The Barcelona Moonlight Express

by Deirdre Abrahamsson

Stella opened her eyes just as the train pulled into Montpelier. The wheels shrieked painfully to a stop.

It was the last station in France before she arrived in Spain. She had an hour to kill--time to go through customs and then switch to a connecting train. Good. Things to keep myself busy, she thought. And then back to sleep on the next train. Turn my mind off. She was stiff from sleeping in her cramped seat. She stretched her arms over head and then twisted her lower back. Her neck ached on the right side. She was sure that her head had been lolling about while she had slept.

She followed the crowd of tourists and travelers to customs. The line moved quickly, and she soon had her passport stamped by an unsmiling guard. She would arrive in Barcelona at 4:45 p.m. exactly. And then? Find a hostel or cheap hotel. Tomorrow she would call Elizabeth, her friend from Boston who was spending the summer there studying Spanish.

At a newsstand, Stella perused the French magazines, picking out an Elle to read during the rest of her journey. Just in case she couldn't sleep. That was all she wanted. To sleep, and not to think of Marc. But she couldn't help it.

They were both high school teachers, and they spent their summer vacation backpacking around Eastern Europe, through Poland, Hungary, and the Czech Republic.

Things hadn't been that great before they left, but, hell, they had been together for nearly three years. Planning the trip had brought them closer again, forgetting about their present situation, imagining themselves together in exotic and romantic surroundings. Surely things between them would be better then!

She just couldn't figure out what had gone wrong. It was cliché, but, really, they had seemed so perfect together. Both teachers, she at a St. Stan's and he at nearby Quincy High. Elizabeth had been the one who introduced them. She and Stella taught at the Catholic School, and Elizabeth and Marc both had gone to Boston College.

In the months leading up to their trip, Stella pored through travel books, planning their itinerary. She could envision herself and Marc in the places she read about in the books. She imagined him proposing to her during a moonlit night down by the Charles River in Prague or in the castle district of Budapest. It was inevitable right? They had been going out for three years. She was 28, he was 30. Wasn't that the next, obvious step?

They weren't fighters. Oh, no. They were both moody sulkers. They both communicated atrociously. They were so alike, they probably drove each other crazy without even knowing how or why. Resentment had been building for a long time.

The trip started smoothly enough. They were fueled by the exhilaration of traveling and having a break from school. Finding their way from hostel to train to hostel filled their days. They met other travelers along the way, and they never seemed to be alone.

But there was an underlying tension throughout. Although they were together, they were growing apart. It finally came to a head on the train from Prague to Paris. She forgot what she asked him, what she said, but whatever it was, it was enough.

"You just don't get it," he had said. "You are so selfish."

His words stung painfully.

No, she didn't get it. He expected her to read his mind and act in a certain way. To anticipate his needs. That she should know. And she did. She did anticipate many of his needs. She was always there for him.

The funny thing was that she was feeling the same resentments towards him.

She couldn't deny it anymore. They weren't connecting. They were growing apart. Stella was frightened. That wasn't in the plans. To feel this pain.

His accusing words were like a slap in the face. A faint anger stirred within her. She felt her mind rocking shut, the emotional walls going up.

But this time she knew that she had to say something.

"You..." she said. She tried to reword it as her self-help books implored. "I feel angry when..."

"But you..." he cut her off.

It was the same argument every time. He didn't listen. He threw it back in her face. Why fight at all? Why did she readily accept that she couldn't win? Surely at 28 years old she could stand up for herself? She tried again. A different approach.

"When we get back to Boston, we really should go see a relationship counselor. It is really more than this issue. We need someone to help us figure this stuff out."

Marc leaned his head back against his seat and closed his eyes and sighed.

"You know what Stella? I think that we need a break from each other," he said quietly. "I think that I need a break. I am not sure if this is what I want. I am not sure what I want."

She was silent. Deep down she knew he was right. She wasn't going to plead with him.

"OK," she whispered, tears starting to run down her face. She looked out the window.

"Stella," he took her by the shoulders and turned her towards him. He took her face in his hands, brushing her long bangs back and wiping a tear running down her left cheek.

"You know I love you," he said, looking into her eyes.

She didn't say anything. She looked into his shining brown eyes, and she screamed inside her head: how can this be over?

They spent an awkward night in their hostel room in Paris. Although she wanted to, she couldn't make love with him, not even to go out with a bang. It was too difficult. She cried herself to sleep.

The next day at an Air France ticket office, Stella extended her return ticket for another two weeks. Marc was continuing on his way to London where he would catch a flight back to Boston in three days.

They said goodbye at the hostel.

"Stella, maybe staying longer is not such a good idea. You should come with me."

"No, I'm not ready to leave. There's still a few more weeks of vacation before school starts again."

They kissed goodbye, tenderly, gently. She couldn't look into his eyes.

"Goodbye Marc." She turned and walked away.

She arrived in Plaça de Catalunya right on time. A few days here and then she would head down south through the Costa del Sol and make her way to Sevilla. Maybe. She was looking forward to these few weeks of unstructured time. She wanted to lose herself. To forget about the past month, the past few years. And to forget about going back to Boston and having to see Marc again. But she did want to see him! Well, she did and she didn't.

She followed the other passengers and made her way above ground, to the Plaça. She gasped at the sight of it. She was in the middle of a huge square of old buildings, a mix of modernity and antiquity. People swarmed through, coming to and from the train entryways. Business men and women, old and young people, camera-wielding tourists. A tree-lined avenue lay before her, and she headed in that direction. Looking up at the buildings, she saw the street name: La Rambla. Remembering from her guidebook, she knew that she would find a hostel down there.

She walked down the promenade, a wide sidewalk flanked by one-way streets on each side. Everywhere there were people, and she was mesmerized by the activity and energy.

She passed by street performers and statues. There were outdoor pet shops with cages of canaries and parakeets chirping madly. Flower-sellers and newsstands. She ogled the storefronts, and on her right, she saw a large market, an art-deco sign on the front announcing: Mercat de la Boqueria. She would have to check it out tomorrow.

She consulted her guidebook and located the way to Plaça Reial, a large square tucked in to the left of La Rambla. Young people were sitting around a sparkling fountain and at cafes that had chairs and tables spilling out all over the square. She found the hostel on the second floor of a large building in the corner. She quickly checked in to a small single room overlooking the Plaça.

She was excited to be in the city. But she wanted to sleep. Sleep for a long time. She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. She thought about Marc. She couldn't help herself. She probed the painful wound of their breakup, trying, adamantly, to heal it. But by poking and prodding, she only made it worse. Exhausted, she slowly drifted off to sleep.

There was no respite in sleep. The pain was still there in her dreams. She dreamt that she was walking on a crowded street holding a yellow balloon. Her dream street was like Barcelona, but the pace was more like Paris. She stopped at a stall to buy flowers, lilacs, she thought, and when she went to reach for her money, the balloon slipped from her grasp and drifted away.

Staring up at the balloon in horror, she watched as it floated higher and higher. She snapped out of her shock and raced after it, dodging the crowd. She was running down narrow streets, through a clearing, down to the beach, at the edge of the sea, watching it fade until she couldn't see it anymore. She stepped out into the warm sea water and collapsed into tears.

She felt herself crying in her sleep and slowly emerged from her dream with tears streaming down her face. Morning light filtered in through the window.

End of Part I. Continuation in next issue.