permutations

All of this, this human world we build, no matter where you go, it's all just variatoins on a set of common themes. The numbers and the letters on the big board flip, you know the last one is the track the train will pull into, you board the train, and you watdch the city shrink away. Climb above the subterranea and out into the countryside and pretty houses give way to industry just like this was anytown, U.S.A. I readjust my headphones and take a good long look at the ends of the cityscape, soaking int he difference. Can't smell the air from in here, or hear the Spanish sounds, so I grab on to visual cues and clues; colors and shapes have their own flavor here. THe architecture seems so...celebratory.

Note to self: learn how to play that Sudoku game with the numbers.

The train pulls on through Barcelona suburbs as I listen to the mix that Lucy made me, matchbox cars pulling in and out of driveways, all of it chopped away when a pair of walls rise up around us draped in spraypaint. People will express themselves anywhere they can. "If you build it, they will come."

I'm sitting facing backwards on the train and whenever that happens it's so easy to see how Michel Gondry got the ideas for his Star Guitar video.

We surf the dry countryside, past towns-in-progress. It becomes clear to me how vital these rails are and suddenly I feel privileged to be riding them, like i've caught a ride on a blood cell of some great lumbering beast.

Jesus, there are mullets-a-PLENTY in Spain. Fall asleep and wake up with no idea if I'm still in Catalunya or if we've crossed the French border already.

portbeau-cerbere

Downtime before I catch my connecting train to Avignon. A nice little station and I keep making eye contact with a couple of djembe-equipped hippies that seem lke scruffy european versions of zippoz.

One thing about Europe, when you buy food at places that you'd expect shit eats from in America, it's usually good. Like sandwiches in train stations. Avec jambon et fromage.

French came flooding back to me the moment I got off the train but that was still a moment too late. One stop before Cerbere a group of silver-haired beach bums boarded the train at Portbou. One of them sat across from me and pointed to a newspaper someone had left on the seat beside me and said, "C'est prix?" THis is price? is what I thought he was saying. I was very confused. Not until he gave up trying to ask and his friend sat elsewhere did I finally think as far as the passé composé: C'est pris? THis is taken? Oh well.

Got to the cafe where a couple of Swedes and Brits fumbled through ordering sandwiches and then I walked up feeling like hot shit as I rattled off "Bonjour! Un sandwich avec jambon et fromage, s'il vous plait. Non, c'est pour ici, merci. Et un coca." Simple stuff but it felt good when it came out effortlessly.

It's a funny thing, this backpackers-at-the-train-station dynamic. We all eye one another, sizing each other up and trying to figure out who's from where and who's up to what. I see a guy wearing a Yankees visor and though he looks like some dumb fratboy I try out another Go Yankees anyway. He looks at me and says "Yeah...right." I guess the logo's not just a fashion statement in Europe alone...

Sixty minutes to kill and I consider venturing into town but the midday sun is killer and convinces me to keep my sweet spot right beside the fan inside the station restaurant. The hippies go around asking folks for change but just nod to me. I guess with my frazzled hair (god I look forward to a real, warm shower) and bulging backpack I strike them as one of their own.

...

The seats on the next train from Cerbere to Avignon are cloth, there's no A/C on the train, and I feel disgusting. Havent really had a good full on soaped up shower sicne I arrived, always hopping up and down like a lunatic in the bArcelona flat screaming through sharp intakes of breath as I blsated the grimy sweat from my body with that frigid water. The worst part of that whole experience was that the water got colder the longer you kept it running, there was no getting used to it.

When I take a moment to stop squirming in disgust at my own skin I look out the window and the southern French countryside is GORGEOUS. Like a fresco, done in reds and whites and lush vegetative greens. Cornfields here somehow manage to be less monotonous than your average Kansas fare.

I wake up thinking I've just been dreaming about youth and idealism then realize I'm just listening to Wilco and soaking in the lyrics..."What wouldwe be without wishful thinking?" We're pulling out of the station at Narbonne and finally we hit the famed sunflower fields of Provence. Two thirds of the way through Tropic of Cancer, and I'm sad to see it nearing the end. But the closer I get, the more I devour the pages.

Monopoly houses with candy coated windows.

No matter how many people get on the train, it's always an old lady that sits next to me.


Somewhere between Montpellier and Avignon it came back, the old fear. Fear in knowledge, knowledge of the only thing a man can be certain of in life - that's he's going to die. I was watching flowers ou the window when I thought about the simple fact I'm going to die eventually and terror gripped me. I dug my fingers into the seats beneath me and tried to slow my breathing. Like it always does (and like I someday will) it passed.

I remember the first time that fear ever hit me. It was in bed one night when I was young, while the rest of my family was still awake in the living room. We had just watched a film, starring Matthew Broderick I think, abou experiments performed onchimps by the Air Force. there were all these terrifying scenes of monkeys in flight simulators, or at least, they were terrifying to me. I remember lying in bed that nightand trying to comprehend a state of non-being and crying at the impossibilty of it all. I may be older now but the feeling remains pretty much the same.