This is our last morning in Barcelona. We catch the fast train to Madrid at 11.
It's sad to leave when there's so much we haven't seen, but the rain and the Clingon's Barcelona belly have hampered us a bit. I've (re)learned a great deal about travel and have been close to tears with frustration at times.
The Clingon was confined to quarters. The meds hadn't worked, but we tried the big guns at bedtime, and he's had a quiet night.
, 
Yesterday, I went to Sants Estacio via the subway to book tickets for the train to Madrid today. I'd put my soggy three-day metro ticket--which I'd used for one journey--into the slot. The night before I'd been drenched, as I described in the last blog entry, and my cloth bag and all its contents had been thorougly washed out. It was early in the morning. I was the only person there. The machine ate my ticket. There were no station staff I could call on, nor any bystanders who might have helped. So, with trepidation--would the machine eat my new ticket as well?--I bought a one trip ticket and made my way down to the platform.
I'd been to Sants Estacio to make the seat reservation on the Barcelona to Madrid train the previous day, and learned that the seats could only be reserved one day in advance. I was told that I could go to booths 8-15 at 10 a.m. to do the booking. But there was something the railway staffmember failed to tell me. Why would she? So obvious when you know, so vital when you don't.
I joined a hundred other people on the seats waiting for 10 a.m., when I envisioned a shit fight for space at a counter. I wondered about this. Did I need to take a number. I asked a young woman waiting on one of the seats, but she didn't understand English. Then I saw what had been hidden by people standing around it earlier: a machine where you could push a button and take a number. OK, I was making a reservation, having already paid for the Eurail pass, so I pressed the reservation number. Ten seconds later, it was 10 o'clock and my number came up! I was first in the queue. Another woman waiting, who must have witnessed what had just happened, demanded to see my number. I showed it to her, breasted my way to the booth and presented my number. I asked if the clerk understood English. She said "No", and then told me I had the wrong ticket. I had to get a ticket for prepurchase, or something like that. Language: lost in translation.
By the time I returned to the machine, my number was 0038. Frustration. Should I cry now? I decided to do a Soduku on my phone, swallowed the tears and waited for 0038 to pop up on the digital display at the front.
So, dear readers, I am brought back to an understanding of what my students go through when they are newly arrived in Australia.
I'll catch up with you from Madrid.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
I'd been to Sants Estacio to make the seat reservation on the Barcelona to Madrid train the previous day, and learned that the seats could only be reserved one day in advance. I was told that I could go to booths 8-15 at 10 a.m. to do the booking. But there was something the railway staffmember failed to tell me. Why would she? So obvious when you know, so vital when you don't.
I joined a hundred other people on the seats waiting for 10 a.m., when I envisioned a shit fight for space at a counter. I wondered about this. Did I need to take a number. I asked a young woman waiting on one of the seats, but she didn't understand English. Then I saw what had been hidden by people standing around it earlier: a machine where you could push a button and take a number. OK, I was making a reservation, having already paid for the Eurail pass, so I pressed the reservation number. Ten seconds later, it was 10 o'clock and my number came up! I was first in the queue. Another woman waiting, who must have witnessed what had just happened, demanded to see my number. I showed it to her, breasted my way to the booth and presented my number. I asked if the clerk understood English. She said "No", and then told me I had the wrong ticket. I had to get a ticket for prepurchase, or something like that. Language: lost in translation.
By the time I returned to the machine, my number was 0038. Frustration. Should I cry now? I decided to do a Soduku on my phone, swallowed the tears and waited for 0038 to pop up on the digital display at the front.
So, dear readers, I am brought back to an understanding of what my students go through when they are newly arrived in Australia.
I'll catch up with you from Madrid.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
No comments:
Post a Comment