Where was I? That’s right, I was talking about miscommunications in Spain. But having no idea what the waitress was saying when she offered us a choice of desserts was one thing. Being clueless during a train changeover was quite another. This occurred during our last train journey in Spain, the ten hour ride from Santiago de Compostela in the northwest to Bilbao in the northeast. This is what happened.
I was passing the time reading; enjoying the lush scenery and bright yellows of the snapdragon-like bushes that populate much of the lush north and northwest; and evesdropping on other passengers. The young Englishman down the carriage from us had lost his passport in Santiago de Compostela, so the long journey was punctuated by his calm discussions (overheard by us and anyone who could understand) with the relevant authorities to sort out the situation. Poor fellow! How glad we were that we had had no such dramas, and our travelling was almost at an end.
Two hours from Bilbao, an announcement was made in which I thought I discerned that there would be a stop at the next station for thirty to forty minutes, and which I thought I heard confirmed to the Englishman in English by a helpful Spaniard. We decided to get out and have a walk. Leaving all our things, we jumped down and walked along the platform. Many others were doing the same.
But what was this? After a few minutes, there seemed to be movement, people were jumping back on the train again, the station master was waving, and the train looked set to depart! Perhaps I had misheard and misunderstood? We jumped back on to the nearest carriage and started walking back to our seats, and just in time: the train was moving. We kept walking, through one carriage, then the next – but where there should have been a couple more carriages before our own (containing all our bags), we saw to our horror the end of the train! The train was off, and we were on it, but it had divided in half, and we were on the wrong half!
Increasingly desperate, we begged the conductor to let us off. ‘Our luggage!’ we said. He said something that sounded like ‘No. There are no solutions. No.’ and walked away. We tried to open the back door and jump off (the train was travelling very slowly at this stage). The door wouldn’t open. Out of options, we paced up and down for a while in total disbelief at what was happening. The other passengers looked on with curiosity.
Having regained his attention by our desperate attempts, the conductor returned and gestured for us to sit down while he entered into discussions with his colleagues by mobile. We were given an unscheduled oral exam in Spanish as he asked us what colours our bags were (I hadn’t learnt colours yet), where our seats were, and whether we had our tickets with us (we didn’t). I wrote down as much as possible to save any further confusion, and jumped in to the aisle to mime a wheelie bag (pointing to something red) then a large backpack (grey). There was nothing grey nearby except a section of a woman’s handbag that she was holding, so I jabbed at that, to her mild annoyance.
After further discussions, with translation assistance from the unexpectedly helpful woman with the handbag and a string of train staff, it all went smoothly. We were deposited at the next stop, took another train back to where we had been separated from our luggage, collected the luggage, and caught the next train to Bilbao, escorted at every stage by train staff with no opportunity for any further stuff ups.
So we were back on track, and arrived in Bilbao just an hour and a half later than originally scheduled. It was worth it. We loved Bilbao, especially the stunning Guggenheim museum, containing art most worthy of the building it is housed in.
Next stop, Paris. Much closer to my comfort zone.
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