - but we were in full celebratory mode. This was our last weekend traveling together before heading back to the States. After being reprimanded a few times for being too loud, we finally decided to call it a night. I spent most of the night listening to Coldplay on my Walkman and daydreaming about the amazing times that I'd already had in Spain. I thought about the friendships I'd made and wondered if they'd last after we all parted ways. I smiled while thinking about my "familia" - the Spanish family who had welcomed me into their home as one of their own for the past few months. The only way to sum it up was that I felt like I had finally come full circle. Needless to say, I felt very content laying in my bunk and I finally fell asleep sometime before dawn.

We awoke around 8am to our train stuttering to a halt. As we slowly rubbed the sleep from our eyes, we realized that our elderly cabin mates were no longer there. Another realization was that we weren't scheduled to be arrive in Nice for another two hours at least. So why was the train stopping here? Lindsey opened the door to our cabin and walked down the hallway to see if she could find some answers. I opened the cabin door and looked out of the window in front of us. Instead of the gorgeous, glamorous streets of Nice... I saw some rocks and hills. We were basically sitting in the middle of nowhere. The train station we had stopped at was pretty deserted as well. What the heck was going on?

Lindsey comes back a few moments later accompanied by a girl about our age. She introduced herself as Marion, a backpacker from Venezuela traveling alone. She explained that the train had stopped just shy of the French border because all of the public transportation (trains, planes, even TAXIS) in France was on strike indefinitely.

We all started at her in awe. Are you kidding me? Marion explained that this happened a lot in Europe and that we shouldn't be alarmed. It took a few moments to realize that not only could the French train service leave us in the middle of nowhere without providing other accommodations... but that that's exactly what they would do to us. We were stranded.

About an hour later, we were asked to leave the train with all of our belongings. The train service had terminated in Figueres, Spain - about 60 miles from the French border. Seeing as none of us had ever even heard Figueres and had no desire to abandon our Nice plans... we started to throw around ideas of what we could do. Just then, Karen notices a bright-green "Europcar" kiosk. Ding! A lightbulb goes off in all of our heads... we could rent a car and drive into Nice! Plan B initiated!

We bounced on over to the kiosk and learned two important facts from the nice lady behind the counter:

1) All rental cars in Spain are apparently manual transmission.

2) You must be 21 and over to rent a car in Spain.

All eyes turned on me - I was the only one that was over 21... and I'd briefly mentioned to my friends that I'd been given a brief lesson in driving manual by an ex-boyfriend (they conveniently forgot the part of the story where I mentioned that the lesson was very brief and occurred in Iceland... two years ago). After debating it for a few minutes, I gave in. I didn't want to be the one to rain on every one's parade. Plus, I was pretty confident that I would remember how to drive manual after a few minutes. How complicated could it be? So it was settled, we signed the paperwork and even offered to give our new friend from the train, Marion, a ride into France.

About 10 minutes later, we found ourselves trying to stuff five different pieces of luggage into a very small, purple, Seat Ibiza. Quite possibly the smallest car I'd ever seen to date. Definitely not designed to carry five full-grown women. Actually, two of us had to leave some of our luggage in the rental lockers inside the train station. Once that complication was dealt with, we settled in for the long drive to Nice. I was a nervous wreck but tried not to let it show. After adjusting the mirrors and flashing my travel mates my best confident smile - I turned on the car and proceeded to run it into the chain "barricade" in front of me. The screams coming from behind me did little to decrease my anxiety. I freaked out and the car stalled.

At this point I was pretty much in tears, so we decided that Marion would drive us to Nice. But after a few minutes of debate, we realized that she would be leaving us in Nice - so how the heck were we going to get back to Figueres and drop the car off? That lead us to our other solution - Marion would refresh my memory on how to drive manual... that way we'd be fine when she left us. I spent the next horrific hour "relearning" how to drive manual around the winding roads of Figueres, Spain. A few distinct memories stand out from that experience - almost running into a gas station pump, my friends cringing in the back seat, and Marion patiently patting my hand as I shook violently with nervousness.

Once everyone was feeling confident, we decided to head on the road towards Nice. We figured that we'd make it there sometime before nightfall if we really pushed. Our original plan was to stop every now and then and scope out some small French villages that we might have never seen otherwise. We quickly nixed that plan after we realized a few things:

1) Stress can cause even the best travel partners to get on each other's nerves.

2) I cannot shift from 2nd gear into 3rd gear without stalling or going into neutral. (Big problem on the highway)

3) European drivers are scary.

Hell, we were all pretty sure that we'd head back to France one day anyway. Why rush and see so all those little villages now? On top of all that, every time I stalled or had "shifting difficulties" Gildade sounded like she was going to have an aneurysm in the back seat. I didn't want to be responsible for killing one of my friends just to see some scenic, French countryside.

Around 7pm, we rolled into Nice. This caused a few more minutes of extreme stress for all of us. Driving manual is not so hard when you're driving on the highway... throw in some stop-and-go traffic and you are bound to end up stalled out in the middle of the road. Lucky for me, I managed to only stall once before veering off into the first public parking that I saw. My friends and I got our bags out of the Ibiza and proceeded to abandon our little vehicle for the next three days.

Although not what we thought it would be, our trip to Nice did in fact turn out quite nicely. The first night we were there, however, we ran into some trouble finding a hostel. After scrambling around for about two hours, we settled on the only available room we could find. It was overpriced, hideously decorated, and I'm sure it was a health hazard. Fortunately for us, we had no intention of spending any time (except for sleep) in the room.

It's really funny what I remember about that trip to Nice years later. I can't tell you where we ate, stayed, where we went out, or even the sightseeing that we did. What I can vividly recall is the exhaustion and stress that I felt that night while falling into bed at that horrendous hostel. I remember feeling that I'd let my friends down by not being able to be a confident and safe driver. I also vividly remember the fear of driving that I developed over those few days in Nice. I was dreading the day that we would leave.

Two days later, my friends convinced me to drive into Monaco. By then, the shock had worn off and I felt confident again. I had no idea just how many hills and mountains there were between Nice and Monaco. I am pretty sure that my heart stopped a couple of times, but I managed to get us safely onto the main drag in Monaco. It was gorgeous! Now all that we had to do, was park. Unfortunately, this simple feat culminated in us stalled out on top of a hill behind a very expensive-looking, black Mercedes and a huge bread truck. All obstacles aside, we spent a lovely day on the rocky beaches in Monaco. For a day, we pretended that we were living amongst the rich and famous. Walking in front of Monte Carlo, I couldn't help but shake my head. All my life I'd dreamt of seeing places like this. I could only make a promise to myself to visit them again one day - with a much more plentiful budget than that of a backpacker.

I won't bore you with describing our drive back from Monaco and eventually back into Figueres. Obviously, we made it. By day four, our nerves were shot and our patience was wearing thin. There had been outbursts of anger, nail biting galore, and even a few tears. Needless to say, if you put four emotional women in a car together and add a little bit of pressure and stress - it's bound to turn out badly. When we finally arrived back in Figueres, I practically threw the keys at the Europcar kiosk and ran onto the train. Instead of dwelling on the "bad" experience we'd just went through - Lindsey, Karen, Gildade and I did what any self-respecting traveler would do. We found the nearest pub, ordered copious amounts of beer and tapas and laughed about the past few days.

Even though our "dream vacation" didn't turn out as planned, we had enough forsight to realize that it might just turn out to be one of our favorite memories together. And hell, it sure does make for a great story, doesn't it?

The persistence of memory

Cigarette smoke, strong black coffee, and brisk morning air. Suddenly, I am no longer walking down a quiet street in Orange Park, Florida. I am crossing a hectic street in Puerta del Sol, trying to get to class on time. My bag bumping against my hip, I half-jog across the busy intersection. If I close my eyes and really fall into my reverie, I can see the Tio Pepe sign on the building in front of me. I hear the music from my walkman and feel the sun on my shoulders. I smile and shake my head at the offer to purchase jewelry from a dark-skinned street vendor.

Opening my eyes, I am still walking down the street - my dogs impatiently pulling at their leashes. Car exhaust, horns blaring, people speaking rapid Spanish while kissing their companions on the cheek. If I listen closely, I can hear my classmates laughing and talking alongside me on our way to El Son for Salsa lessons. I hear the click of my roommate's stilletos on the cobblestone streets. I can feel my metro pass tucked tightly into my pocket.

I smile and snap out of my memory. As I continue walking down the street, I feel a warmth and happiness envelop me.

No matter how many years go by, I have taken a piece of of that city with me. I will call on it on those days where I feel helpless and stiffled by my ordinary life. I will know that I took a chance and experienced something beautiful. That is the beauty of travel.