The Next Thing to Expect/Getting to San Sebastian

These next few posts will be short stories that I'm trying to pull together to for a book. It's pretty much going over my entire experience in Spain and has some pretty cool stories, but let me know what you think. Anyways, here's the story about getting on the train to San Sebastian:

San Sebastian

Part One: Getting on the Train

I had only had two hours sleep. I awoke on the couch at Aaron’s apartment fully clothed. My last memory was my internet not working and sitting on the couch hoping to wake sometime before 7. My watch read 6, so I got up and ambled over to Aaron’s computer to finalize the checklist for the trip. As I was sending the itinerary to Mom and Dad, Aaron’s friend Josh walked downstairs.

“Did you get much sleep last night?” he asked.

“Yeah, about two hours,” I replied, chuckling.

He continued on to the kitchen for a glass of water. I gulped mine in one swig. He waved goodbye, and then returned to bed.

“Done,” I said to myself, clicking on the send button.

I turned off the music and began to rummage through the luggage to make sure for one last time that everything was in order. Satisfied, I hung Aaron’s keys on the wall and left.

Walking outside, I sported my trusty hoodie, my new backpack, my Bourbon hat and my little black suitcase. I was glad I was wearing the hoodie, as the air outside was still cold from the night before. Tiny ripples of sunlight spilled out over the horizon as I entered the metro station to go to Renfe Atocha stop, where I foolishly believed my train would depart from. It always helps to re-read your train ticket to make sure.

I got out at the station and looked at my watch, which read 7.

“Good,” I told myself. “Plenty of time.”

I passed by a few cafes until I came across the one I had eaten at previously on another trip. I settled for a chocolate croissant and a coffee and milk, as well as the pear I had taken from Aaron’s kitchen. I hoped he wouldn’t mind.

After finishing breakfast I stopped by a store and picked up a bag of popcorn for a snack before I made my way to the departure gate. The line was moving fast and I scrambled to pull my ticket from my pocket. The lady looked annoyed as I struggled with the ticket while throwing my suitcase on the conveyor belt. I finally managed to pull it out, and handed her the ticket. Without even breaking her rhythm she coolly told me that I wasn’t at the right place.

“What?” I asked incredulously. “What do you mean?”

She pointed to the departure column on the ticket and said, “Chamartin.”
I looked and sure enough, it said Chamartin.

Shit.

“Move along please,” she said as she pointed to the door.

“Wait, hold on.” I replied slightly panicked. “How do I get to Chamartin?”

“Take a metro ride, a bus, a taxi, I don’t care. Get out of line and ask the lady at the information desk,” she responded irritated.

You can only imagine all of the four letter words that were flying through my mind. Not only was I shocked that I was at the wrong station, but this lady wouldn’t give simple directions. I thought a swift kick to the butt was in order, but that would only cause even more problems. I picked up my suitcase in disgust, shooting the lady a look that could burn a hole through a brick wall, and left.

I walked over to the information counter and waited in line as the attendant was helping another customer. An old man at a ticket machine walked over to the desk and put his ticket down on the table. When the attendant had finished with the previous customer, I went in to ask for directions when the man blatantly broke in front and began asking about his ticket.

More four-letter words rushed through my head as the man drew the attendant away from the counter to the ticket machine.

You know, I don’t have time for this shit.

I stormed off to find another information desk, and instead only found ticket booths with lines long enough to make my heart sink. My watch read 7:30. My train left at 8:00.

I am so screwed.

Looking around, I spied a sign that read Chamartin.

Visca!

I ran over to the turnstile an inserted my ticket. The machine spat it back out and told me that my ticket was no good.

What?!?

I re-inserted the ticket again and got the same result.

Don’t give me this shit, work!

I moved over to another turnstile and got the same response. If there was a nickel for every four-letter word I was thinking, America would be out of the recession and booming.

I looked around frantically as other passengers pushed past me and went through.

Well this is some bullshit.

The same thing had happened to me in Barcelona on my last day, forcing me to buy a day ticket. What use is a ticket with 37 more trips if the damn machine can’t read it?

I saw lines of people at ticket machines and ran over to make another purchase. Unfortunately, half of the machines were out of order, and half of the people in line were using half a brain.

On the bright side, the wait allowed me to learn a brief lesson of Renfe economics: always make the customer pay more to get to where they’re going. You had to purchase a special ticket to get out to special platforms.

After waiting for the final idiot to finally get their ticket (after the machine kept refusing all of their small change over and over again) I pushed past and pushed the button for Chamartin, inserted my 2 Euro coin and rejoiced as the machine spat out my ticket and change. I ran over to the turnstiles, inserted my ticket and broke into a smile as the machine spat the ticket out the other end and gave me the green light.

Pushing through, I then scurried down the steps to look for signs or people that could tell me the direction to Chamartin. I moved out onto the platform and saw that both directions went to Chamartin. The alarm on the train sitting at the station went off. The sign for that train only read three stops, so I forewent any further debate and slipped aboard just as the doors hissed shut.

Gathering myself, I surveyed my surroundings. Tired passengers lined the walls or slumped in their seats. I read the marquee and saw that the final stop wasn’t Chamartin.

Oh shit, are you freakin kidding me?!?

The time read 7:35.

Well, I guess if worse comes to worse, I can get off and get on another train in the opposite direction.

Deciding that was a ridiculous idea (the sign read Chamartin for Christ’s sake!) I spied a metro map and leaned forward to read it, causing the tired woman standing in front of it to lean slightly out of the way. I didn’t recognize any of the stops and began wondering how the hell I was going to spend my time hanging out in Madrid.

Two stops later, the lady, along with half the train made their exit. I slid over in front of the sign. After a brief search I spied Atoche.

Visca!

Following the lines, I discovered the red line I was on went to Chamartin, and it was the next stop.

Visca!!

I stepped back and read the marquee, which told me the time and temperature before confirming that the next stop was indeed Chamartin and that I had less than fifteen minutes to catch my ride.

VISCA!!!

The loudspeaker then re-confirmed this by announcing the next stop. I couldn’t keep the smile on my face from spreading until it reached from ear to ear.

The train slowed to a crawl before finally coming up on the outdoor platform. I burst out of the train as the doors slowly hissed open. I began walking faster and faster, dodging slower people impatiently as I made my way down below. I started following the crowd of people until I saw the sign that read “To Metro/Exit.”

“Huh?” I asked.

I stopped mid-stride, grunting as the person behind me ran into my back. Pulling the ticket out of my pocket, I tried to find the platform until I remembered that they assigned platforms the day of the departure. Giving myself a mental slap in the forehead, I put the ticket back in my pocket and began reading the signs on all thirteen of the platforms. None read San Sebastian. I went back and forth in dismay, running through how I was going to spend my time in Madrid when I decided to run down to the end of the hall (in the direction I was originally going before I got the bright idea to second-guess the crowd of people going in that direction) and spied an information booth just on the other side of the turnstiles. My watch read 7:50.

I got the woman’s attention and asked, “Ma’am, how do I get to San Sebastian?”

She turned around, saw a lost American and smiled. Pointing past the turnstiles and down a long hallway, she told me, “Pass through the turnstiles, go down that hallway, up three flights of stairs and you’ll be in the right place.”

“You’re sure?” I asked again for confirmation. I wanted to make sure she hadn’t misunderstood my question.

“Yes yes. Down the hall and up the stairs,” she told me.

Okay, let’s do it.

I ran through the turnstiles, thanked her, and continued running down the long hallway. I got to the stairs (which were really escalators) and ran up the left lane, bypassing the standers in the right lane. After the first flight I saw city roads and taxis. I ran up the second, then third flight. To my left was another train station.

Jesus Christ this place is confusing.

I ran inside the glass doors and began walking down the main walkway, searching the TV screens for information on my train. Once again, I felt dismayed as none of the screens read San Sebastian. After passing by half of the platforms, I spied two women in green uniforms.

“Excuse me, but I’m trying to get to San Sebastian,” I told them.

The older one looked down for a second then raised her head. “Platform 8,” she said, pointing in direction I was going.

“Thank you,” I told her, relieved.

As I began walking again, I realized that I had already passed platform 8 before talking to the two women. Before I could even act on this realization, the older women called after me, “Wait! I meant platform 16! The train leaves at 8!”

“Thanks!” I called back.

I read the screen for platform 16, and didn’t see San Sebastian, but decided that the two women were probably right and that what I was reading was the final stop. I ran down the escalator to the platform and glanced at my watch. 7:56.

This is gonna be close.

Running out the door, I jumped in line and waited for someone to read my ticket and confirm that I was in the right place. I got up to the woman at the window and felt my stomach tighten as I handed her the printed e-ticket.

What if you’re at the wrong platform again? What if the machine can’t read the e-ticket because you folded it three times? What if something completely ridiculous happens and I have to go somewhere else or talk to someone else?

The voice of reason and action immediately began responding.

Well, look at platforms with trains parked at them, read the signs on the run back inside to see the platform numbers, run like hell over there and maybe you’ll still have a shot.

This all ran through my head in less than a couple of seconds. The lady at the window took the scanner and began using it on the ticket.

Please oh please oh please—

The machine beeped and she handed me back the ticket.

“You’re in car 20, the very last one. Have a good trip sir.”

Oh thank God!

I grabbed the ticket and then got in line to scan my suitcase.

Last obstacle. Please don’t see something you don’t like.

I threw the suitcase on the conveyor belt and began to walk to the other side.

“Sir!” a uniform woman called after me.

Shit. Now what?

“Sir, your backpack please,” she told me.

“Oh,” I said in surprise.

I had completely forgotten that I was wearing the backpack, a sign that it was well-worth the 70 Euros I had shelled out for it. I threw it on the conveyor belt in between my suitcase and an impatient woman’s purse and then walked over to the other side to pick it up. Both items rolled out of the other side, and I picked them up after the woman took her purse.

I began walking toward the car when an older gentleman in a navy blue business suit brushed by with his suitcase. I read the number of the car I was passing by, which only read 5. I pulled out my ticket and confirmed that I was on car 20. I put the ticket back in my pocket and began to jog.

6 and 7 passed by when the first train unit ended and the next began. I looked ahead and saw what I believed to be two more.

8, 9, 10: almost there. 11, 12, 13: end of car two.

I began to sprint, passing the last Renfe lady and making my way to the last car.

The numbers blurred by: 14, 15, 16, 17, 18: almost there.

I finally reached the last car, which only read 19.

“Whatever,” I thought as I leaped inside.

I turned to my right and saw a sign reading: “Car 20.”

“About freakin time,” I thought as I passed through the glass doors.

I pulled out my ticket, read my seat number, and walked over to my seat. I put my suitcase and my backpack on the ledge above and took my seat. Across the aisle and one row ahead, a mother and son read a magazine. The rest of the car was empty. I decided that it was probably okay to walk back outside and take in one last view of the bitch I had conquered. I took in a deep breath of cool air and marveled at the golden sunrise peeking out over the top of the Renfe building.

You were a complete bitch, but I beat you.

The door alarm immediately went off and I leaped back inside. Now was not the time to get left behind during a final act of arrogant defiance. The doors hissed shut and I walked back to my seat. I saw that all my stuff was still on the ledge and held thoughts of gratitude that “mother and son” were not kleptomaniacs. As I fell into my seat, the train slowly began crawling forward, speeding up faster and faster.

“What a morning,” I thought to myself before pulling down my backpack to pull out my laptop.

I had decided that now was the best time to write down the events of that morning as they were all still fresh in my head. I pulled out the laptop, logged in, and began writing. A Renfe man walked by, passing out headphones. I took a pack and pulled them out, inserting them into my laptop so I could listen to Queens of the Stone Age rather than a documentary about some random Spanish town. A chorus of voices broke the silence of the dull roar of the moving train. The voices stopped and drums kicked in playing a slow, 16th-based groove. A staccato guitar joined in, adding to the rhythm. Another guitar started playing fills right before the song began. I closed my eyes and put myself back into the mindset of the early morning as Josh Homme began singing.

I had only had two hours of sleep.

“That’s a good start,” I thought.

I continued narrating as the train rumbled out of Madrid into the Altiplano and The Queens of the Stone Age sang on.