Distance

Before I knew Elmo or Dora on television, I knew Charles De Gaulle in Paris and la Reina Sofia in Madrid. Before I changed diapers, I changed currency. Dollars for pesos and pesetas and lira and francs. Before I sat in time-out, watching the egg timer and counting the minutes for Eli, I sat in airports and bus terminals, taxis and train stations, watching the seconds ticking past me, but not really knowing it.
I traveled - many times to many places, by plane, by train, by car, by bus, by boat even. I traveled great distances, went on long jaunts, followed ambitious tours that wore me out until I finally looked so much like my weary passport photo that I turned back and went home. I traveled short distances. I took baby steps to my grandparent’s house, made short drives into the hill country, set out on day sprees that took me just far enough to get my fix, to the fruit and vegetable stand in Lockhart, the brew pub in Fredericksburg, a coffee shop in Giddings. Simply, I traveled.

Once, near the end of a particularly excellent journey, I waited in Barcelona with too many strangers and my traveling companion for a very late train that would take us back to Lyon, France. I did not care that the train was late. Young, infatuated, love-struck, I did not anticipate the missed busses or airplanes that might follow. I smelled the flowers I carried over the urine and cigarettes that wafted above the train station platform. I saw past the beggars and the homeless children to a ridiculously romantic vision of artful living for its own sake.

Happy to spend every extra second in Spain, I huddled up to my cohort, settled in to the cold cement and just waited, with the rest of them. Our train finally arrived, but barely rolled to a stop. A porter poked his head out, pretended to examine the tickets of a demure-looking few, and waved off the lot of us. He announced that the train was full and late, that we were the holders of second-class tickets, and that, as such, we would have to wait for the next train. Then he motioned to someone we could not see, who steered the train out of site, to our utter shock.

A mob was born, but only briefly, and as there was no one to complain to, and nothing to do really, we dispersed. Most of us settled back into our benches or our places against the wall. Others, businessmen mostly, paced the platform, and I fell asleep watching them, clenching their fists, smoking their cigarettes, and slamming one angry foot in front of the other, trench coats flailing behind them.

I awoke to the hissing of the next train and a clamoring mass of over-tired travelers pushing through to find seats on a train that was already near capacity. There was standing room only. Attendants were spouting off about regulations and codes but we would not be turned away a second time. We boarded.

When the train pulled out, we were walking from car to car, a single-file line of us, the stragglers. We, who had taken longer to gather our things, or stopped to help a lady with her bag, or paused to give a violinist some coins and pet his dog. We, who were simply too claustrophobic to push through the crowd and board early, stepped over feet in the aisles, and took care not to bump knees or elbows.

"Excuse me - pardon me – perdona - pardon'," we said, in English, Spanish, and French. We searched for empty seats, or a good place to stand, until we reached the last car.

It seemed to be a storage car. It was empty: no seats, nothing to hold on to, only one small window high on each side, and we crammed in tight. While we were still near the city, the train stopped several times. Each time, people got off and we breathed a little easier. And as we headed out of Spain toward France, the stops were fewer and farther between. Finally, eleven of us remained in that makeshift car for the duration of the journey to Lyon.

There were five German boys, about 15 years old, all angst-ridden and high. They had openly smoked marijuana at the train station, but no one seemed to notice.

There was an Asian man-boy. His face was ageless, exquisite, just short of unattractive. He could have been 17 or 37. I did not know. He wore old and dirty white pants with holes in them, a flowing off-white shirt, and very expensive tennis shoes. He carried a bulky book-bag now faded, that must have once been hot pink.

There was a beautiful couple. It was impossible not to stare at them. He looked like Jesus, not the American Jesus with blue eyes and shoulder-length brown hair, but swarthy Jewish Jesus with long dark locks and thick hair on his arms. He had deep green eyes and many layers of gypsy clothes. He was lean and sturdy and he carried a guitar on his back. His girlfriend was nearly as beautiful. She had perfect olive skin and dark wavy hair with natural, honey-colored highlights. It hung loose and messy around her face except for tiny braids that haphazardly snaked through the mass and fell across her shoulders. She had carrots sticking out of her pocket. Jesus had bread and a can of Coca-Cola.

There was another man. He had blonde-gray hair and wore a black and white headband with a cartoon sun that sat just above his left eye. He wore fatigues, carried a flask, and drank from it often. He seemed Slavic or Nordic, like he might be called Sven or Dolf. He was thick and tired and he somehow hid behind his clothes so that, in spite of his size, he was invisible.

And there was my traveling companion, who was French, and me; I am Texan and was the only American.

We traveled for the most part in silence, save our shuffling to get comfortable, and footsteps. Every ten or fifteen minutes, one of us would walk to the door and peer through to the next car to see if a seat had been vacated so that we could trade the cement floor for a chair. Those in the next car knew our intention. They refused to make eye contact, turned their heads, made small-talk, or pretended to sleep when the door opened. Still, we checked often. We all wanted out.

If eye contact was made among us eleven, we smiled briefly. My friend and I whispered. Sometimes we complained. Sometimes we laughed. Jesus nuzzled his woman, the German boys laughed and rolled smokes. The man-boy and invisible Sven just stared at the floor, when they weren’t sleeping.

My friend carried a jambe that he had bought in Barcelona. It’s a drum, kind of like a bongo. Jesus waited patiently to make eye contact with my friend and once he did, he motioned to the jambe and smiled inquisitively, to which my friend nodded. He handed it to Jesus and watched him. Jesus took it gently enough to please any musician and then he trembled his hands firmly, all over the leather. My friend looked at me quickly, raised his eyebrows, and nodded in approval. Jesus could play.

The German boys smiled and clapped with a complete disregard for the actual rhythm. Everyone laughed, but no one spoke. There were at least six languages between us.

Jesus returned the jambe and took out his guitar - an invitation. And so they played together. I escaped into the sound of classical guitar and novice drumming against the repeating hum and tatink of the tracks beneath us. The music floated up and mixed with the air that whirred into the tiny windows before it flew into the adjoining car.

Jesus’ woman pounded the floor underneath her like I’ve seen flamenco dancers do while they're not dancing. In between poundings, she handed the Germans her Coke and her carrots. They passed them around like so many other things. Invisible Sven smiled, slapped his thigh to the rhythm, and offered the man-boy his flask. The man-boy drank from it. This intimacy among strangers shocked and pleased me.

When they stopped playing, there was thunderous clapping. It startled us all and we looked up to find that the doorway to the adjoining car was filled with curious bodies. They pushed and poked their way in to the last unwanted car, smiling and clapping, tapping their feet, and staring at us - an unlikely group of travelers sharing dirty floor-space. They all wanted in.

The rest of the trip passed quickly. And when we finally arrived in Lyon, we had come much further than any distance you can measure in miles.



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(This little story is something I have meant to write down for ages. I was inspired again by last week's Mama Says Om Theme: Distance. I did not quite finish it in time to post it specifically in response to their call, but thought I would share it here anyway...)


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Update: This post won a "Perfect Post" award for February, 2006! See Suburban Turmoil for details...