Day 1- Wednesday 14th April 2010.
My trip started with an afternoon flight to Heathrow from Barcelona, where I currently reside. Shortly after I arrived I checked into a hotel near the airport. Airport hotels the world over are not renowned for being the most happening places but as the reason for my trip was a one day course in nearby Hounslow, an airport hotel suited my purpose. I decided to spend the evening soaking up the atmosphere in central London so I asked reception which was the fastest way into town. Having spent (wasted?) a large part of my life in and around the Heathrow area I knew the best way but wanted to check if there was a new alternative I wasn’t aware of. To my surprise neither receptionist could agree. They started arguing with each other and as they left me standing to go to the back office and check on Google maps I took my leave and jumped on a bus.
Day 2 – Thursday 15th April.
I awoke to ‘Breaking News‘ on TV that Manchester Airport and all airports in Northern Ireland and Scotland were closed due to volcanic ash in the air. I was in a rush so only caught the end of the bulletin. I did stop to wonder. I mean, I’m pretty sure I would have heard at some point if the U.K. had an active volcano, wouldn’t I? I checked the date to see if it was April 1st.I hopped on the bus and headed into Hounslow for my 'How To Write A Business Proposal’ course. Little did I know that this was my last chance to turn back and get on a flight home to Barcelona, but as I thought, how could a volcano stop me from getting home? That would just be ridiculous and sounds more like a storyline from a crappy straight-to-TV 80s disaster movie.
During the course, when I found out that the volcano was actually in Iceland, we received constant updates indicating that the eruptions were causing the volcanic ash cloud to grow and the wind was pushing it south over the whole of the country. Slowly people started leaving the course to try and deal with whatever chaos was happening in their respective departments at the airport. 12pm and the news came through that Heathrow was closed. This is where the adventure began. Waiting for the ash cloud to literally blow over seemed like the only plan so I asked Human Resources to start looking for a hotel for the night. Already the hotels at Heathrow were full and the closest available hotel was in Earls Court.
As I’m putting together an amateur football team in my spare time, I had bought a team kit online a few days prior and had them posted to our office in London for the sake of saving a measly amount in postage. I loaded them into my empty suitcase, ready to join me on my extended 'business trip.' This seemed like a good idea at the time, however with the benefit of hindsight, it was probably not the best idea I've ever had.
Being an opportunist, I went into Notting Hill for a Thai meal at my favourite pub/Thai restaurant in the world, the Churchill Arms. No visit to London should be without a stop there. Afterwards, buoyed on by the prospect of the impending end of the world I thought what better than to go to the cinema and watch a disaster movie. This one ‘The Green Zone’ with Matt Damon, was about the US invasion of Iraq and even considering the impact of the volcano on my weekend, was probably the biggest disappointment of the whole trip!
Day 3 – Friday 16th April.
Upon hearing that Heathrow was going to be closed for most of today, I booked the last available room at my hotel, which by reports may have been the last room in London, and headed back to Hounslow to work from our office there. The constant updates on the ever-growing ash cloud brought no source of relief, with words like ‘Apocalypse’ being muttered by the pessimists in the office.
Next I made the mistake of going to say hello to friends in the marketing department. I mistook the joy in their faces when they saw me as a sign that they had missed me, but in fact they were happy because they saw an opportunity for me to help them out of a sticky situation. They had been trying to courier promotional material to Spain all morning but the courier companies were themselves grounded by the ash cloud. With my overnight bag in one hand and my suitcase of football kits in the other, I said that I would need a backpack in order to be able to carry anything else. I smugly thought that this would get me off the hook, but then they disappeared for about 17 seconds and came back with a backpack loaded to the brim with promotional material. Voila! The London marketing girls really are a resourceful bunch, although by the time I had arrived back in Spain with my back close to breaking point, ‘resourceful’ was not the word I was using to describe them.
When it looked like I could be stuck in London for a while I cancelled my over priced hotel room, reserved the sofa at an old friend’s house in Richmond, West London and used the opportunity to catch up.
Day 4 – Saturday 17th April.
As I sat bleary eyed on the sofa watching the early morning volcano reports, I quickly realised that this very sofa might well be my home for quite a long time. My thoughts turned to Eva, my wife and my two kids Megan and Lucas who expected me to be away for only one night, so I started to research the best ways to get back to Barcelona by any means possible.
According to the Eurostar website the next available train to Paris was early Sunday morning which I booked immediately, but as the French trains were in the middle of a four day strike I had no idea how to get from Paris to Spain. The Rail Europe website would not let you book online and advised to call their (unreachable) phone number or visit their office in central London. So off I set into London on the train and tube via Waterloo station. As I walked down Regent Street the sun beat down from a piercingly blue sky momentarily blinding me. I could empathize with the general public in not understanding why aircraft could not fly. There was not a cloud in the sky, let alone a devastating volcanic ash cloud. I could see the Rail Europe office from a mile away as it was the one with the population of a medium sized Caribbean island queuing around the block.
I had been waiting for four hours, with the queue barely moving when Rail Europe promptly closed their doors on my nose at 4pm leaving hundreds close to riot outside, including me. To make matters worse, today in the football world Manchester United won and Chelsea lost making Liverpool fans all over the world very unhappy. Icelandic volcano eruptions, deadly ash clouds, badly timed rail strikes, blunt customer service and uncomfortable sofas I can handle with no bother, but Manchester United winning is insufferable. Anyway, I digress.
Day 5 – Sunday 18th April.
The day started at 7am when I left my friends’ house in Richmond. The way things had gone I probably should have guessed that the overland trains would also be cancelled due to ‘essential works’ (if they were so essential, could they not have done them yesterday?). And so I opted to take the underground instead. The first Tube of the day was scheduled to depart from Richmond station at 7:22am from platform 7. At 7:22am everyone waiting on platform 7 watched in silent disbelief as the tube on platform 5 moved off. Not the best of starts to the day. Now I was on the back foot and had thirty minutes wait until the next tube. Two Tube connections later I arrived at St.Pancreas train station which by now resembled a refugee camp, albeit one with a Marks and Spencer food shop. Luckily the queue for pre-paid tickets was relatively short. A BBC camera crew interviewed me about my travel experience up till now. I doubt they will use this piece as thus far my experience has been comparatively injury free. That is to say that although I had felt like punching something I had yet to encounter any actual bloodletting. In retrospect I should have booked a follow up interview with them 24 hours later as I’d have plenty to rant about then.
The Eurostar was very comfortable and I spent the trip sharing stories with others trying to get back to Munich, Los Angeles and Tokyo. Through emails on my Blackberry I was able to give them current updates from my airport colleagues regarding which European airports were open. As Barcelona had just closed it seemed that Spain was now not the best place to go to for flights out of Europe. We all agreed that Morocco might be the best place to catch flights to the US and Asia. I have no idea what they ended up doing, but in my mind I have a picture of them on a camel halfway across the desert.
At Paris Gare du Nord I was pleasantly surprised to find a very helpful SNCF employee who told me that there were no trains to Spain today, but recommended to go to a different station in Paris and catch any train heading to the south of France. Unfortunately due to a Paris metro strike (they do love a good strike, the French) I had to go around the houses in order to connect.
At Gare de Lyon I noticed that there was a five hour train to Perpignan on the French/Spanish border, but was told it was full. I was crestfallen. Then just as I turned to walk away the ticket agent called me back as one seat had just become available. Things were definitely looking up. I snatched my ticket and ran to the train, fighting through the hoards of people pushing to get on like it was the last train in an evacuation of Paris. I sat down on my seat with a sigh of relief. Unfortunately one thing was missing: the train driver! We were 70 minutes late when we started rolling. As it turned out they also left behind the people who were meant to work in the restaurant car. Although I was starting to get hungry I was just thankful to be heading south.
By the time we rolled into Perpignan it was 10:50pm. I’m told I possess annoying level of optimism. This was apparent as I happily milled around the station now packed to the gills with two hundred or so other people from the recently arrived train, looking for information on connections to Barcelona. I found a small bus timetable with a departure to Barcelona at 2:50am on Mondays. This was Sunday night, so officially 2:50am would be Monday, but I was convinced that the locals would still consider it Sunday night and therefore not bother operating. As there were no trains to Spain, all car hire companies were closed and taxi drivers were quoting €300 per person, this seemed to be my only choice. As I stood at the bus stop debating whether or not to wait the four hours for the bus and face another three hours of travelling I was treated to a breathtaking spectacle, although looking back over the past couple of days I’m surprised it took this long. I could see the taxi drivers rubbing their greedy mitts as people desperate to get home were forced to part with large wads of cash. One group of elderly Spaniards was starting to get animated with a taxi driver. I paid no attention as in my experience elderly Spaniards tend to be animated by nature; I’ve witnessed ferociously impassioned debates on inane subjects, such as zips versus buttons or hats versus hoods. As the noise level rose, I turned around to watch as one of the ladies in the group, who was not a day over 60, slapped a taxi driver in the face only to find herself being punched in the stomach. I could almost see the instantaneous descent of red mist on the woman. Like a Samurai unsheathing his sword she withdrew an umbrella from her handbag and swung for the taxi drivers head, narrowly missing. The taxi driver turned and with Gallic nonchalance walked back into his car while the lady was restrained by her companions. As the taxi driver started off down the street, she managed to break free and got a good kick at his tail light with her stilettos. You’ve heard about ‘road rage’ and ‘air rage’ but I had just witnessed the emergence of ‘Volcano Rage’.
After this I thought I’d seen enough today so I decided a hotel room for the night was the best idea. Luckily thanks to the wonders of modern technology I had been emailing a friend from my blackberry on the train and he was able to find and tentatively book me a cheap hotel in Perpignan. I must have passed ten hotels all with a 'complet' sign in the window. When I found my hotel it also had a 'complet' sign. My heart sank. Thankfully when I walked up to reception I was greeted with a comforting 'Monsieur Scott?'
As the time was approaching midnight any sensible person would have called it a night and collapsed on the bed, but sensible is one adjective rarely used on me. I’d never been to Perpignan so didn’t want to waste an opportunity to have a walk about and find some food. Luckily I was spared having to try the French delicacy of horse (I was hungry enough to eat a whole one, minus the tail) as there was a pizza shop still open just around the corner. As I walked in the staff made eye contact but decided to wait for me to peruse the menu for a few minutes, enough time for me to start salivating with the smell of pizza in my nostrils before telling me that they were closed. Forget Volcano rage. I had just succumbed to ‘Pizza Rage!’
On my continuing search for grub I walked through the medieval part of Perpignan. With lots of old and narrow streets I’m sure it was a really pretty town by day, but I didn’t get a chance to stop and properly appreciate it as I was chased up the street by a bunch of bored thugs who must have seen the ‘Lost Soul’ sign above my head. Maybe they were just chasing me to ask if I knew of any restaurants that were still open.
Finally I found that the only places open were a bunch of kebab shops near the train station. I chose the one that looked least likely to serve E.Coli and braved my way in. I had no cash on me so they agreed to let me pay with credit card. After preparing my food, I waited as they spent ten minutes swiping my card through their greasy looking credit card machine, before they came to the conclusion that the machine was broken. After fleetingly considering just grabbing my food and legging it, I left my dinner waiting behind as I followed their directions to a cash machine supposedly situated just down the road. After a further ten minutes of fruitless searching I gave up and trudged home, empty bellied, but probably a lot healthier.
Day 6 – Monday 19th April.
The railway station in Perpignan had a timetable showing that two trains were due to depart for Barcelona this morning. As they were both operated by a Spanish rail company I naively assumed they would be unaffected by the strike. I trudged up to the station with my increasingly heavy bags for the 9am departure. On the massive information board in the station only eight trains were listed out of Perpignan all day, with each one heading north due to the strike. All car hires were sold out and the taxis wanted €150 just to take you to the Spanish border. I found the address of the bus company that operated the Barcelona route, but when I walked up to their office it was abandoned and looked like it had not been used since the days of Vichy France. Their website stated that all buses were full and as expected I had no joy getting through on their phone number. At this point, walking aimlessly around the train station seemed like the only thing to do.
Just as I had found a piece of cardboard and started writing ‘BARCELONA or BUST’ on it, the station supervisor shouted out ‘Barcelona!’ All it took was that solitary word to lift my spirits. He told me there was a bus outside to replace the stricken train service but I could only get onboard with a valid train ticket and I couldn’t buy one as the station sales team were also on....yes you guessed it: Strike! My spirits came crashing back down. Seeing a look on my face that I can only guess was either depression, exhaustion or homicidal, the train station supervisor conspiratorially whispered to me, “just ignore the driver and walk on, you may be lucky.”
Unfortunately the driver spotted me from miles away. I suppose he couldn’t really have missed me, dragging three bags behind me like a pensioner trying to walk three disobedient bulldogs. And so commenced the frustratingly circular conversation: “you must buy a ticket in the station”.....”But I can't, the ticket office is on strike”....followed by a Gallic shrug of the shoulders from the bus driver (repeat ad infinitum). As I stared around looking for hidden ‘Candid Cameras,’ I was quickly joined by two young women from Boston who were in the same position as me. We could see there were only five people on the bus so space was not the issue. Thankfully the girls were more hysterical than me (or so I’d like to think) and the driver quickly felt sorry for them and let them board. Prompted by one final epic shrug of the shoulders from the driver, I took the opportunity to jump aboard before he started with the whole ‘You must buy a ticket...’ conversation again. Feeling like stowaways the three of us agreed with the driver that we would pay when we got to the Barcelona bus station.
Great! I was on the final stretch of my odyssey.
Or so I thought.
Not long after we crossed the border we pulled into the town of Figueres. The driver stopped the bus at the train station and ordered the two Bostonians and myself off the bus. No explanation was offered but as I had succeeded in making it back to the right country and hadn’t paid a penny for the bus journey, I was in no position to complain. Luckily, there was a train fifteen minutes later going to Barcelona, so things were still looking up. I approached the ticket counter and asked for a one way ticket to Barcelona. Surprise surprise! They could not accept credit cards. My saving grace was the self service machines, or at least they would have been had they not been out of order.
As Figueres is famous for being the main town close to where Salvador Dali lived and houses his world famous museum, I briefly toyed with the idea of giving everything up and taking a course at the local surrealist art college. But instead, in one last ditch attempt I sprinted up to the town centre and found a cash machine kind enough to let me take my own money out whilst charging me a small fortune for it, and the race was back on.
So here I am, sitting on the train on what should be the last leg of my journey (although I've thought that before), 30 hours after leaving London and 88 hours after I was scheduled to have been home.
It was a real adventure made all the better by shared camaraderie with different characters all with similar stories, bringing back fond memories of my backpacking days from many years ago BC (Before Children). Also, seeing the French countryside whizzing past at 300 kilometres per hour has made me realise that I need to come back and see it at a more leisurely pace. Having said all this, the hardest part of the entire trip is still to come. My two kids, who now think I’ve been on holiday, are waiting (im)patiently for my arrival, or more accurately, the arrival of their presents. Regardless of what they think about the wee gifts I’ve bought them at train stations along the way, the best gift will be reserved for me and that’s the welcome they’ll give me after nigh on a week apart.
Right, now to write that Business Proposal!
My trip started with an afternoon flight to Heathrow from Barcelona, where I currently reside. Shortly after I arrived I checked into a hotel near the airport. Airport hotels the world over are not renowned for being the most happening places but as the reason for my trip was a one day course in nearby Hounslow, an airport hotel suited my purpose. I decided to spend the evening soaking up the atmosphere in central London so I asked reception which was the fastest way into town. Having spent (wasted?) a large part of my life in and around the Heathrow area I knew the best way but wanted to check if there was a new alternative I wasn’t aware of. To my surprise neither receptionist could agree. They started arguing with each other and as they left me standing to go to the back office and check on Google maps I took my leave and jumped on a bus.
Day 2 – Thursday 15th April.
I awoke to ‘Breaking News‘ on TV that Manchester Airport and all airports in Northern Ireland and Scotland were closed due to volcanic ash in the air. I was in a rush so only caught the end of the bulletin. I did stop to wonder. I mean, I’m pretty sure I would have heard at some point if the U.K. had an active volcano, wouldn’t I? I checked the date to see if it was April 1st.I hopped on the bus and headed into Hounslow for my 'How To Write A Business Proposal’ course. Little did I know that this was my last chance to turn back and get on a flight home to Barcelona, but as I thought, how could a volcano stop me from getting home? That would just be ridiculous and sounds more like a storyline from a crappy straight-to-TV 80s disaster movie.
During the course, when I found out that the volcano was actually in Iceland, we received constant updates indicating that the eruptions were causing the volcanic ash cloud to grow and the wind was pushing it south over the whole of the country. Slowly people started leaving the course to try and deal with whatever chaos was happening in their respective departments at the airport. 12pm and the news came through that Heathrow was closed. This is where the adventure began. Waiting for the ash cloud to literally blow over seemed like the only plan so I asked Human Resources to start looking for a hotel for the night. Already the hotels at Heathrow were full and the closest available hotel was in Earls Court.
As I’m putting together an amateur football team in my spare time, I had bought a team kit online a few days prior and had them posted to our office in London for the sake of saving a measly amount in postage. I loaded them into my empty suitcase, ready to join me on my extended 'business trip.' This seemed like a good idea at the time, however with the benefit of hindsight, it was probably not the best idea I've ever had.
Being an opportunist, I went into Notting Hill for a Thai meal at my favourite pub/Thai restaurant in the world, the Churchill Arms. No visit to London should be without a stop there. Afterwards, buoyed on by the prospect of the impending end of the world I thought what better than to go to the cinema and watch a disaster movie. This one ‘The Green Zone’ with Matt Damon, was about the US invasion of Iraq and even considering the impact of the volcano on my weekend, was probably the biggest disappointment of the whole trip!
Day 3 – Friday 16th April.
Upon hearing that Heathrow was going to be closed for most of today, I booked the last available room at my hotel, which by reports may have been the last room in London, and headed back to Hounslow to work from our office there. The constant updates on the ever-growing ash cloud brought no source of relief, with words like ‘Apocalypse’ being muttered by the pessimists in the office.
Next I made the mistake of going to say hello to friends in the marketing department. I mistook the joy in their faces when they saw me as a sign that they had missed me, but in fact they were happy because they saw an opportunity for me to help them out of a sticky situation. They had been trying to courier promotional material to Spain all morning but the courier companies were themselves grounded by the ash cloud. With my overnight bag in one hand and my suitcase of football kits in the other, I said that I would need a backpack in order to be able to carry anything else. I smugly thought that this would get me off the hook, but then they disappeared for about 17 seconds and came back with a backpack loaded to the brim with promotional material. Voila! The London marketing girls really are a resourceful bunch, although by the time I had arrived back in Spain with my back close to breaking point, ‘resourceful’ was not the word I was using to describe them.
When it looked like I could be stuck in London for a while I cancelled my over priced hotel room, reserved the sofa at an old friend’s house in Richmond, West London and used the opportunity to catch up.
Day 4 – Saturday 17th April.
As I sat bleary eyed on the sofa watching the early morning volcano reports, I quickly realised that this very sofa might well be my home for quite a long time. My thoughts turned to Eva, my wife and my two kids Megan and Lucas who expected me to be away for only one night, so I started to research the best ways to get back to Barcelona by any means possible.
According to the Eurostar website the next available train to Paris was early Sunday morning which I booked immediately, but as the French trains were in the middle of a four day strike I had no idea how to get from Paris to Spain. The Rail Europe website would not let you book online and advised to call their (unreachable) phone number or visit their office in central London. So off I set into London on the train and tube via Waterloo station. As I walked down Regent Street the sun beat down from a piercingly blue sky momentarily blinding me. I could empathize with the general public in not understanding why aircraft could not fly. There was not a cloud in the sky, let alone a devastating volcanic ash cloud. I could see the Rail Europe office from a mile away as it was the one with the population of a medium sized Caribbean island queuing around the block.
I had been waiting for four hours, with the queue barely moving when Rail Europe promptly closed their doors on my nose at 4pm leaving hundreds close to riot outside, including me. To make matters worse, today in the football world Manchester United won and Chelsea lost making Liverpool fans all over the world very unhappy. Icelandic volcano eruptions, deadly ash clouds, badly timed rail strikes, blunt customer service and uncomfortable sofas I can handle with no bother, but Manchester United winning is insufferable. Anyway, I digress.
Day 5 – Sunday 18th April.
The day started at 7am when I left my friends’ house in Richmond. The way things had gone I probably should have guessed that the overland trains would also be cancelled due to ‘essential works’ (if they were so essential, could they not have done them yesterday?). And so I opted to take the underground instead. The first Tube of the day was scheduled to depart from Richmond station at 7:22am from platform 7. At 7:22am everyone waiting on platform 7 watched in silent disbelief as the tube on platform 5 moved off. Not the best of starts to the day. Now I was on the back foot and had thirty minutes wait until the next tube. Two Tube connections later I arrived at St.Pancreas train station which by now resembled a refugee camp, albeit one with a Marks and Spencer food shop. Luckily the queue for pre-paid tickets was relatively short. A BBC camera crew interviewed me about my travel experience up till now. I doubt they will use this piece as thus far my experience has been comparatively injury free. That is to say that although I had felt like punching something I had yet to encounter any actual bloodletting. In retrospect I should have booked a follow up interview with them 24 hours later as I’d have plenty to rant about then.
The Eurostar was very comfortable and I spent the trip sharing stories with others trying to get back to Munich, Los Angeles and Tokyo. Through emails on my Blackberry I was able to give them current updates from my airport colleagues regarding which European airports were open. As Barcelona had just closed it seemed that Spain was now not the best place to go to for flights out of Europe. We all agreed that Morocco might be the best place to catch flights to the US and Asia. I have no idea what they ended up doing, but in my mind I have a picture of them on a camel halfway across the desert.
At Paris Gare du Nord I was pleasantly surprised to find a very helpful SNCF employee who told me that there were no trains to Spain today, but recommended to go to a different station in Paris and catch any train heading to the south of France. Unfortunately due to a Paris metro strike (they do love a good strike, the French) I had to go around the houses in order to connect.
At Gare de Lyon I noticed that there was a five hour train to Perpignan on the French/Spanish border, but was told it was full. I was crestfallen. Then just as I turned to walk away the ticket agent called me back as one seat had just become available. Things were definitely looking up. I snatched my ticket and ran to the train, fighting through the hoards of people pushing to get on like it was the last train in an evacuation of Paris. I sat down on my seat with a sigh of relief. Unfortunately one thing was missing: the train driver! We were 70 minutes late when we started rolling. As it turned out they also left behind the people who were meant to work in the restaurant car. Although I was starting to get hungry I was just thankful to be heading south.
By the time we rolled into Perpignan it was 10:50pm. I’m told I possess annoying level of optimism. This was apparent as I happily milled around the station now packed to the gills with two hundred or so other people from the recently arrived train, looking for information on connections to Barcelona. I found a small bus timetable with a departure to Barcelona at 2:50am on Mondays. This was Sunday night, so officially 2:50am would be Monday, but I was convinced that the locals would still consider it Sunday night and therefore not bother operating. As there were no trains to Spain, all car hire companies were closed and taxi drivers were quoting €300 per person, this seemed to be my only choice. As I stood at the bus stop debating whether or not to wait the four hours for the bus and face another three hours of travelling I was treated to a breathtaking spectacle, although looking back over the past couple of days I’m surprised it took this long. I could see the taxi drivers rubbing their greedy mitts as people desperate to get home were forced to part with large wads of cash. One group of elderly Spaniards was starting to get animated with a taxi driver. I paid no attention as in my experience elderly Spaniards tend to be animated by nature; I’ve witnessed ferociously impassioned debates on inane subjects, such as zips versus buttons or hats versus hoods. As the noise level rose, I turned around to watch as one of the ladies in the group, who was not a day over 60, slapped a taxi driver in the face only to find herself being punched in the stomach. I could almost see the instantaneous descent of red mist on the woman. Like a Samurai unsheathing his sword she withdrew an umbrella from her handbag and swung for the taxi drivers head, narrowly missing. The taxi driver turned and with Gallic nonchalance walked back into his car while the lady was restrained by her companions. As the taxi driver started off down the street, she managed to break free and got a good kick at his tail light with her stilettos. You’ve heard about ‘road rage’ and ‘air rage’ but I had just witnessed the emergence of ‘Volcano Rage’.
After this I thought I’d seen enough today so I decided a hotel room for the night was the best idea. Luckily thanks to the wonders of modern technology I had been emailing a friend from my blackberry on the train and he was able to find and tentatively book me a cheap hotel in Perpignan. I must have passed ten hotels all with a 'complet' sign in the window. When I found my hotel it also had a 'complet' sign. My heart sank. Thankfully when I walked up to reception I was greeted with a comforting 'Monsieur Scott?'
As the time was approaching midnight any sensible person would have called it a night and collapsed on the bed, but sensible is one adjective rarely used on me. I’d never been to Perpignan so didn’t want to waste an opportunity to have a walk about and find some food. Luckily I was spared having to try the French delicacy of horse (I was hungry enough to eat a whole one, minus the tail) as there was a pizza shop still open just around the corner. As I walked in the staff made eye contact but decided to wait for me to peruse the menu for a few minutes, enough time for me to start salivating with the smell of pizza in my nostrils before telling me that they were closed. Forget Volcano rage. I had just succumbed to ‘Pizza Rage!’
On my continuing search for grub I walked through the medieval part of Perpignan. With lots of old and narrow streets I’m sure it was a really pretty town by day, but I didn’t get a chance to stop and properly appreciate it as I was chased up the street by a bunch of bored thugs who must have seen the ‘Lost Soul’ sign above my head. Maybe they were just chasing me to ask if I knew of any restaurants that were still open.
Finally I found that the only places open were a bunch of kebab shops near the train station. I chose the one that looked least likely to serve E.Coli and braved my way in. I had no cash on me so they agreed to let me pay with credit card. After preparing my food, I waited as they spent ten minutes swiping my card through their greasy looking credit card machine, before they came to the conclusion that the machine was broken. After fleetingly considering just grabbing my food and legging it, I left my dinner waiting behind as I followed their directions to a cash machine supposedly situated just down the road. After a further ten minutes of fruitless searching I gave up and trudged home, empty bellied, but probably a lot healthier.
Day 6 – Monday 19th April.
The railway station in Perpignan had a timetable showing that two trains were due to depart for Barcelona this morning. As they were both operated by a Spanish rail company I naively assumed they would be unaffected by the strike. I trudged up to the station with my increasingly heavy bags for the 9am departure. On the massive information board in the station only eight trains were listed out of Perpignan all day, with each one heading north due to the strike. All car hires were sold out and the taxis wanted €150 just to take you to the Spanish border. I found the address of the bus company that operated the Barcelona route, but when I walked up to their office it was abandoned and looked like it had not been used since the days of Vichy France. Their website stated that all buses were full and as expected I had no joy getting through on their phone number. At this point, walking aimlessly around the train station seemed like the only thing to do.
Just as I had found a piece of cardboard and started writing ‘BARCELONA or BUST’ on it, the station supervisor shouted out ‘Barcelona!’ All it took was that solitary word to lift my spirits. He told me there was a bus outside to replace the stricken train service but I could only get onboard with a valid train ticket and I couldn’t buy one as the station sales team were also on....yes you guessed it: Strike! My spirits came crashing back down. Seeing a look on my face that I can only guess was either depression, exhaustion or homicidal, the train station supervisor conspiratorially whispered to me, “just ignore the driver and walk on, you may be lucky.”
Unfortunately the driver spotted me from miles away. I suppose he couldn’t really have missed me, dragging three bags behind me like a pensioner trying to walk three disobedient bulldogs. And so commenced the frustratingly circular conversation: “you must buy a ticket in the station”.....”But I can't, the ticket office is on strike”....followed by a Gallic shrug of the shoulders from the bus driver (repeat ad infinitum). As I stared around looking for hidden ‘Candid Cameras,’ I was quickly joined by two young women from Boston who were in the same position as me. We could see there were only five people on the bus so space was not the issue. Thankfully the girls were more hysterical than me (or so I’d like to think) and the driver quickly felt sorry for them and let them board. Prompted by one final epic shrug of the shoulders from the driver, I took the opportunity to jump aboard before he started with the whole ‘You must buy a ticket...’ conversation again. Feeling like stowaways the three of us agreed with the driver that we would pay when we got to the Barcelona bus station.
Great! I was on the final stretch of my odyssey.
Or so I thought.
Not long after we crossed the border we pulled into the town of Figueres. The driver stopped the bus at the train station and ordered the two Bostonians and myself off the bus. No explanation was offered but as I had succeeded in making it back to the right country and hadn’t paid a penny for the bus journey, I was in no position to complain. Luckily, there was a train fifteen minutes later going to Barcelona, so things were still looking up. I approached the ticket counter and asked for a one way ticket to Barcelona. Surprise surprise! They could not accept credit cards. My saving grace was the self service machines, or at least they would have been had they not been out of order.
As Figueres is famous for being the main town close to where Salvador Dali lived and houses his world famous museum, I briefly toyed with the idea of giving everything up and taking a course at the local surrealist art college. But instead, in one last ditch attempt I sprinted up to the town centre and found a cash machine kind enough to let me take my own money out whilst charging me a small fortune for it, and the race was back on.
So here I am, sitting on the train on what should be the last leg of my journey (although I've thought that before), 30 hours after leaving London and 88 hours after I was scheduled to have been home.
It was a real adventure made all the better by shared camaraderie with different characters all with similar stories, bringing back fond memories of my backpacking days from many years ago BC (Before Children). Also, seeing the French countryside whizzing past at 300 kilometres per hour has made me realise that I need to come back and see it at a more leisurely pace. Having said all this, the hardest part of the entire trip is still to come. My two kids, who now think I’ve been on holiday, are waiting (im)patiently for my arrival, or more accurately, the arrival of their presents. Regardless of what they think about the wee gifts I’ve bought them at train stations along the way, the best gift will be reserved for me and that’s the welcome they’ll give me after nigh on a week apart.
Right, now to write that Business Proposal!
