Tales of the rail

Barcelona was most prominently, this morning, grey and smoggy. From the airport, I boarded a clean, bright, modern commuter train that would put anything in the US to shame. The city we rode through, however, had an almost third world feel to it. Grime and water marks covered brighly colored but architecturally uninspired apartment blocks, butting up to the train tracks with only a narrow strip of rubble and trash in between. I´ve read that Spain has the most ambitious rail infrastructure program in the EU; all well and good, but perhaps there are other matters to which they might divert some small amount of those funds. Not unique though, I hear China´s the same way.

I did enjoy a wonderful dash of humanity at the main rail station this morning. I was waiting in line to purchase my ticket to Cordoba when two guys about my age walked up and asked in Spanish where I was going. Feeling embarassed about my rudimentary skills in their language, I replied with only "Cordoba." They seemed disappointed by this, but after conferring for a moment asked, in English, if that went by way of Madrid. I replied affermatively, and they then offered me, free of charge, an extra ticket to Madrid for the 10:00 AVE (the Spanish high-speed line)! 10 minutes later I had exchanged this for a ticket all the way to Cordoba, saving me a cool 60€. Humanity is good, I think. Especially the spaniards.

After leaving Barcelona we passed for two hours (going, and this is way cool, over 150 mph) through drab, stone strewn hill country. This land had none of the majesty of the mountains I´ve known before, nor the stark beauty of South Dakota´s badlands. This might have been forgiven if there had been much in the way of vegitation, but some peculiar feature of the climate in this corner of the Iberian peninsula must stifle the plants even as it wears the hills down to rubble.

At about 12:30 we made our last stop before Cordoba in the city of Zaragosa. I stepped off the train to admire briefly the very beautiful architecure of the trian station there. America´s inattention to municipal architecture is a sure sign of our decadence and decline. I stood there snapping pictures amid a crowd of party boys chanting something to one among them wearing nothing but a speedo (or briefs, perhaps?) and a head-to-toe coat of gold paint. A Spanish bachelor ritual, perhaps?

We pulled out of the station, under the first blue skies I´d seen thus far, into a different Spain. The crumbling hills drew apart, with wide rolling vallies in between and natural terraces of green and brown up their sides. This is what the American southwest would look like with an extra foot or two of rain each year. So here we are in the Spain I have heard so much about.