Human Gristle. Barcelona part 2
What could be more soul wrenching and pitiful than my substandard Emirates business class lounge in Manila?
Well, many things, I'm very certain, but on this dreary rainy Barcelona day, dear reader, I found myself in a 100+ queue at the Barcelona Sants railway station attempting to purchase a long distance ticket to travel on a day other than this day, to get me to Nimes, France, and then ultimately onwards to Arles for the easter break.
I recall many years ago, as teenagers, we watched a rather kicky little film, full of charming post war themes suitable for children and the mentally ill. This movie, titled Christiane F, is a delightful little tale about a 16 year old German girl who is lured into a life of herion and prostitution through the despiration of acknowledging her bleak, opportunity deficient future.
Apart from being harrowingly confronting and graphic, even then, the film was actually brilliant, from memory, even if it was completely unpalatable. It was an interesting look at post war Germany and her people.
The reason I'm delving into this mucky swamp, is that this gristly operetta was set what is arguably one of the in bleakest backdrops of modern life, that of the European train station. I think, other than Greyhound bus stations in the USA, you may never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. (10 points if you can pick the movie that delivers that line....) ...
So I'm ticket 493 in the line. Around me waiting to be called to the window are American teenage girls on their Eurail summer break (possibly waiting for the last bus somewhere), a midget woman with a burkha and an obviously long travelled African family, who's legitimate method of communication is to hock spit at each other. nice.
Window is calling ticket 445....
When I picked up the queue number almost an hour ago, I recognised that half a day of my holiday would be spent in some parallel universe where Christiane F would circle around me waiting to eat me whole. So I decided to have a beer; so what that its only 10.30am.
So now it's 3 beers later, and i'm till sitting here, writing in my hello kitty notepad, chair dancing to the Freemasons (still) about to dive into HELLO magazine where Jordon tells Kerry that they can be friends again, even though Kerry still hates her husband.
Calling ticket 457.
Shit, I'm way too old for this, Next time I'm going to pay the £400 and fly.
Well, many things, I'm very certain, but on this dreary rainy Barcelona day, dear reader, I found myself in a 100+ queue at the Barcelona Sants railway station attempting to purchase a long distance ticket to travel on a day other than this day, to get me to Nimes, France, and then ultimately onwards to Arles for the easter break.
I recall many years ago, as teenagers, we watched a rather kicky little film, full of charming post war themes suitable for children and the mentally ill. This movie, titled Christiane F, is a delightful little tale about a 16 year old German girl who is lured into a life of herion and prostitution through the despiration of acknowledging her bleak, opportunity deficient future.
Apart from being harrowingly confronting and graphic, even then, the film was actually brilliant, from memory, even if it was completely unpalatable. It was an interesting look at post war Germany and her people.
The reason I'm delving into this mucky swamp, is that this gristly operetta was set what is arguably one of the in bleakest backdrops of modern life, that of the European train station. I think, other than Greyhound bus stations in the USA, you may never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. (10 points if you can pick the movie that delivers that line....) ...
So I'm ticket 493 in the line. Around me waiting to be called to the window are American teenage girls on their Eurail summer break (possibly waiting for the last bus somewhere), a midget woman with a burkha and an obviously long travelled African family, who's legitimate method of communication is to hock spit at each other. nice.
Window is calling ticket 445....
When I picked up the queue number almost an hour ago, I recognised that half a day of my holiday would be spent in some parallel universe where Christiane F would circle around me waiting to eat me whole. So I decided to have a beer; so what that its only 10.30am.
So now it's 3 beers later, and i'm till sitting here, writing in my hello kitty notepad, chair dancing to the Freemasons (still) about to dive into HELLO magazine where Jordon tells Kerry that they can be friends again, even though Kerry still hates her husband.
Calling ticket 457.
Shit, I'm way too old for this, Next time I'm going to pay the £400 and fly.
Labels: Vacation
posted by Eddie Knittster at 1:20 pm
1 Comments:
Love the picture of Barbie!
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