Sun, Sand and Cinnamon
by: Roberta Beach Jacobson'Can you tell me which track the train to Tarragona comes in on?' I asked the bloke with the cigar behind with glass counter.
'No, but probably track three or four.'
'But doesn't it arrive in a few minutes?' I asked him.
His answer was a shrug. This is how I realized Spanish rail authorities have no idea where their trains are at any given moment.
Most trains, I must admit, did run on time. That is, they started out that way. Trains were to be my lifeline for three hot summer weeks in Spain and I had no particular timetable in mind. It was my goal to see as much of the coastline as possible for as little money as possible.
I'd nip off whenever the mood struck and celebrate with a dip in the sea. Then, covered in sand that refused to peel off, I'd find the cheapest dive in town for a few days. These were places that would let you a room for the equivalent of couple of quid a night. The cold-water showers never got cleaned and the toilets didn't flush. But a bed is a welcome relief after sleeping upright on a train - and the price was inviting.
I ate in a proper restaurant only once. For three weeks, I survived mostly on sun, oranges and bread. I bought gigantic sacks of juicy Valencia oranges at farmers' markets and thick-crusted white bread from bakeries. Travellers from New Zealand suggested I add some cheese to my diet, so some days I'd treat myself to a slab of cheese on the bread. The Spanish sun had a way of forming cheese into a myriad of strange shapes. I always had a stash of spring water, refreshingly cold when I bought the bottles, but progressively warmer as the day wore on.
Between transferring trains and exploring beaches, I somehow couldn't d find time to launder my clothes. A Canadian traveller gave me a tip: 'Wear your dirty clothes in the shower for a few minutes, then hang them from a flag pole to dry,' he suggested.
I never figured out the part about the flag mast, but I hung my shorts and t-shirts from the metal knobs of my window shutters and the clothes got bone dry (almost crispy) in half an hour. Not exactly clean, but adequate for siting on a sticky train seat. I wasn't trying to win any fashion awards.
You meet the smartest people travelling by rail! The same Canadian instructed me how to wear a beach towel draped over my head like a sheik and he was right how this protected from the sun. You have to expect to get some beach sand in your hair, because this was part of being in Spain.
During the second week, I chanced to find a travel guide to Spain at a kiosk in Valencia. The book was written in Dutch, but was the only one they had. So I bought it and from then on, I'd consult the maps and have more of an idea of where my train was headed. Until then, it had been hit-or-miss and I knew I was repeating stations and zig-zagging around.
Despite my pre-travel planning, all my film got used up by the end of week two. I didn't buy more, because there was no way to protect my camera from the sun's rays. It stayed light until 10 at night and I'd wake to the crowing of roosters and sun peeking through the slats of the shutters.
There was no limit to the sun! I found I had to adjust to the climate by getting out of bed far too early, then exploring the local town by foot, stopping somewhere for coffee, doing a little sightseeing and meeting any local donkeys and goats. After a picnic lunch alone on a park bench (hopefully under a shady tree), I'd do like locals and enjoy a siesta for a few hours. If the shutters stayed closed all morning, the room stayed fairly comfortable.
I'd do the beach early evenings, always looking for a different bay, a new location. Then evenings I'd meet up with other travellers and do some rambling. Dinnertime in Spain is late, starting at nine or ten o'clock. I didn't eat on the run the way it felt on the trains, but I'd assemble somewhere with a group of foreigners and dine on thick slices of
I was getting so I could change trains in my sleep, not to mention I was improving my Dutch by leaps and bounds. Barcelona to be was my last destination. After that I'd be headed on my way across France. It was sad to know my magical journey was nearing its final stop. Home - Frankfurt, Germany. Then again, you can only eat so many Spanish cinnamon buns!
