In case you were wondering, you can get just as drunk in First Class on a train as you can on any airplane. Probably more so, as the stewardess’ don’t have to worry about a passenger going ape shit and crashing the train. The level of drunkenness attainable becomes significantly higher when you are packing two ignorantly huge bottles of your own whiskey in your carry-on.
“I hate train toilets.”
Not exactly my first thought, as I am still somewhat struck with the romance of the thought of taking a train across Europe. But as Francesca understands such things, I’ll defer to her wisdom.
“Then my duty is to get you to drink enough that you need to visit the loo often enough that you get over your differences.” I am still not entirely used to using the word toilet in everyday conversation.
Oh yeah, that’s her name. Francesca. Can’t win ‘em all.
The air conditioner inside the train is a godsend. The Atoche platform outside the train nearly boiled patrons with air thick from the natural humidity of the season augmented by the misters spread above the plants in the station. Sweating over and done with, the drink service begins.
The eastern European man occupying the seat next to mine is more than a little confused when I ask him to move and make room for Francesca. Apparently he can’t see any reason why a man would actually WANT to sit next to a woman if he didn’t have to. He must be married.
Francesca and I talk back and forth easily about simple things. Music, alcohol, my lack of traveling, and a shared desire to see the world. She is curious how I rented an apartment and what plans I have while I am in Spain. The look she gives me when I give her my itinerary is pricelessly British.
“That’s it? You’ve flown a third of the way around the world to a foreign country you have never been to, on a trip you have been planning to take for two years and that’s all you have planned?”
“Yeah. I have the apartment in Pamplona for the week, and I fly out of Barcelona next Sunday. Ten days, three cities. I’m here for the bull run.”
I am no world traveler, she informs me. I have no book. I have no itinerary. I have no sights to see, no bars to visit, no history to embrace.
“I’m here for the bull run. I want to run each morning I’m there. That’s it.”
Keep it simple, stupid. Perhaps the only golden truth my mother imparted to me in my youth.
As this is the first time either Francesca or I have ridden in first class on a train, we decide to pretend like socialites and swill our portions of red wine in plastic glasses and comment on the succulent nature of the train meals while liberally pouring portions of whisky into our coca-cola bottles. The other passengers are pretending we don’t exist and the stewardess’ are leaving us largely alone after having brought us our fourth miniature bottle of wine.
Apparently pretending to be the Arch Duke of Butkis goes only so far in trains on the plains of Spain.
Soft friendship arrives somewhere along the train ride. Silent amidst our chatter; unpretentious. It isn’t until we are stepping off the train in Pamplona that I notice it is there at all. Somewhere on that long train ride, between syllabant whispers and un-stifled laughter, we became partners.
The Pamplona Renfe station is small. Almost an afterthought, it sits on a street so small it should be one-way, with a 12 car parking lot and one religiously adhered to Taxi stop. Looking to avoid the 30 person line for taxis, Francesca and I wander out to the street to try and pick one up on the driver’s way in.
No dice.
Each and every taxi driver over a fruitless 15 minutes sojourn waves back at our attempts to hail him, then he honks and points back at the line of people waiting at the ‘Taxi’ sign without stopping. This alien form of communication is probably the only way these taxi drivers can communicate with all the different languages they encounter during this crazy festival. Admitting defeat, we walk back to stand in the taxi line and get our cab relatively quickly.
Armed with the address I was able to get from Will via telephone, I valiantly attempt to give our taxi driver directions. He and I can’t seem to agree over the number of the bar he is supposed to be depositing us at. I keep repeating the address, and he keeps saying it is incorrect. The exchange goes something like this.
“This is the address.”
“No.”
“Si.”
“No.”
“Si.”
“No.”
“Si.”
“No.”
“Si.”
We are dangerously close to being ejected from our newly won cab when it is Francesca that resolves this Mexican standoff by discerning that I am giving him the postal code instead of the building number. The taxi driver says he will get us as close as he can since most of that area of town has been shut down to cars.
The park that the taxi driver drops us off at is perfect; old, beautiful and peppered with humanity and statues. The directions he gives us to finding our destination are less so. Finger pointing and driving off seems to be completely acceptable behavior here.
A scratchy, barely successful phone call to the property manager revealed that he and some other people are still driving from some unknown destination and will arrive at some as yet undetermined time. That makes things easier as I have no idea where I am going or when I will get there.
Nestled securely in the middle of the 200 feet of flagstone known as Calle de San Gregorio is the Harp Bar. It is remarked only by the rustic look of the wood and the small golden harp above the entrance. The interior is identical to every other bar in the city, 15 feet across and 40 feet deep, minimal decorations and a toilet from Thunderdome somewhere in the rear. Luckily, we aren’t waiting long before a couple of the Pamplona Posse materialize and lead the two of us off to the flat.
When I say that the Pamplona Posse members are insane, I do it in the most loving fashion possible. And it is unerringly true.
Joe is Australian, but for some reason he is traveling on an Irish passport that is not his own. I don’t ask where it came from. He wears pants that may once have been something akin to white, and a white t-shirt belted at top and bottom by a red scarf and sash. He walks with the easy lope of a person who is assured that everyone in the world is his best friend. He looks like a taller version of Pippin Took. And he’s drunk.
Rang is a wild child. He could quite easily have been transplanted straight from the Outback onto this street with only his ghostly white skin to suggest otherwise. He is feral, dirty and instantly friendly. I doubt he has given me his real name, but it doesn’t matter. He is holy and fresh in camouflage covered in glorious dust, beer, and sangria.
These are my guides to the New World.
