OK, so españa, etc. ...

Dave's frame pack leaning against the bus window on the way from Victoria station to Waterloo,
along with some silly old clock

We left early on Friday morning for the Gloucester Green bus station to catch the Megabus to London Waterloo. Our driver was Mr. Rules and Regulations. After we finished our coffees (he told us as we boarded the bus) there was a rubbish sack tied to the door handle at the loo. Thanks very much... And no, the man who got on after us couldn't sit in THAT seat, because sometimes an elderly passenger got on somewhere down the line, and then he'd have to move to give up the seat, and some people simply refuse to move, so he couldn't sit there at all, from the very beginning--just in case, you know. A few riders got angry with him because he had overshot the bus stop where they were waiting by a hundred feet or so, but he explained to them that if he stopped where the bus stop was actually placed, the back of his bus would be too close to the side street to the rear to conform with regulations, and he recommended that the passengers write their local councils regarding the placement of the bus stop.

When we got to London, he honked and yelled at a car parked in the far end of one of the bus stop bays. He dramatically put the bus in reverse and backed up about three feet (completely unneccesarily), grumbling the entire time. He then stopped the bus when he got up beside the guilty parker and opened the bus door so he could shout at him. "You can't park your car there," he cried, red-faced, wagging his finger. "I had to reverse because of you!" After our narrow escape from the inconsiderate parker, the driver felt the need to get on the intercom and give us riders a brief lecture about the legality and illegality of London parking. "That man was parked in a bus stop," he gasped incredulously. "Which in London is so illegal it's not even true!" D and I had the pleasure of the running commentary and response from the ladies in the two seats behind us. "He'll be shot at dawn, I suppose," remarked one of them.

At Waterloo, we ran into what seemed like a few million people dressed to the nines--normally pasty British women with absurd, leathery orange tans, frilly frocks, ludicrously high stilletos, and enormous hats--on their way to the Ascot races, we think. The men were dressed in suits, some with tails and top hats. No joke. They looked like the guy from the Monopoly game. Although none of them had a monacle.

We finally found our train... the Eurostar from London to Paris. We were going through the Chunnel! Yay. We showed our passports, tickets, etc. and located our coach, settled in, and began the trip in earnest. It was a very pleasant journey. After about an hour of blasting through London and the Home Counties toward the water, the conductor came on and announced (first in English, then in French) that we were about to enter the tunnel and that it'd be about 20 minutes before we came out again.

Here's the entrance to the big magical hole they dug... you go in this end speaking English and come out the other end speaking French (or "parlezing frenchais," as they say in France).

It wasn't strange at all knowing that tons and tons of salt water were above us, pressing down on the tunnel we were traveling through. Not odd at all, at the time. I played solitaire and took some geeky photos of us both in the reflective window.

This is my favorite photo of the several that I took because in this one, D is fortunately covering up my chubby arms (or "bras gros," as they say in France) so that the rest of the world can't see them

It was just like going into any other tunnel, except that 20 minutes later, when we saw sunlight again, the conductor came on the intercom and spoke first in French, then in English. A small change to indicate what had happened.

The French countryside is really pleasant and beautiful. And people drive on the right, which still looks more "normal" to me. And similar to the good old days when fireworks were illegal in North Carolina but legal in South Carolina--and the border was littered with fireworks stands--the first thing we saw after emerging into the sunlight again was a big wine shop, with signs in English welcoming the Brit tourists.


At Paris's Gare du Nord, we wandered around outside looking for an ATM where we could get some Euros. We finally found a couple and used a 20 to buy some orange juice to get some small bills and coins--which we needed to use the bathrooms at the Austerlitz train station, of course--once we finally found it, after walking from one end of the station to the other a couple of times, following the signs to oblivion. Worth every cent of 1€.

Now, this is a guy who's about to pay to urinate in a foreign country

We successfully navigated the Metro and found our way from Gare du Nord to Austerlitz, where we had lunch at an Italian sandwich place with tables "outside" (near the train platforms). Little birds would come right up to you and sit on the table next to your plate, seeing if you'd give them a crumb (which we did, a little bit, and very discreetly, of course, in case it was a no-no to feed the critters).

Le tweet! Le tweet! Je suis un oiseau francais! Si vous me donnez un petit morceau de votre pain, je ne chierai sur votre plat!

Around 8pm, we boarded our night train from Paris to Madrid. We had sleeper beds, but they were divided by sex, so I was in a cabin with three other ladies, and D got to hang out with three guys. My ladies were sleepy and quiet, but D was luckier and got to practice his Spanish. The most talkative guy was Mexican American, from California. There was another guy from Brazil, but he spoke Spanish as well as Portugese, so they were able to converse. The fourth man was from Peru, an older guy escorting a large team of pre-teen soccer players (who, luckily, were several cabins away from both me and D). I read a little in the book I'd brought (Mansfield Park) and went to sleep early, but D chatted into the night with his neuvos amigos.

At some point in the evening while we slept, the train stopped at the border and had its wheels changed from the narrow gauge used by most of Europe to fit the wide gauge Spanish tracks... and when we woke up in the morning, we were chugging across the eastern edge of Madrid.