Today we would part ways with our amigo, Botz,
and continue 11 hours by train to Barcelona.
Rail map: Black line is the route from Cadiz to Barcelona.We sit and watch the people we saw last night over and over again. Another small town under the guise of a big city.
Trudge back to the car park to arrange our bags. Botz delivers us to the coastline where goodbyes are exchanged. We will see one another again- the call of España is irresistible.
Alone together again, we hike to the train station outside the walls of the Old Town to arrange travel to Barcelona.
Leaving in a few hours, our tickets assign us separate male/female sleeping cars.
The station is modern and clean. We enjoy sink showers and a change of clothes.
After stowing the bags in a gigantic locker, a return to the heat of the day in search of sights and a bite to eat.
Atlantic waves crashing against medieval skyline attract prolonged gazes.
Classical style sculptures are scattered randomly throughout the old town.
Spanish hours again foil our attempts to find a dinner. Train leaves after 8, the typical set-up time for the evening meal.
Accepting a cold beer, a thoughtful server offers a reduced selection of tapas from lunch. We request his favorite, a raw slice of salmon wrapped around a dollop of creamed cheese.
Back to the train station
to gather our packs and find our beds.
Both our rooms are empty as the train rolls to a start. Celebration with the ron miel from Málaga: moving forward in luxury!
Perhaps we would be able to stay in the same room after all...
Through the narrow golden hallways to the bar car for a beer and some crisps to take in the beautiful countryside from the panoramic windows.
After a few stops, back to the rooms to see if any roommates have arrived. A mature Spanish woman arranges her personal effects upon checking in.
We engage a conversation in Spanish until two young Canadian women with packs join us. They speak no Spanish, only a bit of French. I translate for the Spanish woman. Shortly, A very tall, lanky, black-haired, young faced Canadian named Jude from Toronto joins the social atmosphere. The Canadian chicks are interested until Jude's age of 19 is spilled.
“You're just a baby,” they exclaim.
We depart to the bar car again for energetic conversation and beers.
At the end of the bar car, a clean-cut but rough looking guy standing alone catches our eye.
We move to include the Spanish speaker we pegged as military, but is actually a futball fan.
Around 1am, a heavy, high-strung boss-man
gives us the boot to our rooms.
The guys share with two older Spanish men in suits, and, so, alone, retire to the female only room.
The door is locked!
A swift knock notifies presence
and the chain is dropped.
Step into the pitch room,
the door slams and locks behind.
Nothing to see, settle into bed
and try to catch some sleep.
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