On the Train to Nice

This is one story in a series of stories that tell about a backpack trip to Europe in the spring of 1976 by myself in an effort to run away from the pain of a broken heart. (To read from the beginning Google "The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer" and go back to March 27th, "I'll Never Find Love Again.")

Saturday, April 3, 1976  (On a train to Nice, France)

I'm on a train to Nice. There is a couple from California (Jim and Randy) sitting across from me. They seem pleasant enough, but I don't feel like being social.

Yesterday Willem and Charles managed to catch the train to Nice; I didn't. I missed it. But I'm on my way now, just one day later than planned. The hotel clerk--I'll call him "E"--let me stay at the hotel one more night for no charge. He also gave me access to a second floor empty bar area with a view of the boulevard below. I wanted a place with ambiance because I thought it would inspire my writing; it didn't. I watched the people below, each one walking with purpose in their steps. Couples strolled by holding hands, sharing intimate conversations.  Everyone around me is happy, except me. I've ruined my life. I had someone who loved me, someone who wanted to take care of me, but I blew it.

I need to mention a few things about E, the hotel clerk. He walked me to the train station this morning and gave me a basket of French bread and fruit for my trip. But it was what happened last night that is worth mentioning. I will need to sort through it later before I understand exactly what did and did not happen. But, for the first time since leaving the love of my life back in Indiana, I wanted to be in someone else's arms.

From the time I first arrived at the hotel on Wednesday, E has been especially attentive to me. He's handsome but I don't think he knows just how good looking he is because he has a humbleness about him. He wants all of the guests to be comfortable and have what they need. To serve others is his nature; I can just tell. I find that characteristic to be endearing, so when he asked me if he could take me to dinner last night, I said yes. He was concerned because I had missed my train and my friends left without me.

We finished dinner around eleven, but we walked for several miles around the city until midnight. The streets were crowded with people just getting started to celebrate the night. Barcelona stays up late, very late, but I had an early train to catch so I told E I needed to get back to my room. About a block from the hotel, he took my hand and put it to his cheek. That's when I saw the ring. I couldn't believe that I hadn't noticed it before.  So I came right out and asked him if he was married, but he told me that just that morning he and his wife had separated and he forgot to take off the ring. Talk about coincidence and timing.

Like a gentleman, E walked me to my room, took my hands in his and said he would walk me to the train station the next morning. Then he said the sweetest thing. I will miss you.

I was in bed but still not asleep when I heard a light tapping noise. I covered up with a sheet and cracked opened to door. It was E. He was sad, he said. I noticed that his wedding ring was gone. He asked if he could just come in for a little while. He wanted to spend the little time that was left with me. So I opened the door and let him in.

E

Barcelona, Left Behind

This is one story in a series of stories that tell about a backpack trip to Europe in the spring of 1976 by myself in an effort to run away from the pain of a broken heart. (To read from the beginning Google "The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer" and go back to March 27th, "I'll Never Find Love Again.")

Friday, April 2, 1976, Barcelona, Spain

They're gone! We were running late to catch our train to Nice, France; we didn't know which track it was on, so we split up and the first one to find it would yell to the others. There was pure chaos and panic and then nothing. The trains were gone and I was standing all alone staring at an empty train track. They left me behind. I can't believe it.

I walked back to the hotel in a daze. The hotel clerk is so nice; he said I can stay one more day for no charge. He walked me up to my room--it's the same one I had--and said if there is anything he can do for me, to just let him know. I'm not doing any sightseeing today. I'm in a funk. I still can't believe they left me. I'm just going to stay close to the hotel and try to write. I'm just not inspired.

Later

I'm in a room on the second floor that has big windows that overlook the street below. I'm looking for ambiance, motivation, inspiration to write. So far nothing is coming to me. I'm hoping that by writing about what happened, I can sort through all the confusion and find clear direction. I'm so tired of feeling this way. What is wrong with me? I want to be happy again.

The hotel clerk brought me lunch. He's concerned for me because the guys left without me.

Barcelona, Day Two

This is one story in a series of stories that tell about a backpack trip to Europe in the spring of 1976 by myself in an effort to run away from the pain of a broken heart. (To read from the beginning Google "The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer" and go back to March 27th, "I'll Never Find Love Again.")

Thursday, April 1, 1976, Barcelona, Spain

I know I said that I wanted to make this journey through Europe by myself, but I think I made the right decision to travel with Willem and Charles. Charles is so pleasant and easy going. He never gets upset about anything and he treats me so well. He laughs at my silly antics and stupid jokes, and he agrees with everything I say. Willem acts like my protective big brother and seems offended whenever any man approaches me for any reason. He's so quick to jump between me and what he perceives as danger. How fortunate for me that I met them at the airport. I do feel safer with them and I can't imagine what all I would have missed in Paris and here without Willem's tour guiding and encyclopedic brain.  With these guys, this trip is better than I could have imagined, and I get to eat more than once a day--that was a bad idea from the beginning--because they share their food with me. How wonderful is that?

Right decision to travel with Willem and Charles.

This trip is better than I could have imagined.

Willem took this picture of me at the fortress.

But today I do want to go it alone. I need some time by myself. I want to stay close to the hotel, close to my room and think about him, about us, about the mess I've made of things, about the future, our future, if there is one...if it's not too late.

The view from my room, Barcelona

Barcelona, Spain

This is one story in a series of stories that tell about a backpack trip to Europe in the spring of 1976 by myself in an effort to run away from the pain of a broken heart. (To read from the beginning Google "The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer" and go back to March 27th, "I'll Never Find Love Again.")

Wednesday,  March 31, 1976, Barcelona, Spain

Willem, Charles and I left Paris last night after dinner. The trains are never late and the one to Barcelona was scheduled to leave exactly at 9:06 p.m. We were casual with our time and had to run to catch the train. We came within seconds of missing it. That was way too stressful. Never want to do that again.

The first-class cabins are very comfortable with three seats facing each other. The arm rests fold up so you can lie down. We had hopes of getting a cabin to ourselves so we could sleep, but because of our tardiness, we had limited choices.  The only cabin left had a newly married Australian couple in it, and the five of us spent the next twelve hours together. Cozy.

Train from Paris to Barcelona along the Mediterranean

We arrived at the train station in Barcelona early this morning. Another sleepless night for me, but not so for Willem and Charles. They both fell asleep right away. I don't know how, as cramped as the cabin was. I ended up on the floor.

The first thing on our agenda was to eat and then find rooms for two nights. In an effort to show the guys that I am not just a weak-link tag-along, but rather a woman competent enough to get us hotel rooms, I walked into the lobby of the first  hotel I saw and said, "Tiene alguna habitations de hotel para esta noche?" Translation: "Do you have any hotel rooms for tonight?" I had practiced that line over and over (without my two companions knowing) from a small English to Spanish book I carried with me, and I felt pretty smug about how good it was received by the man behind the desk. My goal was to impress. The man looked up and smiled back at me (Good! He understood me), and then he said in a perfect midwestern American accent, "No, Ma'am, I'm sorry. We are full up." Willem said nothing, walked out of the lobby and went right next door to another hotel where he was able to get us two rooms. 

With Willem leading the way,  Charles and I walked past the hotel clerk on our way up the stairs. He smiled and stepped out from behind the desk and asked--also in very good English--if I needed any assistance getting to my room. Willem stopped and motioned for me to go on ahead of him, and then I heard him say that we could find the way by ourselves. After checking out both rooms (Willem and Charles share a room), Willem motioned for me to take the room with one twin bed. Did he think I wouldn't have been able to figure out which room was mine? Um, let's see. This room has two beds and this other one has one. I wonder which one is mine?

The agenda today was too aggressive for me. I'm operating on too little sleep, and my leg muscles are not accustomed to so much work.  First we went to the Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya, also known as the art museum that was miles away (walking) from our hotel. We went to a fortress that overlooks the harbor. With it's four huge cannons facing the sea, it was once used to protect the city from invasion. There are still guards posted by each one. In the early afternoon, we walked to a square that looked more like a circle where people were sitting in chairs relaxing and talking and watching the birds peck at the ground. Then, as we were walking back to our hotel, hundreds of chanting demonstrators dressed in bright, outlandish colors came out of nowhere and they completely filled the street. They were mostly young and their massive presence was shocking and intimidating and their angry outbursts scared me. But as fast as they arrived, they disappeared, and the streets were peaceful again.

As fast as the demonstrators

arrived, they disappeared.

When we arrived back at the hotel, the clerk asked how "our" day was but he directed his question to me. Willem does not like the clerk; I can tell. He moved between me and clerk and said, "It was a good day. Thanks."

The guys are out tonight, but I decided to stay in my room and write in my journal and hopefully get some sleep. I'll probably have the same dream I have every night. I knock on his door. He answers and sees me standing there, pathetic, apologetic, and crying, and then he says, "It's too late" and closes the door. 

Paris Done!

This is one story in a series of stories that tell about a backpack trip to Europe in the spring of 1976 by myself in an effort to run away from the pain of a broken heart. (To read from the beginning Google "The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer" and go back to March 27th, "I'll Never Find Love Again.")

Tuesday, March 30, 1976, Paris, France

The phone startled me awake at 7:20 this morning. At first, I couldn't figure anything out. Where am I? What is that annoying noise? Then it came to me; I am in Paris...in the Hotel Du Pantheon. My room is tiny, only big enough for a twin bed, a small sink, and what looks like a toilet but Willem called it a bidet. (The real bathroom is down the hall.) The phone continued to ring; it knew I would eventually answer it, as soon as I got my wits about me.

(We left New York on Sunday, flew to Iceland, where we departed the plane. Don't ask me why. It was cold; really cold--snow everywhere--and all I have are sweaters and light jackets. We then flew to Luxembourg where we immediately got on a train and came to Paris where I crashed in my $7.00 room after twenty plus hours without sleep.)

It was Willem on the phone. He was anxious to get the day started. Lots to see, he said. He's been to Europe several times (his brother lives in Vienna) and he knows Paris well.

My feet hurt. We walked twelve miles today and toward the end, Willem could tell I was exhausted, so he hailed a taxi to take us back to the hotel.

I guess this is a good time to describe my two traveling companions. Willem is my age and single. He's a big bear of a guy, has a teddy bear demeanor; he's very good to me, but he's too serious. He's intelligent (he uses big words), is college-educated, but doesn't have a job at the moment, so why not head off to Europe for a month. I could be wrong--and time will tell--but he seems to be taking me on as a project. It's as if he had been assigned to someone who needs attended to because that someone--that would be me--cannot take care of herself. I hope I'm wrong about that because I don't need a caretaker. I'm quite capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much!

Charles is fifty and divorced. When Willem suggested that he take a leave of absence from his job to accompany him overseas, he jumped at the opportunity. Charles is an accommodator. He's a "yes" man. This may be a rush to judgment, but it's as if he has no original thoughts of his own. He's easy; he's pliable; he's a follower and Willem is the leader. So I guess Willem has two charges he's responsible for.

This is how we spent our one day in Paris: First the Sorbonne, on to Notre Dame, past St. Chapelle, across the Seine to the Right Bank and to the Louvre. Next Place de Concorde, where Louise 16 lost his head, up the Champs des Elysees to the Arch of Triumph, towards the Seine to the Trocadero. Willem leading the way; Charles and I following behind. We climbed up the Eiffel Tower, and went to the Hotel des Invalides, where Napoleon is entombed.

Paris Done!

We took a taxi back to the hotel to pick up our bags (we were ten miles away), went to dinner, ran to the train station, left Paris at 9:06 tonight for Port Bow, which is on the border between France and Spain.

Next destination: Barcelona, Spain

Hotel Du Pantheon

Willem and me right after
climbing the EiffelTower

So sad...thinking about him. 

Hometown Boys

This is one story in a series of stories that tell about a backpack trip to Europe in the spring of 1976 by myself in an effort to run away from the pain of a broken heart. (To read from the beginning Google "The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer" and go back to March 27th, "I'll Never Find Love Again.")

Sunday, March 28, 1976

It hit me while I was standing in line to board the plane to Luxembourg. What am I doing? It felt like I had stepped on top of a live wire; my body was vibrating and I couldn't self-talk myself to calm. The realization of what I was doing had set in just minutes away from being too late to turn back.  I was thinking I could turn back now. I shouldn't be traveling by myself. What if I run out of money? What if I get in trouble? I can't speak any foreign language. 

Eventually calm did return and I decided not to abort at the last minute. I am going to backpack my way through Europe, spend the days sightseeing, stay some nights in hostels and some nights sleeping on the trains as they take me from one place to another, eat one meal a day, and most importantly I am going to forget about him.

My anxiety returned when the announcement was made that our flight would be delayed indefinitely due to a mechanical issue with the airplane. Everyone in line scattered in all directions, except me. The unexpected delay paralyzed me. Where would I go? What would I do in a cavernous airport with hours and hours of idle?  I had brought my journal so I could write but I didn't think to bring a book. Big mistake. In the distance I noticed the two men who had been in line in front of me walking fast and with specific intent. Where were they going? Did they know something the rest of us stranded travelers didn't?  I hurried to catch up with them just in case they were on to something. Uncertainty and doubt set in again. What was I doing here? If I was this unnerved over a flight delay, how am I going to cope with what is waiting for me in a strange land so far from home?

The room had two long rows of metal chairs, each one holding a small television for pay. Even though I had no interest in talking to them, I found a chair directly behind the two men I was following. There was comfort in having them nearby. I felt so alone and vulnerable. I put one quarter in my television but nothing happened. Since money is scarce, I didn't want to try again and fail again. That's when one of the two men turned around as if he knew I needed help, introduced himself as Charles, leaned over my chair and fiddled with something to make the T.V. work. One thing led to another and before long, Charles and his friend, Willem, and I were back in line together waiting to board the now-repaired airplane. The big surprise was that they are also from Indy--my hometown--and their agenda is identical to mine: Luxembourg, Paris, Barcelona, Nice (Monaco), Rome, Florence, Venice, Innsbruck, Vienna, Salzburg, Frankfort, Amsterdam, and back to Luxembourg.

"A girl should not be traveling around Europe by herself," Willem said while we were standing in line to board the plane. "If you want to, you can travel with us. We'll be your tour guides and bodyguards."

Sounds good, but I think I want to do this on my own.

Willem and Charles

Hometown boys

I'll Never Find Love Again

Thirty-nine years ago today, my little yellow VW bug and I found ourselves smack dab in the middle of a traffic jam during rush hour in New York City. Days earlier we had left Indy in a rush so I could catch a plane to Luxembourg. With one backpack and $300 in my pocket (the airplane ticket and Eurail pass cost $300.00) I was eager to run away from the mess I had made of my life, and oh, what a mess it was. Here's the first story in what was to be a month-long journey to Europe and back.

Saturday,  March 27, 1976, New York City

I arrived in New York City yesterday evening during rush hour. I left Indy Thursday because it was agony waiting for a phone call that never came. I spent $10.88 on a motel in Youngstown, Ohio, on my trip east, and the next morning I was starving so I went to the motel's restaurant. When I walked in, the manager must have noticed my red eyes and tear-streaked face because he kept trying to cheer me up. I knew he meant well, but his attention annoyed me. I just wanted to be left alone. I ordered breakfast and then picked at it because I was suddenly sick to my stomach. The bill came to $1.47. As I was about to leave, the manager seemed alarmed at my sadness, so he took my bill and said, "No charge." He walked me to the door, all the while giving me empty words of encouragement. Or at least they were empty to me because what he could not know was that no words can ease this pain I feel. He's gone. The love of my life is gone, and I'll never find love again.

New York City
March 27, 1976