This morning's breakfast was surprisingly tasty. Cereal, cold cuts, cheese, and breads were all available along with milk, juice, and COFFEE. Let me tell you, that was some of the strongest coffee I've had yet. As my dad used to say, "It'll put hair on your chest!"
After breakfast, and totally repacking out suitcases (some of the clothes are still damp), we headed down to the street to catch the # 22, 24 or 28 bus to the bus station to take us to San Feliu de Guixols (from here on out, SFG).
SFG is the village on the Costa Brava where my great-grandparents lived. A little background...Joseph, whose family was from another town called Arenys de Mar, and Maria, whose family was from SFG, were married in the 1880s. They settled in SFG and Joseph worked as a cork maker, one of the region's main industries due to all of the cork trees in the area. Their eldest daughter was born there in the later part of the decade. Sometime at the end of the 1880s, they left Spain and headed for the champaign region of France where Joseph began work in the champaign industry, again as a cork maker. Their son and youngest daughter, my grandmother, were both born in France. In 1912, they left France for the USA. They lived in New York City for many years but finally returned to SFG in the 1930s. Joseph died in Spain, and Maria returned to NY, where she is buried. Their son and his wife returned to SFG in their retirement, and their grandson, George, joined his parents in the 1970s and has lived there ever since.
We were headed to meet George and see the village of my ancestors. I have heard about SFG my whole life. I have corresponded with George over the years, first via snail mail and most recently via the internet. This branch of my family, unlike my mom's, was ever-elusive, exotic, and very romaticised in my mind. I couldn't wait to go there, meet George, and see where my family was from.
So we headed out to the street, polka dot suitcases in tow, to catch the bus. Josie said it was an easy trip via one of the busses she recommended. Barcelonans of all ages were up and out and on their way to work or school. Cars were darting around busses and people. Bicycles were swerving around cars. Lights were changing halfway through the walk across the street to the other side. "Ring! Ring!" went the bells on the bikes. "Beep! Beep!" went the car horns. "Which way do we go?" came the questions from the kids. "I have no idea," was the reply.
We looked at the map. The bus station was in the south east section of the city. We could see that, but for some reason, we couldn't orient ourselves on the street to the direction we were supposed to be going.
"There's the 24 bus!" one of the kids shouted. We headed over to get on and then realized we didn't know if it was headed in the right direction. We stepped back and tried to figure out which way to go. We crossed the street and then crossed back, almost crashing into a young girl and her dad biking to school. In my mind, I had a vision of how we must look, and I was cringing with embarrassment.
We finally figured out the way we should go in relationship to where we were and crossed back across the street to wait for the bus. A lot of people use public transportation in Barcelona, and it was really, really crowded. When the 28 bus pulled up, we got on. Just to make sure we were going the right way, I asked the driver if this bus went all the way to the main bus station. He didn't speak much English at all, and what I understood him to say was that we would have to get off at some point and take the 41 bus to the station. I tried to get him to clarify, but in the midst of morning rush hour traffic, cars, bikes, and pedestrians, he didn't have much patience with this clueless American.
Kirk and I weighed our options.
"We could try to take the 41 bus and see what happens," he said.
"We could get off and take a taxi," I suggested.
"We could see if the metro could get us there," he replied.
"We could take a taxi," I said again.
"We've already paid 10 euros for the bus," Kirk said.
"Yes," I replied, "but we are not sure where we are going or if bus 41 will even get us there."
We were starting to get a little testy with one another on a crowded bus in a foreign country headed in a direction that we hoped was right but we weren't sure. It was time to get off.
Just then, I spotted a minivan taxi on the corner, waiting for riders.
"There's a taxi!" I said. "Let's take it."
So at the next stop, we banged our way off the bus and bumped across the streets and over to the taxi stand. We said, "Habla ingles?" The taxi driver held his finger and thumb apart about a half inch, screwed up his face, and said, "Little." We asked how much to take us to the bus station. He eyed the five of us, obviously out of our element, and said, "Twenty euro."
I looked at Kirk, and he looked at me..."Okay," we answered in unison.
We loaded up our bags in the back of the van and piled in. I pretty much had to close my eyes for the ride. I was sure we were going to hit something or someone, but thankfully we made it there in one piece. The driver turned out to be a very friendly guy, and through his bad English, and my pathetic Spanish, we "talked" about the Spanish soccer team and Gonzalez, the guy from Barcelona who plays for Germany. We learned his children work out of the country, and he misses them. He said he hoped we enjoyed Spain and thanked us for the job today. I was sure he ripped us off, but, really, I didn't care. We were at the bus station and on our way to SFG.
Now bus stations in general are not the safest places to hang out. No offense to the people who use busses as their main mode of transportation, but if you can afford it, you usually take the plane or the train. The Barcelona bus station is no exception. What made it worse, was, like the airport, it was deserted. Of 20 or more counters, only about 3 or 4 were staffed. We walked the length of the station trying to figure out what counter to use to buy our tickets. Some of the windows looked to be for leisure trips. Some looked like private bus companies. We couldn't tell which was the right window where we should buy the tickets to SFG, so we walked back.
I was on my guard for pickpockets there. Josie had warned us to be careful, especially in the bus station. By now, we'd made three passes at the windows and still were unsure of which one to use. We all had to go to the restroom as well, so we planted ourselves in some seats and went, Kirk and Kyle, then me with the girls.
Call me clueless, but when Kyle came up to me and whispered, "Don't look behind you, Mom, but there is a man following us," I was like, "What?" I had been so focused on finding out which ticket window we needed that I had failed to see that we had been followed up and down the station by a guy in an orange shirt.
I casually glanced over to see a grungy man leaning against the wall nonchalantly looking away from us.
"That guy?" I asked.
"Yes," replied Kyle. "He's been following us around for about 15 minutes."
How had my 16 year old son realized this and I not? I looked over at Kirk, and he had his sword pen in his hand. Okay, call me clueless.
"Yeah," Kyle replied, "Dad stared at him, and he gave Dad a kissy face," making an air kiss to demonstrate what the guy had done. Creepy.
We decided to go downstairs where the busses leave from to see if there was any better info down there and watched to see if Orange Shirt followed us, but he was gone. We found an Information Desk and were told that the ticket window we needed was upstairs. Then I glanced around and saw Orange Shirt talking to a man in a yellow shirt drinking coffee about 20 feet away. My fight or flight response kicked up a notch. Kyle seemed to gain about 6 inches and 50 pounds then, and stood with his arms crossed and eyes narrowed. I was never so glad to have a big, teenage son as I was right then. I watched Orange Shirt out of the corner of my eye, and he never looked our way, but that's how it is with pickpockets, isn't it? Now that we thought he was working with Yellow Shirt, we really started to get freaked out.
We headed back upstairs and found the right ticket window, bought tickets to SFG, and turned to go back downstairs to wait for the bus. There against the wall was Orange Shirt. He wasn't menacing looking, but he was just standing there, watching us. For a split second, I thought, "Maybe he's an undercover police officer charged with watching out for pathetic tourists like us." Then I decided, "Nah. He's stalking us."
We moved toward the escalator. He moved toward the escalator. I remembered a lesson I learned once in a personal safety class. The instructor said to acknowledge the person you think is following you. Look him in the eye and let him know you have seen him. He will be less likely to attack if he thinks he knows you know what he is up to.
Kirk went down first, then the girls, then Kyle, then me. As I stepped onto the escalator, I caught the eye of Orange Shirt. He watched us going down and started to move our way. I gave him a big grin and then a "What's up?" head nod, trying to let him know that I knew what he was up to.
He stopped, grinned back, and turned around.
"Pshew!" I thought. "He's gone." We looked for him downstairs but didn't see hide nor hair. Still, we circled our luggage and kept a sharp eye out for any and all suspicious looking characters.
"Mom," Claire whispered, "there's the guy in the yellow shirt right over there. He was talking to the guy in the orange shirt earlier. Do you think he's stalking us too?"
We looked over, and there was Yellow Shirt, still drinking coffee, not 15 feet away.
"Let's wait outside," Kirk suggested. So we corralled our things and went outside to Platform 37, the SFG bus. Yellow Shirt went outside too.
Holy Crap! I thought. We ARE being stalked! We are being worked by a pair of pickpockets who see easy pickings in some clueless Americans in the Barcelona bus station. I started getting mad. I was ready to fight not flee, and in my mind, I dared them to try and come after us.
After what seemed like a really, really long time, the 37 and 38 busses pulled up. We watched Yellow Shirt, never taking our eyes off him, to see which bus he got on. We looked out for Orange Shirt to see if he showed up again.
Thankfully, Yellow Shirt got on the 38 bus. Orange Shirt never reappeared. And we boarded the 37 bus for our trip to SFG.
That breeze you just felt come across your face was our collective sigh of relief as our bus pulled away from the station and hit the open road.
San Feliu, here we come!
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