THE TRAINS IN SPAIN MOVE SLOWLY CROSS THE PLAIN
Every Day a New Adventure. Or Misadventure.
In an effort to escape Andalucía’s infamous summer heat and avoid the August vacation rush, we planned our getaway for early September. We wanted to see the great historic cities of Castilla Y Leon, just north of Madrid; and Santiago de Compostela, in Galicia, just north of Portugal. There was never a question that we would travel by train; it would be half the pleasure.
There are two trains a day to Madrid, and, wanting to go on from there to Avila, we took the earlier. The train was scheduled to leave at 7:50 and we had breakfast in the station cafe. Spanish trains are very punctual, and your ticket states the train number, the coach number and seat number, so boarding the right train and finding your seat is easy. Two rows ahead of us, and on the other side of the aisle, an older couple — I would guess he was mid-seventies — were struggling with their luggage. They had three pieces, and they simply could not get the largest one up on the overhead baggage shelf. Although a group of young Spanish travelers filled the front of the car, no one offered to help. So I volunteered and got the suitcase up. If the shelf had been six inches higher, or the bag five pounds heavier, I wouldn’t have made it.
Just behind me, another gentleman was facing a similar problem. He wasn’t that old but had a bad shoulder, so he was trying to put his bag up with one hand. I volunteered and put it up. By the time the train left, I was perspiring and my back was calling out, “No mas.”
The trip to Madrid takes six hours. We waited in the station for an hour before boarding the train bound for Avila. I put our bags up and walked through the next car to check out the cafe coach. And who should I pass in the next coach? The elderly couple. Actually, there was only the woman, standing beside her suitcase in the aisle. I smiled, she smiled. With a mighty effort, I put the suitcase up and returned to my seat. Soon the gentleman showed up by our seats, shook my hand, and thanked me profusely. They were going on to Asturias, and we were getting off after only an hour and half in Avila, and we laughed that I wouldn’t have to handle their bags anymore. More about them later.
We spent one day in Avila, a small walled city. The walls, along which are 88 towers, completely encircle the old town. The walls are described as the oldest, most complete and best preserved in Spain. Rick Steves recommended the Continental Hotel. I figure you can’t go wrong with the Continental Hotel. The once grand, but now rather worn, shabby-chic hotel was located on the square. Our second-floor room was very large, with 12-foot ceilings and a balcony, from which we looked across the small square into the front doors of the cathedral. Nice.
We walked on the walls, along the inside of the walls, and completely around the outside of the walls. That is what you do in Avila.
The next day we trained to Salamanca, home to Spain’s oldest university and one of Spain’s grandest plazas. Once again following the sage advice of our new best friend, Rick Steves, we took a modest hotel on the square. How modest? The entrance was simply a door beside a cafe. After climbing 46 steps, you rang a bell which alerted the manager, who lived on the floor above. But it was worth it, as our balcony overlooked the entire plaza. The proprietor, who spoke a little English, told us that our room was Rick’s favorite. Plaza Mayor is very much like Plaza Mayor in Madrid, perhaps three-fourths the size. We spent two days there, our second day being the first day of the annual ferria, or festival. During our first afternoon, we watched as a large stage was erected for the week-long event. During our attempted siesta, we were treated to the sound checks being made.
The next afternoon, from our balcony, glass of wine in hand, we watched the 40-minutes parade of costumed folk dancers and musicians as they paraded through, and afterwards listened to an Hungarian techno-folk band play, followed at 11 p.m. by a concert by a French group consisting of two violinist, a cello, vibraphonist, two guitarists and a drummer play and perform like a rock band. I have no idea ho to describe the music, which we liked very much. It is good that we liked it, because it didn’t end until 12:30.
Three hundred balconies ring the plaza, but, with the exception of a few minutes here and there, ours was the only one occupied. It felt as if we were reigning in the royal box and the whole show was being put on for our benefit.
After two nights in Salamanca, we headed to Santiago de Compostela. The trip, about seven hours including a one-hour transfer in the wilderness, crossed the parched plains of Castilla Y Leon before entering the lush forested mountains of Galicia. Unfortunately, the train passed through many of the recently burned areas. Tragic.
Santiago is famous as the destination of El Camino del Santiago, The Way of St. James, a pilgrimage from France to the Cathedral de Santiago, supposedly the site of the remains of St. James the apostle. Well. Anyway, people (even Shirley MacLaine) have been walking at least part of the route for 1000 years.
We took a room about 100 meters from the Cathedral on a narrow, cobblestone street (are there any other kind?) and proceeded to walk the city in pursuit of Galicia’s fabled seafood delights, especially pulpo. Octopus. Actually, I did most of the searching and all of the pulpo dining. We ate like kings.
It seems to me that a trip with ten segments contains within itself the probability of at least one glitch. Along with the possibility of adversity if not outright disaster. One can only prepare one’s self for it and not panic. So when the glitch raised it grinchy head, we were prepared.
Kay and I prefer to travel off-season and without reservations, particularly if we don’t know how long we want to stay. We make our decision either in route, and buy the tickets for the next leg upon our arrival; or decide later and buy them then. But we always buy them in advance. In Santiago, we put off buying tickets for only one day. Our original plan had been to stay three days, then train to Segovia on Sunday. I’d looked at a map and it seemed that the track went through Segovia. I’d tried the online site, but it, for some reason, didn’t show a Santiago-Segovia trip. Actually, there was a reason.
When we arrived at the station, we were informed that the Sunday train was sold out. And that train did not go through Segovia. And that the train arrived in Madrid too late to make a connection to Segovia. Ah, best laid plans.
But, as the saying goes, misfortune spelled backward is opportunity. We bought tickets to Madrid for Monday, then returned to our hotel and arranged for a fourth night. This, we decided, was an opportunity to walk as much of El Camino as practical. Backwards. Which, for me, was symbolic. Ignoring the high probability of rain - it had rained heavily every morning - we bought picnic supplies and hoped for the best.
On Sunday it rained, though more a drizzle than the downpour of the days before. Off we went, walking against a current of pilgrims, many wearing traditional pilgrim garb: cape, peaked hat and walking stick with a scallop shell, the symbol of St. James, attached. We walked into the countryside to a small chapel overlooking the city, from where the pilgrims get their first view of the cathedral. We picnicked at a large, nearby compound, the last before reaching Santiago, where pilgrims can sleep, eat and bathe before entering the city and attending the twelve o’clock mass, which is celebrated daily by the archbishop especially for the pilgrims. The sun had come out and we dried as we ate.
We were to arrive in Madrid on Monday evening about nine-thirty. Rick had no advice for hotels around the Charmartin station. Our seat mate on the train, we were in one of those two-facing-two configurations, told us that we shouldn’t have any trouble finding a hotel around the station. Well, not if you’re rich.
There was a very large, four-star hotel located in the station. We checked it out. €96, $120. For ten hours? We decided to check the area out. Fortunately, we travel with a carryon-size roller and attached bag, because we walked for an hour. The area was very modern and upscale. We discovered several hotels, all four-star, with the exception of one three-star, which was full. Finally we walked back to the station and took the €96 room. We checked in at eleven. The room wasn’t even that good. Who cares if they have little bottles of shampoo? I decided that this wasn’t a new glitch, but simply a continuation of the original one. We were in the station, so that was convenient. We decided to save Segovia and its Roman aqueduct for another trip and add a day in Toledo.
I went over before breakfast and bought round-trip tickets to Toledo and our return ticket to Granada. No more glitches.
Toledo is almost over the top. I wouldn’t want to live there, but what a magical place. Our room was a short block from the cathedral in the heart of the old city. The 14th-century building has been a family palace and a monastery before being converted to a hotel just five years before. Our room, which smelled of new cedar, was huge, with two beds, couch and coffee table, desk, sparkling new bath room, and two balconies, one enclosed in glass windows, all of which could be opened, and the other facing the cathedral. We could step out onto our balcony and look directly on the cathedral. This for €52, just more than half what we paid for our nondescript hotel in Madrid. Thanks again, Rick.
We explored the fantastic cathedral, walked the hills and along the river, soaked up dozens of El Grecos, and lost and found ourselves hourly. By comparison to Toledo, our 800-year-old neighborhood seems like a grid. The hill the city sits perched on is so steep that a series of six (six!) escalators have been installed to carry you up to the old city from the surrounding parking lots. I guess today’s tourists aren’t as sturdy as they used to be.
On Friday, we trained back into Madrid, and waited an hour for our 4:30 train to Granada to board. And guess who’s sitting directly across the aisle. Yes, the bag-laden couple we left Granada with ten days before. We shook hands and he pointed out that their bags were already stowed.
We arrived in Granada at 10:30 and headed out for a taxi. And who was standing at the taxi stand with her suitcase. Although she didn’t really need any help, I insisted on taking her bag and taking it to the taxi. The husband showed up with the rest of their bags and we all had a good laugh. I assured them that I would be available for their next trip. Fortunately, they didn’t understand English.
We took the next taxi and were home in minutes. Just inside our entranceway, we discovered a bit of debris on the floor and a note begging our indulgence. When I looked the next morning, I discoverd that new wiring and a new electrical box had been installed. And later, as she attempted to prepare lunch, Kay discovered that, although all our lights worked, the stove did not. That night we grilled on the terrace and then next day ate out.
On Monday morning - the cafe is closed on Sundays - I went down and attempted to consult with Carlos, the cafe owner. This was not a situation that my limited situational Spanish was prepared for. But, with the assistance of our goodhearted and always helpful friend Tammo, we learned that during a driving rainstorm the week before, the exterior electrical box had literally blown up and new lines had been installed. Carlos had no idea what to do. Tammo traced the lines and discovered that the circuit leading to our stove had not been reconnected. The wiring in these old buildings is well beyond description. If this building were in California, it would be in violation of at least 130 codes and we would all be driven into the streets immediately.
Carlos called the electrician, who promised to come over before lunch. Which in Spain could be 4 p.m. He arrive at three, reconnected the line, and, for the first time in two weeks, we cooked and ate at home.
Ah, the expat’s life. Expect the unexpected.
