A couple of dummies

Strangers on a train to nowhere

There are few Spanish train routes as striking as the ride from Barcelona to Tarragona.

The rails delicately perch along the edge of the sea as it follows the Mediterranean for most of the route and, even with the occasional, spicy surprise of very naked men strolling around the sands near Sitges (year round), it’s incredibly relaxing.

The relaxation is key as once you turn in from Tarragona, heading towards the mountains, hinterlands, and Priorat, this strip through the county of Baix Camp is where all of the shit-hit fans lie in wait.

I don’t know the exact cause for the problems. Maybe it has something to do with Vila-Seca and Reus both being big track switching points. Trains are connected and disconnected as well as new crews swapping out the old. These are problems that could be readily dealt with of course, if the Spanish state train operator, Renfe didn’t thrive on not really caring if anything works.

There are however rare cracks in the fabric of time wherein amazingly, Renfe is not to blame.

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It’d been a long day in Barcelona running errands and by the time the train back home passed the Roman Amphitheater and arrived to Tarragona, it was already at the Renfe Standard Delay coming from Barcelona which was roughly a half hour. You learn to deal with this by bringing a book. I of course did not and so I was doom scrolling my phone with morbid stupidity.

The train rolled out of Tarragona, lilting its way through Vila-Seca, managing to hold its 30 minute delay in check. It eventually wrapped all the way round Reus, gently coming into the station like an old friend arriving pre-drunk to a lunch you’d scheduled. There were a surprising number of people waiting on the platform for some reason which was odd.

I mention this as the particular line I was on had a terminus of Zaragoza, but is definitely the looooong way to get there as it winds through the hinterlands around the Ebre River. Anyone sensible would opt for the AVE at 1:20 from Barcelona versus this 19^th-century, single-track line that trundles along for five hours in total. Someday, when I’ve nothing else to do I might take it the whole way as, like the Mediterranean bit, it’s quite scenic as well, running along the river.

This is to say that no one takes this train to go to Zaragoza and seemingly all these people who were waiting, were going to one of these downstream hinterland villages that dot the mighty river?

A taller fellow got on whose face had all the dimness of a lamp that had yet to be turned on. His hair was dyed with Spanish Shoe Polish Black #3 that so many men barely holding on to the wrong side of 50 simply love, despite it looking like they’ve been mugged by a group of shoeshine street boys.

His suitcase was inexplicably enormous but he managed to heft it up into the shelf above the seats. He then pushed his way past a woman in the aisle seat, hitting her knee. She complained and he huffed at her dismissively. He then sat down in a manner that could only be described as befuddled with extreme prejudice.

The train lurched out of the station with every seat taken as well as people standing in the aisles as, in addition to being late, Renfe also likes to run trains that are about 60% of what’s needed for seating.

We puttered on to the next station, Les Borges del Camp where in 10 years I have never seen a single person board nor get off.

The befuddled, shoeshine street boys survivor then blurted out to those around him in heavily-accented Spanish, “Wait, where is this train going?!!”

People calmly answered, “Zaragoza” to which he started breathing heavily and pulling his suitcase down, yelling while attempting to breath and breathing while attempting to yell, “Why was I allowed on this train?!! I have to get off! I have to get off!”

He body slammed his way to the doors, again smashing the woman next him. Another guy who was standing in the aisle asked him, “This is going to Zaragoza?”

“Yes! They screwed you up too? These incompetent idiots!”

“Um, I guess. But, I need to go to Barcelona.”

“Come with me!”

They waited for the train to arrive to the station, then tumbled out the doors with their belongings like a couple of very stupid rocks in a less-than-impressive landslide. Once out, they saw that they were the only two people on the platform.

Make no mistake, Les Borges del Camp is a station that, after dark is an extremely fine place to be physically harmed as there are very few lights and no one is ever there. No one except for these two human boulders, one of which had a ridiculous suitcase.

Just as the conductors cleared the doors and got ready to leave, the befuddled man leaned in, blocking the doors and asked the conductor, “But I need to go to Barcelona, where is the Barcelona train?!!”

“You should have taken that back in Reus.”

“I wanted to, but you guys screwed up! What happened?!!”

Except that he didn’t use the right conjugation and instead made it sound like he was asking what happened yesterday instead of what just happened now. It was clear to hear that he was an Anglophone as it takes forever to get the hang of these various past tenses in Spanish and Catalan.

Hearing more of his Spanish, I realized that he was not just an Anglophone, but also an American as it had that accent of language usage only via desperation.

“Well, today, you took the wrong train.” was the logical answer from the conductor, “And now you need to wait for the Barcelona train going the other direction.”

“But this doesn’t make sense. Why do I have to wait here? Where is this train? When is it coming?!! THIS TRAIN IS NOT MOVING UNTIL I UNDERSTAND!!! EXPLAIN IT TO ME!!!”

The conductor sighed.

The whole train sighed.

I definitely sighed as well in that I really didn’t want to get involved with this, but at the same time, the shoe-polish survivor was holding up what was already a very late train.

I got up out of my seat to talk to him, in English, as it seemed a lot of the Spanish wasn’t penetrating whatever grey matter he might have laid claim to.

“Hi there. You’ve basically got two options now. You can either wait for about an hour fifteen here for the last train going to Barcelona or you can take this train further down, get off at Mora la Nova and wait a half hour there. Same train. Same amount of time and really the same option, but that’s it.”

His reaction was pretty much what I thought it would be.

“I don’t know who you are. I don’t trust what you’re saying. I’m not talking to you anymore, I’m only talking to Renfe to understand what my options are!”

The conductor then replied in what was better English than the befuddled wonder’s Spanish, “Um, this guy explained it. Those are your options. On or off, sir, but you’ve got one train to make it back.”

He looked around at the station as well as to his companion in co-brilliance who had been silent all this time, but I realized by the light of the platform, he looked just like Larry Sellers who stole The Dude’s car in The Big Lebowski.

“Okay, fine, I’ll get back on.”

He clamored up, parked his suitcase and then stood in the aisle, his face somehow seeming even more befuddled and additionally less pleasure as the train started heading up into the mountains.

I went back to my phone, only to realize that it was the bit where you lose coverage, so I went to staring out the window and naturally, McDimwit came over to me.

“Hey, sorry for barking at you.”

“Yeah, no problem. Train’s moving now.”

“No, really, let’s just shake on it.”

And he extended his hand to shake which I didn’t really feel like doing.

“Come on, just shake on it.”

In the hopes it would get rid of him, I shook his hand.

It did not get rid of him.

“Yeah, I mean, I was just really flustered. It’s been a long day and they screwed up at the station. There’s that other guy too. I wasn’t the only one who made a mistake in case you were thinking we’re just a couple of dummies.”

“That was exactly what I was thinking.” I thought to myself and in not replying other than nodding, he got huffy again.

“Alright then, I can see you’re busy.”

I was not but life is too short for making the actively stupid feel as if they are somehow not.

“So I guess I’ll just go sit down. You know, I know what I’m doing here. My wife is Spanish and I’ve lived here for 20 years. I give tours and all that. I know my way around.”

“That was exactly the opposite of what I was thinking” I again thought to myself, but I realized he wasn’t going to stop talking and my lack of interaction just seemed to fuel more of his.

“Yeah, no problem. You just need to take the train for another half hour and transfer in Mora la Nova, but make sure you get off there or you’ll end up in Zaragoza.”

“Okay, okay I see. You want to be left alone.”

When I didn’t reply he seemed to finally get the hint and then went back to standing in the aisle like a dog waiting for his owner to come out of a shop, except with far less charm.

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The train barreled through the final long tunnel before it opened up on Priorat.

While the sun had long set, there was still a glow around the villages that softly lit the dormant vineyards in a yellowish, humming light.

I could see the station for Falset-Marçà nearing in the distance as we made the final bend so I grabbed my bag and headed to the door where Captain Oblivious was waiting.

“Oh you’re getting off here?”

“Yup, I live here.”

“Ah, what brings you here?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Oh really, what part of the UK are you from?”

“Huh?”

I was about to say, “California-shire” as he was driving me nuts at that point and the train seemed to be taking forward to arrive to the platform. Instead I went for the direct answer.

“I’m American, not English.”

“Oh, well, I just thought with the accent and all.”

“What accent? There is absolutely no one in the UK who would think I speak like anything other than an American.”

“I mean, I just thought.”

“Yeah, great, I need to get off now. Thanks.”

As the train had finally come to a complete stop, I stepped over him as he was very much not moving from where he’d planted himself at the door.

“Well, okay, I mean, have a good night!”

I didn’t bother responding to his attempt at sarcasm, let the train doors close, and was able to breath in the fresh air that was 100% less dummy-infused at that point.

I looked at my phone and with the Standard Renfe Delays along with the dummies incident, it was only 45 minutes late which meant, “on time” for what should have been a two-hour ride in total.

What happened to the befuddled voyager with 20 years of lifetime experience in Spain and a Spanish wife I never found out. If however he ended up in Zaragoza and is to this day still wandering their streets, swiping people’s tapas from outdoors tables for sustenance, I give all the residents my most heartfelt of apologies as I tried Zaragoza, I really tried.