6:28 a.m.—Madrid. Our train leaves in an hour and we have to hustle. We cram clothing into backpacks, leave the hostel, and haul our ashes across Madrid to the train station.
7:12 a.m.—We are late arriving to the station. Late by two minutes. We miss our train.
We know it’s a lost cause, but we still try to get a refund on the tickets because tickets are roughly the same price as a four bedroom beach condo. The guy at the information desk is very matter-of-fact and says, “No refundos, señor, this is Spain, not Walmart.”
7:34 a.m.—We purchase new, more expensive tickets for a later train. It’s pricey. But it’s all right, we can always just get a second mortgage.
To kill time before our departure, we hang out in the station café, drinking coffee. The eatery is full. People are staring at us. This could be because we are the only ones carrying hiking backpacks and a fiddle. Or it might be that I am wearing a cowboy hat, and you
don’t see many Roy Rogers wannabes in Spain.
One little boy asks me in broken English whether I am a real “vaquero.” I tell him that, yes, Kemosabe, I am most definitely a real vaquero, and I have a Lone Ranger lunchbox at home to prove it.
9:36–Our train is on time. We rush through security, placing our bags in the scanners. Train security is high today. Locals have told me there is civil unrest in Spain, and terrorist organizations usually target transportation hubs. Especially around holidays. It is nearing Easter, which is a MAJOR holiday in Spain.
Still, even with heightened security, Spanish transportation security agents are polite, quick, and efficient. This is a stark contrast to American TSA agents, many of whom seem to be suffering clinical…