Happy Mother´s Day from Spain

Ok, so Sark was a very long time ago. I left Guernsey in the mist of drizzle that covered the Channel Islands at the end of March on board a Seacat bound for St Malo, France. A crossing which was earlier than planned and just as well too because when I arrived in France, with my home on my back, I though what a good idea it would be to walk, without map, in cloudy sky, to the train station from Ferry terminal. Hint - don´t walk without waterproofs within easy access because as soon as I disembarked, the french heavens opened, the wind howled and I was unwelcome in this foreign land.

Took me a painful 2 hours with sweating breaks in my ski jacket as the only protection from the weather. Note to self - don´t ask for directions in broken french by starting off conversation with a misstitle to a lady, this is insult apparently. The french don´t like me. They don´t understand why I can´t speak their language - maybe they should have met my french teachers. Or maybe they should start spelling their words with letters that one actually pronounces.

Yes I found the tran station, I waited, cold and shivering from my exercise, back aching, on the platform. I held my ticket, ready to stamp on platform (do this or be fined) before boarding my train. I prefer train travel. It takes you through the countryside, you can see landscape changing, it takes you to a named destination unlike the bus. The train I got on was for Rennes. It was comfortable, clean and modern. Far more than I can say for British trains. Rennes was big. A quick hour was waited before I got on my rush-hour train to Paris Monteparsse.

Paris was bigger. The taxi line was long. A girl asked to share one to the airport but I was going in a different direction. I didn´t know which direction but I named a place and she was native and knew it was no where near. I wished I knew. The taxi driver didn´t understand where I wanted to go. I resorted to pointing of words on a printed confirmation of a hostel place and he drove off, muttering french things under his french breath.

I arrived outside a hostel that I recognised from the pictures. Lugged my stuff in and told to wait a while by the reception staff. After a while I went up again, showed my reservation, paid and got given a key. Some intructions were told to me, off which I understood that breakfast was between 7 and 9am. I went up to my room byt tight, curling, steep stairs with intention to sleep. God I needed to sleep, I was knackered and had survived on sandwiches I had bought in Guernsey. My sleep was interupted by a Chinese girl asking for the key. Apprently there was only one and I needed to hand it back in.

My train to Madrid was a night one, the following day and meant I could enjoy being a tourist in the city. Except I don´t enjoy being a tourist. I´ve never enjoyed being one. You can always tell who they are, they always wear baseball caps and carry a rucksack on their front. They never belong to where they are visiting and merely look in on a show put on by the government of the relevant country. I have been to Paris countless times with different company, familly, school, summercamps and each time we have done the same, tedious touristic things. My interests lie in the social culture of a country, however I am always slightly put off by the langauge of the country. I don´t even find the spoken language beautiful in any way. The only time I´ve ever found Paris and France attractive is when I´ve watched ´Amelie´or ´Chocolat´.

But in Guernsey I had read up (thanks to Mel´s parents wonderfully extensive travel book collection) and had found an area of Paris I wanted to visit. Well I just wanted to take a walk heading for the River, I always head for the water whereever I visit. Walking through districts from the north of the river where I was staying, I came accross a demonstration for Disabled people, the only event that seemed to be interesting that day. I made it to river, sat and wrote, thankful that the sun was shining then. On a postcard - it was a picture of loveliness, book stalls lined the river, tall narrow buildings housing flats and a shop below sat back and were bathed in the fresh early spring light. And for a short while, I too enjoyed the Parisian atmosphere. I made a promise to myself then that if ever I was to come back to that capital it would be with artists who had invited me or friends who could speak French.

Paris, admittedly, a city of fine food, of lovely bars, restaurants, true cafe culture and where did I head for lunch? Where I always go when I´m in Paris - McDonalds. I was a dirty tourist whore then. But I didn´t have much money and I didn´t have the urge to try a bar. Heading back to the Youth Hostel, I passed through the square where the demonstration was before, empty and littered with the empty packets of snacks the partakers and onlookers had ingested. I stopped here again as it was still early afternoon and my train wasn´t untill 7pm. I read a while and then continued back to the hostel. Once there, there was nothing really for me to do except check up on Facebook and email the parentals to tell them everything was fine. Everyone was still out on their daily excusrions, checking out the museums, shopping, hanging out with their friends. I sat and read a magazine I had brought with me from Guernsey. ´Living ETC´is a favourite interior mag of mine, showcasing modern living at it´s best. But unfortunately I have been reading it for too long now as the houses they show no longer interest me - they are all arranged the same and everyone has that bloody Barcelona chair either in black or white in their sitting room. Just like Country Living, with their continuous love of stripped painted wood, you can only really subscribe to the magazine for 2 years at the most.

I got the receptionist to ring a taxi for me at 5:30pm, entirely bored of waiting. I hoped that I had enough money in notes on me to get me to the station. Thankfully I did and was pleased to see that there was no real hike to my trenhotel. Finding the right platform I managed to bypass a class trip and got on the train. I got on it - but I didn´t get very far. Having a backpack widens your body and lessns your capabilites of movement. THIS IS NOT WHAT YOU NEED ON THE TRENHOTEL. The corridoor is very slim, slimline is key. It took me five mins to navigate a metre section of it. So frustrating. I entered my cabin and met two American college girls who were studying in Salamanca until May. They had been doing Europe on their spring break for the past 2 weeks. It was nice to exchange stories and advice - my first 'meet the fellow traveller' experience which ended in the familiar Facebook contact exchange.

Passports were taken as we set off, we were intructed that we would recieve a fourth girl at another stop which worried me as her seat was currently occupied by my rucksack as the ONLY place it could fit. Beds were turned down at 9pm. This is a process of seats being folded down and overhead bunks being folded down. I started to wish myself and my luggage were so easilly foldable. On board is a complementary kit of water, toothbursh, toothpaste and soap to use over the foldable sink. All of us embarked on getting ready for bed. I climbed to my top bunk and waited with all my bags for some floor space to clear so that I may start the changing process. Hint - wear a skirt, girls, to easilly slip on pyjammas. I managed to haul my backpack onto an overhead (again slim) luggage space and keep the rest of my stuff at my feet. Sliding into bed, the movement of the train soon rocked me to sleep.