To Malaga and back: diary of a train journey

Independent solo blind traveler Kirsten Herne used her loathing of airports as the trigger for a return train journey through three countries. Three different rail companies meant booking assistance ahead was impossible. She kept a diary for Disability Now telling how it all worked out

Friday 27 August 2010

I ram my overstuffed suitcase with emergency rations, in anticipation of problems finding vegetarian food. I’ve marked the tickets in Braille. I’ve collected some useful French and Spanish phrases. A friend of a friend of a friend has agreed to meet me at Paris on the way out and another on the way back. There’s only getting across Madrid and Malaga to worry about.

It has stopped raining. I seize my bag and dash out of the house. I skirt the puddles that my stick detects and splash through those it doesn’t!

At my local underground station, there’s no sign of staff. I search in all their known hiding places but to no avail.

The bloke at the ticket barrier at King’s Cross grumpily complains that he didn’t know I was coming.

“Great customer care”, I think to myself as I ask directions for Eurostar.

Eurostar staff are remarkably efficient; I’m whisked through heaving multitudes of people via the business class check-in and into my seat. The train winds its way out of the station.

I settle back and relax.

My first change and Gare du Nord station in Paris is babblingly busy. Eurostar staff are conspicuous by their absence. With the help of a bilingual passenger, I locate the minder I’ve sorted out in advance and head for the metro.

Across town at Austerlitz station my minder talks rapidly in French with the man at Information. When assistance doesn’t materialise, she helps me find my couchette and negotiates with the Spanish sleeping car attendant about my onward assistance in Madrid. Meanwhile I get out my knitting and chew on an oatcake or two in lieu of dinner.

The couchette door bangs open. In marches a mercifully bilingual traveller. We bond over Jaffa cakes until we are joined by two large Spanish ladies and their ton of luggage. There isn’t enough room for us all in the tiny couchette. My bilingual companion and I are banished to the unoccupied carriage next door.

It’s 10pm. Our bunks are put down.

I retire to bed. The train jerks violently and shudders. I swear under my breath as my head crashes against the compartment wall for the umpteenth time. I lie on my stomach and jam my right foot between the mattress and wall, clutching the bunk sides to stop me rolling out. This is not comfortable. I make a mental note not to do the couchette again.

Saturday 28 August 2010

The train squeals to a stop. Doors slam. I check my watch. It’s two in the morning. I guess we must be crossing the border.

It’s 8am. My companion says it’s a lovely day and we’re passing through mountains. I sit eating an apple by way of breakfast and imagine the sun sparkling on their snow-clad summits, shining white against the clean morning blue sky.

No sooner are my feet on the platform at Chamartin Madrid, when an efficient Spanish helper appears. Obediently, I follow her to the metro. Alone in the carriage I try not to panic! Then I remember it is three stops to Atocha.

Fortunately I can understand the Spanish on-train announcements which give destination and next stop information. I alight into the care of a cheerful assistant, who bears me away at high speed for I’ve managed to communicate to him that I need the loo!

I sit down to wait for my next train. The mouth-watering aroma of coffee and doughnuts fills the air. Briefly I contemplate going in search of sustenance, then think better of it fearing to get lost.

The Malaga bound train is an airtight bullet which thinks it’s a plane. I am surrounded by surreally chuckling passengers who I soon realise are listening to the in-flight movie on earphones. My silent neighbour is annoyingly taking up far too much of my seat as well as his. I don’t have the Spanish to remonstrate so I ignore him and go to sleep.

Braille signs in toilets are an unhygienic aberration. These ones are in Spanish! I wish though I had worked out how to activate the tap before I had checked out the Braille.

The train oozes softly up to the platform and everyone else gets off. I leap up and seize my belongings, just as the help strides down the aisle.

As I am marched through Malaga station, bizarrely I briefly encounter a work colleague, but there is no time to chat, my minder is on a mission. I take a taxi to the hotel where I will pick up a transfer up the mountain to my final destination.

Saturday 4 September 2010

It’s the crack of dawn. I can’t eat. I stash my breakfast in my rucksack for future attention. September sunshine tenderly strokes my cheek through the window as we descend the bumpy mountainside in a badly sprung coach.

The slim metal train hurtles at 250km per hour across southern Spain. I snooze peacefully. The bloke next to me is playing with his I-book. My phone trumpets, a text arrives. My friend and colleague Rowen Jade has died. Stunned, I retreat to the toilet to cry in privacy.

If there’s one thing I’ve learnt about successful independent travel, it’s that one’s internal state affects how one is treated. “I’ve got to get a grip”, I think as I tearfully follow the assistant down into the subway at Atocha. She puts me on the metro. English speaking passengers help me to alight at Chamartin. I trail desolately after another extremely capable helper who deposits me in the café where I drink strong coffee and try to get my head together. I’ve got five hours to wait.

My train is in. Another assistant comes and helps me to find my compartment. I’m really hungry, and could do with a cuppa.

The elderly train bossa novas its way across the great Spanish plain. I squeeze through narrow corridors and climb over people and bags. I get a cup of tea but sourcing vegetarian food is impossible.

Back at my couchette, I find it jammed with passengers and mounds of baggage.

One of them speaks English. We talk about our travels and how walking feeds the soul. She’s writing a book, I tell her about my walking blogs.

At last, it’s time to put the bunks down. The sleeping car attendant strategically stows huge pieces of luggage and large passengers into small spaces. Within a few minutes and with a certain amount of huffing and puffing and standing on the sink, she arranges everything. The English-speaker gamely scales the precarious metal ladder, bashing her head on a handrail on the way up. She laughs manically. I climb into my bunk and fight with the confining sheets. I allow the motion of the train to rock me, but I can’t get comfortable. It’s like trying to sleep in an MRI scanner!

Sunday 5 September 2010

It’s 6am. I head off to the dining car for breakfast. Two strong black coffees and a slightly stale croissant later, I’m feeling a bit more civilised. I return to the couchette and hunch down on the bunk and knit.

In Austerlitz, passengers eager to alight flock clumsily, jamming their luggage and themselves in the narrow corridor like confused sheep. I wait till they move off before stepping onto the platform.

“I have instructions to take you straight to breakfast,” says the pal of a pal of a pal, marching me firmly off to a café on the left bank of the Seine, hard by the Jardin des Plantes. We sit in the sunshine on the pavement and drink strong coffee.

The metro is cool and quiet. I dodge the snapping jaws of the automatic barriers and climb slowly down the stairs to the platform. At Gare Du Nord, my minder hands me over to a Eurostar assistant who steers me expertly through the throng of passengers in search of my seat.

I settle down with yet another cup of coffee and some chocolate! I’m nearly home. I sleep.

Inaudible announcements wake me. The train stops. We’re in St Pancras. I am borne away by a helpful soul who hands me over to a perfectly cheerful member of underground staff. Back at my local station, there is no sign of any assistance. No matter; this bit is easy compared to what I’ve just done. I make my own way out to the buses. Before long I am at home and putting on the kettle for a nice cup of Lady Grey.