Of Tractors and Trains...

I’ve now moved from the cosmopolitan heart of Aragon that is Zaragoza, to the more regional northern city of Huesca. Given the choice of travelling by train or by bus, I normally favour the train, because it’s comfier and there’s usually more space. Added to this that a Zaragoza to Huesca high speed rail link has recently been built, it figures that the train is the better option of the two, even if it is a little more expensive. Or so I though. Always keen to consult local knowledge I asked what the best way to get to Huesca was. My first source of information, a teacher, was sure that it was the bus because “the connections are better”. OK, 1-0 to the bus. Still unsure as this went against my expectations, I sort help using my ‘best’ Spanish from a school secretary. The answer was a little more than I could deal with, but I did pick out that the bus was ‘bueno’, something to do with the ‘conexion’ apparently. 2-0 bus, so bus it was.

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Luckily both bus and train go from the same place, the newly built, imposing and mostly empty Zaragoza station. There was a train at quarter past the hour, taking 35 minutes, and a bus on the hour, no arrival time given. The bus was earlier and had all those connections benefits. What these were, I had no idea, but the two locals seemed pretty sure of their benefits. My feelings of satisfaction at taking the bus were quickly dashed upon the rocky shores of heavy traffic as, after five red traffic lights in a row, we were fifteen minutes into the journey (when the train left) and still in the heart of the city. The question of ‘connections’ soon became apparent when I realised that the bus wasn’t direct along the highway, but a winding effort, ‘connecting’ various small villages, some only big enough to have one plaza and a modest church. It was when we got stuck behind the tractor that I really felt like I was back in my childhood, getting the slow and meandering ‘No 17’ local bus the 11 miles to school. It’s amazing to think that I thought an hour was a reasonable amount of time to travel 11 miles on a bus. How we grow up, eh? Back in the present, if it hadn’t been the case that I had absolutely nothing on for the rest of the day, I might’ve felt like gouging my eyes out with soup spoons coated in granulated sugar, but as it was, I was able to read my book and listen to the excited chatter/buzz of the 20 or so pensioners out on a day trip.

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And what of Huesca? Well, it’s a small place, population 49,000 says the Lonely Planet. After checking in I felt really thirsty, and in a mood of self-righteousness liberation, I thought that rather than pay the hyped-up prices for a bottle of water from the mini-bar, I’d be more local and pop into a shop and get one for a tenth of the price instead. Unfortunately, this is where my logic failed me - I was in a small town and not the regional capital, and hadn’t readjusted my expectations regarding shop opening hours and purveyors of liquid goods. Wondering round for some time in the searing afternoon heat, mouth feeling like sandpaper and only a raspy sound able to come when speaking, I finally came across a cafe with tables outside. Take the table or carry on to a shop. I opted to carry on, sure that I’d find at least one shop open in the afternoon in the time it would take a waiter to notice me, come out to serve me and then bring back a drink. A risky strategy and one that, this time, didn’t pay off. 15 minutes later I was back at the tables, rasping (and sounding a little more Spanish for it) to a waiter for a cerveza. And a ‘grande’ one at that.

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My wanderings did reveal some of the highlights of Huesca, though, an interesting town with plenty of cobbles that might feature a kind of Spanish ‘Papa’ and ‘Nicole’ from the old Renault Clio ads – small streets where you might expect to find ‘papa’ in a tryst with a long-legged, dark Carmen-esque beauty while Nicole pops down a side street for a known, but pretendingly secret, assignation with a Jorge or the like. I’ll keep my eyes peeled and let you know if I actually do see such a thing.

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I also happened across a ‘Singer’ sewing shop. Can’t remember the last time I saw one of those, although I think it might’ve been when a child in Norfolk somewhere. In true juxtaposition, the sewing shop is right next to the town’s one ‘Rock shop’ selling Metallica CDs and other popular music. You really couldn’t script that kind of thing, and even if you did, it would probably rate as being as unbelievable as a Curtis / Hugh Grant film. Yet it is here. Look, there's a picture.

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Before I head to Jaca (near the French border) for some exams this afternoon, I’ll leave you with this exchange that made me thankful I was examining language and not factual information:

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Candidate: I went to Norway on holiday.
Ben: Where did you go in Norway?
Candidate: I went to Copenhagen.
Ben: Really, What did you see?
Candidate: I saw fjords. They are islands of ice in the sea.
Ben: Hmm. Where else did you go?
Candidate: I went to Ireland and I saw the Isle of Arran.

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Good language for an elementary candidate, though...