Spring Break
Traveling nightmare
Column: Bon Voyage
Allison Kolodziej, Senior Staff Writer
Issue date: 4/22/05 Section: OpEd Page
I've always heard horror stories about traveling in Europe. Until a few weeks ago, they were good for a lesson and a laugh, until it happened it to me. After a long weekend in Barcelona, a group of us was traveling overnight to Nice, France. We boarded a train around 7 p.m. In 14 hours I'd be on the Mediterranean coast sipping French wine - paradise.
In Barcelona, it was a little strange that the final destination of our train had changed. We were only a bit confused when we boarded something highly resembling one of the Barcelona subway trains.
At 10 p.m., an hour after we were scheduled to switch trains for the evening, the conductor checked our tickets, frantically saying something like: "No Francia, (insert 10 Spanish words here,) train no Francia, (insert more Spanish)." With my four years of elementary Spanish, I knew this wasn't good. Thankfully, a well-dressed, middle-aged man from Monaco across from me was able to translate.
"There's a strike in France," he said. "Are you ready to walk six kilometers to the next station?" And so began the night from traveling hell. When we arrived at the border town of Portbou, Spain, it was a ghost town. We followed Mr. Monaco and several others to taxis that would take us to the nearest French station.
It would have been a tough walk because the six kilometer ride was over a huge seaside mountain. The cliffs had no guardrails and our driver thought it was acceptable to continuously drive on the wrong side.
It took about an hour for the entire group of travelers to make it to Cerbere, France. Picture Gilligan's Island, minus the beach - and Gilligan. There was Mr. Monaco, an English couple, a scientist from Russia, two businessmen in suits, an engineering student from Paris, three American girls studying in France, and six MUDEC students - here on Gilligan's isle!
The one employee not striking led us to the "salle d'attente." While we expected fancy leather lounges and heat in the "waiting room," we found a graffiti covered jail-like room with wooden benches and barred doors. And we were prisoners until the first train at 6:45 a.m. - assuming the strike was over in eight hours.
At first it was like a slumber party. We played cards and ate the scientist's snacks. The single employee brought plastic cups for the wine I saved for the beach. At around 2 a.m., someone flipped off the lights. I curled up in a corner and after 30 minutes with my purse protecting my head from the feet of a snoring man, I decided to spend the rest of the night with the espresso machine.
We followed Mr. Monaco onto the 6:45 a.m. train and, after three switches, eight hours and no additional sleep, we arrived in Nice. When my mom called a few days later, she asked how my trip was going. "Well, two nights ago I slept on a bench with a bunch of random people in a dark waiting room right outside of the tracks in a southern France train station."
"You mean, like homeless people?" she asked, surprisingly calm. I guess it could have been worse.
In Barcelona, it was a little strange that the final destination of our train had changed. We were only a bit confused when we boarded something highly resembling one of the Barcelona subway trains.
At 10 p.m., an hour after we were scheduled to switch trains for the evening, the conductor checked our tickets, frantically saying something like: "No Francia, (insert 10 Spanish words here,) train no Francia, (insert more Spanish)." With my four years of elementary Spanish, I knew this wasn't good. Thankfully, a well-dressed, middle-aged man from Monaco across from me was able to translate.
"There's a strike in France," he said. "Are you ready to walk six kilometers to the next station?" And so began the night from traveling hell. When we arrived at the border town of Portbou, Spain, it was a ghost town. We followed Mr. Monaco and several others to taxis that would take us to the nearest French station.
It would have been a tough walk because the six kilometer ride was over a huge seaside mountain. The cliffs had no guardrails and our driver thought it was acceptable to continuously drive on the wrong side.
It took about an hour for the entire group of travelers to make it to Cerbere, France. Picture Gilligan's Island, minus the beach - and Gilligan. There was Mr. Monaco, an English couple, a scientist from Russia, two businessmen in suits, an engineering student from Paris, three American girls studying in France, and six MUDEC students - here on Gilligan's isle!
The one employee not striking led us to the "salle d'attente." While we expected fancy leather lounges and heat in the "waiting room," we found a graffiti covered jail-like room with wooden benches and barred doors. And we were prisoners until the first train at 6:45 a.m. - assuming the strike was over in eight hours.
At first it was like a slumber party. We played cards and ate the scientist's snacks. The single employee brought plastic cups for the wine I saved for the beach. At around 2 a.m., someone flipped off the lights. I curled up in a corner and after 30 minutes with my purse protecting my head from the feet of a snoring man, I decided to spend the rest of the night with the espresso machine.
We followed Mr. Monaco onto the 6:45 a.m. train and, after three switches, eight hours and no additional sleep, we arrived in Nice. When my mom called a few days later, she asked how my trip was going. "Well, two nights ago I slept on a bench with a bunch of random people in a dark waiting room right outside of the tracks in a southern France train station."
"You mean, like homeless people?" she asked, surprisingly calm. I guess it could have been worse.
