Tampere to Barcelona

11 of 40

Hello! I’m Walther, this is Peregerino, and you’re about to read essay #11 of “40 Before 40,” a memoir I intend to finish before I enter midlife. A few other pieces that people have enjoyed are “Just obese,” “On death and loss,” and “On repetition.” The rest of the essays can be found here.

I’ve been thinking a lot about friendship, which is the main premise of this story—that and poorly planned trips where everything works out miraculously. Here’s to good friends and adventure! I hope you enjoy it.

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Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

During the fall semester of 2004, I studied abroad in Tampere, Finland, while my friend Flore was in Turin, Italy doing the same. Before finals, we discussed traveling together for the holidays before returning to Mexico. The plan was to spend Christmas in Barcelona, go to London for a few days, and then New Year’s Eve in Paris.

As I mentioned in “Blackout,” I was twenty years old, and I want you to go back in time with me and realize that I didn’t have a laptop or a smartphone when these events occurred. I had a Nokia 2100, so you get an idea of where technology was almost twenty years ago.

Originally, I was going to fly home on December 20th and spend Christmas with my family, you know, like a good son. But instead, I pitched this Eurotrip to my parents, which, in retrospect, was extremely chill of them to be okay with. They had a “who knows when’s the next time you’ll get to do that” approach the whole time I studied abroad, which I greatly appreciated. It allowed me to face real-life situations where I needed to figure out things independently, you know, like an adult.

Seriously? Two, “you knows,” in the same paragraph? Did he copy that from John Mulaney, and now he’s commenting on his writing like Jim Gaffigan on his jokes? What’s next, a Jerry Seinfeld reference to airports?

Do the people that work in these little shops in the airport have any idea what the prices are every place else in the world? Anyway, I was supposed to go from Tampere to Helsinki, then Helsinki to Paris, Paris to Dallas, Dallas to Monterrey. So, I changed my flight from Paris to Dallas and bought a plane ticket from Paris to Barcelona.

I left Tampere early on December 20th. I slept very little that night because I was packing and cleaning my apartment last minute and because other students were heading home that day, so there was a party at someone’s apartment for everyone to say their goodbyes. My taxi arrived; I loaded my luggage and headed toward the airport, waving like I was going to war. I haven’t seen or talked to most of these people since then. The flight from Tampere to Helsinki was short and uneventful.

I flew to Paris and landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport (CDG), an airport with three terminals that, in reality, are nine because terminal two goes 2A through 2G. My first challenge was getting my two rolling suitcases—full of junk I should’ve dumped in Finland and not hauled back home, but alas, I was going to learn that lesson the hard way—and find a way to get on the Réseau Express Régional (RER)—the Regional Express Network.

To get to the RER, I had to go down two flights of stairs with my two comically large suitcases. I cursed the escalator for being out of service. It took all of my concentration to lower one suitcase to the next step, then me, then the other suitcase, over and over. I was drenched in sweat even though it was December. Finally, I got on the train and headed to Gare du Nord.

The first order of business was to find where to store my stupid luggage. I had practiced my line, “où est le consigne a bagage?” repeatedly. The problem was I could barely understand the directions I got. It took me a few tries and asking several people to finally get to where I needed to go. I got the last large locker available in the train station, chucked the suitcases in, and got my backpack on, feeling like a weight was taken off my shoulders.

I knew Ryanair flew from a smaller airport, Paris Beauvais Airport (BVA), which happens to be two and a half hours away from Paris. My flight to Barcelona was at night, but I was cutting it close. I got a ticket for the next train leaving for Beauvais and grabbed a sandwich before they announced where I was supposed to board.

I love sandwiches; I could eat them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They’re so versatile! The sandwiches I had in Europe had demi-baguette, butter, ham, and cheese as the common denominator. I didn’t see many places putting mayo or mustard on their sandwiches, and I wasn’t going to complain about the butter; it was fantastic. Cheese-wise, Emmental or Gouda was usually available; no love for Cheddar on this side of the Atlantic. In Finland, they added thinly sliced cucumber for a touch of freshness and crunch.

I inhaled the sandwich and headed to the platform where my train was boarding. The nagging thought of losing my flight made me uneasy. I yelled at the cab driver who took me from the train station to the airport to hurry up, I had planned poorly, and now it was his problem to make sure I would arrive on time.

I went through security just in time to walk through the tunnel to the tarmac. I got on the plane and sat on my seat, exhaling a sigh of relief, only to find out that my cellphone’s battery had died.

I landed at the Girona-Costa Brava Airport (GRO) late at night and got on the last shuttle of the day—do you see the pattern yet? Barcelona is an hour away from this airport, and shuttles leave every fifteen minutes. The shuttle has several stops across the city. I saw people getting off the bus, but since I didn’t know where to get off, I waited until the driver announced we had reached the last stop.

I suddenly found myself alone, in the middle of the night, in a city I didn’t know, without a means of communication. I emailed Flore my itinerary before I left, but we hadn’t discussed a meeting point. I figured I would give him a call once I got to Barcelona. I didn’t bother writing down his phone number on paper because his number was in the phone. Why would I, right? I started spiraling. I had been traveling all day, I was tired, sweaty, cold, and hungry, and I was sure I would have to spend the night sleeping on some park bench.

I had accepted my fate when suddenly, I heard, “Walther!” I turned around and saw Flore walking over, arms wide open. I cried happy tears to see my friend. He explained to me that this stop was the closest one to the apartment where we were staying, and he had my flight info, so he calculated how long the shuttle would take to get there and walked to the bus stop to meet me. The place we stayed at was within walking distance, and I didn’t have to sleep on a park bench. I slept in the laundry room, but it was better than being exposed to the elements.

Flore has been a good friend to me for more than twenty years. The last time I saw him was at my wedding in 2014. He has since gotten married, and he and his wife live in Germany with their son. Hopefully, we can see each other again soon; my phone will be fully charged this time.

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Before you go

I have some questions for you.

1. When was the last time a good friend saved you?

2. Parles-tu français?

3. What’s the best sandwich you’ve ever had?

4. Should I write an essay about the Eurotrip (Barcelona-London-Paris)?

5. Have you really lived if you haven’t played “snake” on a Nokia phone?