Our Migration to Spain
We departed Paris on March the second. Our plan was to board the overnight train to Madrid, which would culminate in a 15 hour long journey. Excited, we set out for the train station after leaving our friends, Alice and Paola a new plant to nourish in their apartment.
We headed out for the Paris Montaparnsse station, beaming with confidence only to find out that the train we wanted to board was full. Resigned, we agreed to take the next train, which would not be leaving for an additional four hours.
We had eight hours to kill. Being the experienced college students we are, we devoured five of eight hours in a café at the station with a drink that only cost less than two euros.
Soon after, AnnMarie became fidgety. She could not understand why our train’s departure was not being displayed on the screen. I kept dispelling her fears by saying things like, “It is only 8 PM, the train is not for another three hours. If it doesn’t come up until then, we can worry.” AnnMarie persisted and finally, I caved and ambled over to the ticket booth.
“Why isn’t our train up there on the screen?” I wrote. The agent shot me a look of confusion and asked to view my ticket. I compiled and instantly, a chuckle escaped from his lips. “Your train is not on the screen because it is not leaving from this station.” He quickly scribbled out, giving away a slight shake of the head before indicating which station we were to go to catch the train on the metro map.
AnnMarie had been right to worry; the first rule I learned in academic bowl practice: in times of uncertainty, always follow your intuition.
We had arrived in Madrid and we were elated. As the Spanish breeze swept over our faces, we beamed, refreshed. At night, after settling at our hostel, we decided to take the mile long trek to the subway. We had chosen a hostel on the outskirts of the city for two reasons. The first being that it was more financially feasible. The second being that it had an impressive safety rating. We did not bother with the fact that it was inconveniently located because as AnnMarie put it, “I am a natural born athlete! I can walk.” She had a point and so we walked.
Through the snow the first night when it was less than thirty degrees out and throughout the next day when there was pouring rain and hail.
It turns out that Madrid did not have much to offer in the way of a nightlife, a city hub where the city’s life bristled about, or much of anything to do for tourists.
After a few hours, we had tired of the harsh weather. We had seen the Plaza de Espana and the Museo del Prado. Whatever motivation we had for seeing Madrid previously had been engulfed in flames, or rather, drowned out by the rain.
During our trip back to the hostel, we made a stop at the train station to make a reservation for our trip to Barcelona. I told the agent that I wanted the earliest possible train out the next day. He obliged and we paid our dues.
Instantly, we felt the surge of excitement return. We were leaving Madrid for good and we had booked two seats on the 8 AM train. Life was good!
At 5:30 AM, after only four hours of sleep, we rose, full of energy. It is amazing the amount of energy your body garners when it is filled with anticipation. We made haste and stopped at the vending machine for cheap cappuccino while I checked out.
Then an “oops” moment happened. The receptionist was confused. The paper read, “But your reservation does not expire for another day.”
We had gotten so caught up in the romantic notion of leaving Madrid for Barcelona that we neglected to check our booking dates.
Reeling myself in a matter of moments, I shot out, “I don’t care, I want out of here.” AnnMarie did not hesitate to give me an eager nod that indicated her agreement and we set out into the cold Madrid morning at 6 AM, with our bags rolling awkwardly over the brick sidewalk.
During our mile long walk, I broke out into laughter and AnnMarie looked behind to check on me when she caught me laughing, she shot me a questioning look. “I don’t…even care about the fact that we don’t have a place to sleep tonight,” I broke out, continuing to laugh. Instantly, the irony of it registered on AnnMarie’s face and we continued to break out into bouts of laughter the entire trek.
We honestly did not care.
Five hours passed and we were in Barcelona. It is worlds apart from Madrid. The weather in Barcelona is a comfortable sixty-two degrees Fahrenheit. The people are mellow and you see people sitting outside basking in the sun.
This is what we wanted. I had moved to Washington D.C., abandoning the Los Angeles sun on February the first. It had been a while since I experienced such nice weather. AnnMarie’s feelings reflected mine, but being the competitive person she is, she quickly added, “I have been in New York since December thirteen! I have had to put up with terrible weather longer than you have and I was in Rochester for two weeks in extremely cold weather!” That was when my white flag sprang up. At least we could agree we appreciated the sun.
When we arrived in Barcelona, our first order of business was bedding. We had to figure out where we were going to spend the night. AnnMarie had dropped a suggestion that included us and the beach. Another romantic notion, but I figured we had our fill for the day so I catapulted myself into charge for our accommodation for the night. My first step was to visit the hostel where we already had a reservation that would begin the day after.
To reach Graffiti Hostel, we had to take the metro and connect to the purple line to the stop that would bring us closest to the hostel. When we were about to transfer trains, three Spanish men surrounded me. One grabbed my suitcase. I shook my head politely, thinking that he wanted to lend me a hand. He resisted and that was when I knew.
My mind sprang into action. I gripped my suitcase, but I could feel a hand reach into my purse. Not being able to hold onto my suitcase safely and grip my purse, I decided clothes were more important than my camera and money and so I held onto my suitcase. I had struggled with the man until we were safely onto the platform. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw AnnMarie frozen in place, uncertainty clouded her face as she intently, her pose arched into a defensive one as she watched the scene unfold.
When my suitcase made contact with the ground, I immediately turned my head to the left and grabbed the second pickpocketer’s coat and whipped it off. He had used it as a mask to steal items from my purse. Underneath the coat, I had revealed my Amazon Kindle, a graduation gift from my parents and I was in the middle of a series along with my digital camera. Wasting no time, I snatched my items and stuffed them back into my purse, screeching to the three thieves simultaneously, “Give it! Give it back!”
Looks of horror washed over their faces and were soon replaced with annoyance. One guy gestured to the train, telling me to look at it. I knew what he was trying to pull. It is a trick Deaf people pull all the time. Three weeks ago, my brother had pointed out the window at a bird for me to see. I turned my head, finding no bird, but what I found was that he had eaten the chicken off my plate.
I kept my gaze trained on him, continuing my screech. With his coat still in my hand, I quickly rummaged through its pockets, checking for any other items he may have taken from me. Shoving the coat back after finding nothing, I shoved my hand down into his pockets to continue my searching. This is when I began to notice passerby eyeing the situation suspiciously as they walked past. Ignoring them, I felt around in his right pocket, finding only coins.
The look of annoyance on the man’s face morphed into one of infuriation and he stormed off with his two friends following behind him.
Finally, after being blocked off by the three men during the entire confrontation, AnnMarie could rush over to me. Her face was anxious, “What had happened? I saw you take back your camera and your Kindle!”
I gave her a reassuring smile. I was fully aware of what was going on and I had acted fast. I gave my purse a check. The only items they had managed to steal, I had retrieved back into my possession single-handedly.
Letting out a slight shrug of the shoulders, I wrapped my fingers over the handle of my suitcase and set out to greet the Barcelonean sun for the first time.
It was not a “negative experience.” It is and always will be a “learning experience.”
We headed out for the Paris Montaparnsse station, beaming with confidence only to find out that the train we wanted to board was full. Resigned, we agreed to take the next train, which would not be leaving for an additional four hours.
We had eight hours to kill. Being the experienced college students we are, we devoured five of eight hours in a café at the station with a drink that only cost less than two euros.
Soon after, AnnMarie became fidgety. She could not understand why our train’s departure was not being displayed on the screen. I kept dispelling her fears by saying things like, “It is only 8 PM, the train is not for another three hours. If it doesn’t come up until then, we can worry.” AnnMarie persisted and finally, I caved and ambled over to the ticket booth.
“Why isn’t our train up there on the screen?” I wrote. The agent shot me a look of confusion and asked to view my ticket. I compiled and instantly, a chuckle escaped from his lips. “Your train is not on the screen because it is not leaving from this station.” He quickly scribbled out, giving away a slight shake of the head before indicating which station we were to go to catch the train on the metro map.
AnnMarie had been right to worry; the first rule I learned in academic bowl practice: in times of uncertainty, always follow your intuition.
We had arrived in Madrid and we were elated. As the Spanish breeze swept over our faces, we beamed, refreshed. At night, after settling at our hostel, we decided to take the mile long trek to the subway. We had chosen a hostel on the outskirts of the city for two reasons. The first being that it was more financially feasible. The second being that it had an impressive safety rating. We did not bother with the fact that it was inconveniently located because as AnnMarie put it, “I am a natural born athlete! I can walk.” She had a point and so we walked.
Through the snow the first night when it was less than thirty degrees out and throughout the next day when there was pouring rain and hail.
It turns out that Madrid did not have much to offer in the way of a nightlife, a city hub where the city’s life bristled about, or much of anything to do for tourists.
After a few hours, we had tired of the harsh weather. We had seen the Plaza de Espana and the Museo del Prado. Whatever motivation we had for seeing Madrid previously had been engulfed in flames, or rather, drowned out by the rain.
During our trip back to the hostel, we made a stop at the train station to make a reservation for our trip to Barcelona. I told the agent that I wanted the earliest possible train out the next day. He obliged and we paid our dues.
Instantly, we felt the surge of excitement return. We were leaving Madrid for good and we had booked two seats on the 8 AM train. Life was good!
At 5:30 AM, after only four hours of sleep, we rose, full of energy. It is amazing the amount of energy your body garners when it is filled with anticipation. We made haste and stopped at the vending machine for cheap cappuccino while I checked out.
Then an “oops” moment happened. The receptionist was confused. The paper read, “But your reservation does not expire for another day.”
We had gotten so caught up in the romantic notion of leaving Madrid for Barcelona that we neglected to check our booking dates.
Reeling myself in a matter of moments, I shot out, “I don’t care, I want out of here.” AnnMarie did not hesitate to give me an eager nod that indicated her agreement and we set out into the cold Madrid morning at 6 AM, with our bags rolling awkwardly over the brick sidewalk.
During our mile long walk, I broke out into laughter and AnnMarie looked behind to check on me when she caught me laughing, she shot me a questioning look. “I don’t…even care about the fact that we don’t have a place to sleep tonight,” I broke out, continuing to laugh. Instantly, the irony of it registered on AnnMarie’s face and we continued to break out into bouts of laughter the entire trek.
We honestly did not care.
Five hours passed and we were in Barcelona. It is worlds apart from Madrid. The weather in Barcelona is a comfortable sixty-two degrees Fahrenheit. The people are mellow and you see people sitting outside basking in the sun.
This is what we wanted. I had moved to Washington D.C., abandoning the Los Angeles sun on February the first. It had been a while since I experienced such nice weather. AnnMarie’s feelings reflected mine, but being the competitive person she is, she quickly added, “I have been in New York since December thirteen! I have had to put up with terrible weather longer than you have and I was in Rochester for two weeks in extremely cold weather!” That was when my white flag sprang up. At least we could agree we appreciated the sun.
When we arrived in Barcelona, our first order of business was bedding. We had to figure out where we were going to spend the night. AnnMarie had dropped a suggestion that included us and the beach. Another romantic notion, but I figured we had our fill for the day so I catapulted myself into charge for our accommodation for the night. My first step was to visit the hostel where we already had a reservation that would begin the day after.
To reach Graffiti Hostel, we had to take the metro and connect to the purple line to the stop that would bring us closest to the hostel. When we were about to transfer trains, three Spanish men surrounded me. One grabbed my suitcase. I shook my head politely, thinking that he wanted to lend me a hand. He resisted and that was when I knew.
My mind sprang into action. I gripped my suitcase, but I could feel a hand reach into my purse. Not being able to hold onto my suitcase safely and grip my purse, I decided clothes were more important than my camera and money and so I held onto my suitcase. I had struggled with the man until we were safely onto the platform. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw AnnMarie frozen in place, uncertainty clouded her face as she intently, her pose arched into a defensive one as she watched the scene unfold.
When my suitcase made contact with the ground, I immediately turned my head to the left and grabbed the second pickpocketer’s coat and whipped it off. He had used it as a mask to steal items from my purse. Underneath the coat, I had revealed my Amazon Kindle, a graduation gift from my parents and I was in the middle of a series along with my digital camera. Wasting no time, I snatched my items and stuffed them back into my purse, screeching to the three thieves simultaneously, “Give it! Give it back!”
Looks of horror washed over their faces and were soon replaced with annoyance. One guy gestured to the train, telling me to look at it. I knew what he was trying to pull. It is a trick Deaf people pull all the time. Three weeks ago, my brother had pointed out the window at a bird for me to see. I turned my head, finding no bird, but what I found was that he had eaten the chicken off my plate.
I kept my gaze trained on him, continuing my screech. With his coat still in my hand, I quickly rummaged through its pockets, checking for any other items he may have taken from me. Shoving the coat back after finding nothing, I shoved my hand down into his pockets to continue my searching. This is when I began to notice passerby eyeing the situation suspiciously as they walked past. Ignoring them, I felt around in his right pocket, finding only coins.
The look of annoyance on the man’s face morphed into one of infuriation and he stormed off with his two friends following behind him.
Finally, after being blocked off by the three men during the entire confrontation, AnnMarie could rush over to me. Her face was anxious, “What had happened? I saw you take back your camera and your Kindle!”
I gave her a reassuring smile. I was fully aware of what was going on and I had acted fast. I gave my purse a check. The only items they had managed to steal, I had retrieved back into my possession single-handedly.
Letting out a slight shrug of the shoulders, I wrapped my fingers over the handle of my suitcase and set out to greet the Barcelonean sun for the first time.
It was not a “negative experience.” It is and always will be a “learning experience.”