Art of Travel: Paris to Madrid

Day Twenty-two

I had not been successful getting through to J (who would be running the Summer school), which was rather awkward since I was planning on staying at her place the following night in El Escorial. On phoning home to check I had the right number for her I was made aware of the problem I would face upon reaching Madrid. A one day regional rail strike would be taking place on the day of my arrival in the capital, and even if I managed to make to El Escorial from the city centre by some means other than the train J would not be there. To avoid being unable to get to work on the strike day she would be staying the night with a friend in Madrid.

A minor set back which I reckoned could be over come by squeezing a little more blood out of the bike. I figured I would have enough time to cycle from Charmartin station on Madrid’s north side (where the train from Barcelona terminated) to make it to Avila campsite (six kilometres north west of El Escorial) before sun set, then saunter out to J’s the following evening.

My train was due to leave Barcelona at half past eight in the morning. To dismantle the bike in time once at the station I left Masnou two hours earlier (giving myself a bit of breathing space should anything go wrong on route). Surprisingly the bike behaved, getting me to the station bang on half past seven. The station seemed alarmingly quiet for the mid-week rush hour, although reassuringly the departures board was full with the train times and destinations so I proceeded with the task of dismantling Art. That done and with half an hour to spare before my train was due to depart an element of doubt crossed my mind after registering that the details on the departures board had not changed since I had arrived. My gut reaction was confirmed when I tried to pass through the platform gates by the guard on duty who, upon examining my ticket, uttered the word “manana”. it quickly became clear that the local strike in Madrid had escalated over night to effect routes beyond the capital. There would be no travelling on the train for me or anyone else for another twenty four hours.

I was a bit flustered and uncomfortably damp after dismantling the bike and rushing around carrying the collective weight of it and two rucksacks, and momentarily dismayed at having to formulate a plan “B” while reassembling Art. To my far right I could see that the baggage locker area was open, so I transferred the minimum requirement of belongings needed for twenty four hours into the small rucksack, placed everything else into a vacant locker and secured it for twenty four hours by dropping my three euros into the slot and turning the key. That done I bought breakfast, cycled to the city centre’s largest park to eat it and dozed off for a nap.

By mid-day establishing that night’s accommodation became my priority. As far as the campsite in Masnou was concerned I think that bridge was well and truly incinerated with the ashes blowing in the wind, and there was no way I was going to try to negotiate the seemingly impenetrable maze to Prat de whatever by the airport, so I opted to treat myself to a solid night’s sleep in a hostel, depending on the availability of beds that is. It so happened that the first place I tried proved successful, so after securing what I did not need in the bunk side locker and taking a refreshing shower I strolled out to the square, upon which my dormitory over looked, to mend the latest puncture, this time on the front tyre. I wanted to cycle back out toward Badalona to take photographs of the graffiti and buildings I had seen from the train the previous day.

My bed was one of twenty in a mixed dormitory comprising ten bunks. When I entered the room there were two guys having a siesta. One of them (from Berlin) stirred himself to help me work out how to operate the electronic lock on the locker while informing me that with his friend, sleeping across from us, he was on his way to Gibraltar but were prevented from travelling by the strike so settled on finding somewhere to sleep for the day since, in their opinion, there was little else to do (I wonder what they expected to find in Gibraltar)? To a certain extent he was accurate. Support for the strikers, or awareness of the potential difficulties workers commuting to work would face that morning meant that the whole city closed down for twenty four hours. Shops, market stalls, supermarkets, historical sites, restaurants and cafes had all opted to fore go business for the day. Even the refuse collectors took a sabbatical, in so doing they effectively illustrated the vital role they play in keeping the day to day cogs of the city’s society greased.

Less than twelve hours since they strike began the streets that morning were filthy with piles of bulging black bin liners punctuating most commercial streets every ten or twenty yards on both sides, spilling forth rotten food, cooking fat and an assortment of random daily waste material through holes torn by the city’s domestic animals and urban wildlife. The picturesque view of the old cobbled square from my dormitory balcony had been temporarily transformed. Its central fountain ,harbouring a considerable flotilla of empty beer cans, stood backed by the afore mentioned piles of gutted bin bags and surrounded by glinting shards of broken beer bottles. Not only did the state of the streets urge me to check any complacency I may have had for the necessary role unskilled occupations such as refuse collectors hold within society, it also effectively illustrated how oblivious people can be regarding the consequences of their actions, dropping litter willy-nilly expecting others to come along and clear up their mess.

The railway track between Barcelona and Badalona passes through a long expanse of heavily industrialised estates which flanks both sides with the backs of factories and warehouses creating a stretch of wall between the two stations almost entirely covered in graffiti of varying quality. I was searching for two pieces in particular which flashed passed during the previous day’s train journey. I managed to find a couple of images although one of the two that had originally caught my eye from the train was not even worth photographing. None the less it was a successful little outing primarily because the regret I felt on the train twenty four hours previously at not having the time to go back and take a closer look at the walls had been quelled . As a bonus I also stumbled across a supermarket open on strike day.

With a picnic dinner fastened securely to the pannier rack I cycled back to the hostel, left the bike behind the reception desk and ate my dinner on the marina which looks back on the city skyline. Dinner consisted of a baguette, bananas, one tin of tuna and one of ravioli. Very crude I know but I had left my dishes in the train station locker so the evening meal had to be a “eat out of a can” effort (although I did have my spoon with me). The cork screw was with the dishes so I thought I would risk a “tear open” carton of red wine which I picked up at the suspiciously low price of 89 cents. The verdict- bad cooking plonk. Up until now my can opener had been largely unused since all the cans of food I had bought while travelling had ring pull opening mechanisms, so when buying the tuna and ravioli I assumed they would follow suit and did not bother checking. Well, they did not, and the can opener was tucked away with the dishes and cork screw. Sitting there with a can of ravioli in one hand and a small bag of tools in the other, with the anticipation of tasting the cans contents heightening my hunger I was going to be defeated. Stabbing a hole in the top of the tin with the flat head screw driver started the job off, and using it as a chisel to rip the lid free finished it neatly

 

 

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