So from Granada we took a night train to Barcelona. This was mostly pleasant. In the past we'd always taken the cheap cuchette stylle of overnight trains (sharing one cabin with four other strange sleepers). But on this train it was just the two of us in a private little cabin. It did adjoin the next cabin by a locked door, and much to Julie's chagrin, that cabin housed some nicotine addict to whom the no smoking rules evidently did not apply. But apart from that it was uneventful, and we rolled into Barcelona. We had not managed to get train reservations to Perpignan, in France, or get a car reservation, so we had to work it all out at the Barcelona train station. I don't know if something special was going on that day or what, but the train station was a freaking madhouse. I bopped back and forth trying to get tickets to Perpignan, and all I managed were tickets via the slow local train as far as the Spanish side of the border town, Cerbère. We got on the train while it was empty, but it filled to standing room only before it left the station, and continued picking up more passengers all the way to Girona, where everyone was headed for whatever festival was on that day. That sucked -- we had seats, but it was so crowded a lady used my seat back as her support, so I could not sit back and had to lean forward, placing my face a few inches away from the dude across from me, who had to lean forward for a similar reason. ("So, how you doin' ?").
We walked across the border and bought tickest to Perpignan from there. The border, as it turns out, is nada mas, rien plus, (I don't know how to say "No more" in Catalan or Occitan) since EU unification. We did go throught a passport control coming into Spain, but leaving Spain to go to Holland, and then returning, there was no border control whatsover (or nothing visible). And I remembered coming through this very same station into Spain from France years ago and it was a full service border station at that time. Now the only sign that you are crossing a national boundary is the fact that the Spanish trains terminate on one side of the station, and the French trains temrinate on the other, so there is this little walk you still have to do, but for no apparent reason.
From there it was a brief ride to Perpignan, animated a little by our chat with Hopalong LeCassidy. Hopalong was this young French man, maybe in his 20's but seemed adolescent, with his leg in a cast, but with no crutches, so hopped his way across the border, through the line to buy tickets, and onto the train, then down the corridor to the seat in front of us. Because he needed special assistance, and because of his personality, he was all chatty with everyone. Everyone else at the border consisted of dopey tourists (us first among those), and a handful of dopey Morrocans (or Tunisians or Algerians or Egyptians -- North Africans of some kind). What we all had in common was a paltry command of either Spanish or French and that we all served as a source of bemusement for the lonely and dull train station staff. Hopalong definitely spiced things up, and was probably the only person that every other person had at least some interaction with, besides the ticket clerk. So as the train gets rolling, Hopalong hops up to us and asks if we mind if he smokes in the bathroom (we're at the end of the car). We did mind, and after the psychodrama of the Barcelona train ride (imagining all the things we'd like to say to the guy in the cabin next door, but in the end doing and saying nothing), we totally caved in and said no we did not mind. So off Hopalong hops to go smoke, and, no doubt, hop. I'm pretty sure I heard hopping in the bathroom. Smoke drifted through the open train windows. He hopped back in and asked if we could smell the smoke, and we said yes, and he apologized. This is all happening in French and Spanish. We didn't even know yet what his nationality was. He hops to his seat and we expect that to be the end of it. But then his head pops over the seat and he starts asking us where we're from and if people are allowed to smoke in the United States. We finally extablish that he's French (from Lyon) and that he does not speak English. But that did not stop him from speaking. So we spoke Spanish as the common language and he asked us to confirm or deny various myths and stereostypes about the states. He was dressed in some sort of French Hip hop fashion, so I'm guessing his ideas about America come from pop culture, which means movies and probably hip hop music. So he wanted to know if America was violent and if everyone had guns. This was an interesting moment for us. Julie immediately tried to play down those ideas because they were so obviously mytholigized in the kids head, he needed setting straight. But I found myself unable to contradict him.
Hopalong: Is it illegal to smoke in America?
Julie: No, just in certain places.
David: Nearly all public places, and if you smoke in those, or even in places where it is legal, the people will make you feel really really bad about it, like they're some kind of freaking angels because they don't smoke. (I don't smoke but that doesn't mean my way is the right way!)
Hopalong: Is American violent?
Julie: No, not really, not more than anywhere else.
David: Why, yes, young man, it's horribly, inexcusably violent.
Hopalong: Does everyone have guns?
Julie: No, of course not.
David: No not everyone, but it's easier to buy a gun than to get a license to drive a car.
Hopalong: Are the streets dangerous?
Julie: No -- like anywhere else, there may be certain areas that you try to avoid, but thats true anywhere.
David: Well, maybe so, but in France if you get mugged, you lose your wallet. In The States, you lose your life. The penalty for accidentally going into (living in or being born in) the wrong area is fatal, which is not true nearly as much in Europe.
It's funny how these things work. I have the same ideas about Mexico this kid has about the United States. Except that for me it produces a sensation of fear and for Hopalong it produces some sort of arousal -- he thinks it's cool. I don't actually know the statistics of violent crime in Mexico as compared with the United States, but I swear, those occassional stories that make the news of violent crime down there give me pause each time we think of travelling down south. Bad press for Mexico. I also remember having those ideas about New York, then later living in New York, and while violent crime existed there, I never really felt like the situation was unlivable. I lived in Naples, Italy, famous for its chaos and the culturally embedded disregard for authority -- an attitude which which accommodates the local Mafia there. I loved that place and all its blood sweat and tears. But I'd talk to Americans whose first experiences in Italy were with pickpockets, or who had been warned about that. The paranoia they exhibited was comical -- watching them walk down the streets clasping their wallets, purses, and talking to everyone as is they were forever being conned. It's totally sad the way these myths mess with our heads.
I could understand Julie's wish to free Hopalong of his stereotypes -- but damned if each and every one of Hopalong's were not tragically true. Hey, America! Quit giving all these stupid sterotypes so much dang substance! I'd love to be able to say, "Heck no! It used to be like that back in the 70's, but not any more!"
Finally, we arrived in Perpignan. Hopalong was literally still talking with us as we hobbled off the train with our bags, and some new unsuspecting passengers got on after us.
