In the last episode, Lucy, Bill, and I made the disastrous decision to spend a week in the Canary Islands, and it turned out to be for the birds. Another week in Madrid, or one in Morocco, or frankly one anywhere in the world but Brindisi would’ve been better. After fleeing the Canaries a couple days early, we part ways with Bill and face the end of our adventure.
Let’s Go Home
After heartfelt hugs, we said goodbye to our friend and constant companion for the past month so he could return to Switzerland and continue his circumnavigation of the globe. Lucy and I felt a sense of relief to be on our own again but also nagged by a what-now feeling. We were almost at the end of our three-month grand tour and would need to make our way back to London soon to catch the return flight home, but neither one of us seemed ready to do that. Me especially. I was so enamored with Spain, in fact, that I wanted to stay there for another month to visit Barcelona, see the Alhambra, and explore the Costa del Sol.
The problem was we were nearly broke, so the decision was reluctantly made to swallow our pride, gird our loins, and call our fathers to beg for money.
Lucy reported little resistance from her dad, Bob, but my call with A.O. did not go smoothly. The only reason he agreed to wire the money, I’m sure, was that U.S. Bank where he was Vice-President of Personnel had a sister bank in Spain and he so relished the idea of pulling that string he relented and agreed to send another thousand bucks. It took a couple of days for the transfers to go through, but I vividly remember the ebullience I felt leaving the bank flush with more travelers checks and a pocketful of pesetas. So much so that we impulsively decided on the spot to go to Barcelona. Which we did.
Barcelona is a beautiful city on the Mediterranean only three hours from Madrid in their new high-speed trains. It was charming but had a decidedly different vibe than Madrid, and as we learned some no-go zones for lawful residents and certainly tourists.
Nevertheless, we had a fine time for a couple of days before itching to move on and head south again to Granada and the famous Alhambra, then to the Costa del Sol. We had plenty of money now but a new problem to solve as our 90-day Eurail passes were about to expire. So we made our way to the train station to secure new ones and book tickets to Granada for the next morning, but what promised to be a simple transaction turned out to be anything but.
We purchased our original passes in America, and they were valid in every country in Europe bar none, but we were bitterly disappointed to learn that when you buy them in Europe they are valid in every country except the one you’re in. Which meant we had to leave Spain PDQ.
Of course this makes sense to promote tourism on the Continent, but made no sense to us, precipitating a crisis and a meeting to reimagine our plan. Bill had mentioned an ancient, fortified city in southern France he had visited and loved – was there anywhere he hadn’t visited and loved? – called Carcassonne, and since it was not too far over the border and we had no better ideas at the moment, we booked seats and retreated to our pension to regroup.
There are gaps in my memory of this trip, most of which I’ve glossed over or skipped entirely, and getting to Carcassonne is one of them. I am absolutely certain, however, that this was yet another instance when we booked the wrong train and ended up having to spend the night in a small French town before we could catch the proper train to our destination.
And for what reason I can’t imagine, especially since we had recently come into some money, we elected to sleep outside in a small city park rather than pay for a pension. Which proved to be a very bad decision because the park was a very popular party venue for local rats.
In any event, when we finally got to Carcassonne, we could see why Bill had been so enamored with it. It is famous for La Cité, a medieval citadel, Château Comtal, a 12th-century castle, and its byzantine maze of narrow cobblestone streets. It’s truly like being transported back to the Middle Ages. More difficult to be enamored with were the funky pensions, cranky residents, and crummy food. And the weather in December, which is really cold and really wet, so we both promptly caught really bad colds.
Understand that by this time, Lucy’s moods had stopped swinging and were pretty much stuck on bad. And Carcassonne is where they went from bad to worse. I attempted a little sodden solo tourism and hoped her outlook would brighten when she felt better, but that didn’t happen, and at some point, on the third or fourth day, Lucy announced she wanted to go home. And that she wanted to do so immediately. I knew there was no room for dissent and went about the task of stowing my belongings, of which there were few, and my frustrations, of which there were many.
The rest of the trip is a blur including a poorly executed zig-zagging train trip back to Paris, then another to Dover before boarding one last ferry bound for London and the long wait for the long flight home. What time has not blurred is the memory of the English Channel being extremely choppy due to the foul winter weather, and Lucy making multiple rushed trips to the railing to toss her cookies overboard. As we made our way home, Lucy showed a glimmer of her old self, and we discussed what shape the next phase of our lives and relationship might take. But it is clear to me now that it was clear to us then, Lucy and I were not meant to be a couple no matter what continent we were on.
Au revoir y adiós Europa!