Day 30 - Spain and the Great Conspiracy

What dastardly deeds did the Spainish Government hold for us on this day of days?

Our train was to leave from Zaragoza train-station at 12:21 exactly (though we were not sure if trains in Spain took the Swiss approach to departure times), and so we endeavoured to be there an hour early so that there would be no chance we could miss it. Packing expertly we wheeled our bikes, fully laden, out of the hotel and up the street that led, almost directly, to the train-station. Passing a small shop, open on a sunday, that sold stuff useful for breakfasting and lunching, we stopped for a short period to stock up. Inside they sold the most fantastic large croissants for 50 cents each - Spain is literally so cheap for food. After our little stop we continued at a pace and arrived at the station at 11:21. Excellent! An hour ahead of when the train was due to leave, exactly.

It was at this point that I noticed a large digital clock outside a pharmacy that, inbetween telling the public that a) the building it was attached to was a pharmacy and b) that the temperature was a decidedly warm 20 degrees, gave the time as 12:21. My suspicions were aroused and I recalled a little conversation we had with an English couple in Duras, cycling from Bergerac to La Reole, that the French would putting their clocks forward on a certain sunday. I continued this rather disturbing train of thought to the logical conclusion that Spain, also, made the changes to the clocks so that, appearing one hour early for our train's departure, we had actually arrived just in time to see it leave without us. Damn!

Suspicions were confirmed when Danny, throwing Spainish around like a pro, inquired at the ticket desk about trains. Bum. Well thankfully another train was to leave shortly before 5pm, but till then we had to find ways to amuse ourselves. We sat outside in the sun, ate lunch, and while I dozed and went for explorations, Danny made friends with a Polish guy, who had been living in Spain for only a year or so, and thus both used very simple spainish - definately a good way of getting some practice in.

Finally, after much waiting, our train was scheduled to depart. To get to the platform we had to pass through suspiciously heavy security - one of those x-ray machines that you find in airports - so we had to take all our bags off our bikes then quickly put them back. When we got to the train we once again had to take our bags off and then suspend our bikes vertically (which I was able to understand quite well from the man who was trying to tell us because, as I didn't know the language, I focused on his use of sign language, whereas Danny was too involved with trying to figure out the words he was using). Finally all our bags packed away we were off to Barcelona - Buenos Dias, Chocolate, y Picasso!

On the trip we met a troubled, female cycle tourer, travelling to Taragona, who had punctured a tyre but was stuck without a pump (surely the pump is the towel of the cyclist - I was not impressed). Danny helped her fix the bike and we swapped tales of where we had been - it's amazing how much info you can get across when you cannot understand a word the other person is saying (she was spainish). She had a mountain-bike, and huge tyres, but her set-up looked far more professional than what we were carrying (in fact, our gear has without fail looked haphazard compared to every other cycle-tourer's gear, a fact of which I am proud).

Danny had invested some money in a detailed street map of Barcelona and so spent most of the trip either planning our route to the Youth-Hostel where Fred and Lucas were staying or sleeping. I, however, read Nietzsche, listened to music and stared at constantly changing scenery (as somekind of replacement for all the terrain we were not going to cycle through to get to Barcelona).

And so we arrived in Barcelona, but that deserves its own post so I'll write soon.