"i always rely on the kindness of strangers"

in three days i have traveled from high to low.

early morning sunday in marseille i walked alleyways and streets to meet Renaud at Vielle Port. we walked up the hill, him with bike, and took many stairs towards the church above, built upon rocks. we can see all of marseille as the sun rises.

he insists i see inside the church, so we take a look. old people are praying and lighting candles. a high handpainted ceiling with lots of gold. Renaud points up and says, 'and see, there is the gay flag' (the image of a rainbow). it's funny because of his accent, his cheekiness, the context of the situation - two fags in church on sunday morning, tip-toeing around the believers. he says if he knew all things, and discovered that god did not exist, he would keep it a secret, because so many people depend upon that single belief.

he makes coffee and we eat the pastries that he made me order at the boulangerie. we talk. life, languages, the world. he's young, beautiful, wise. we talk without touching, except for goodbye kisses. one on each cheek - my first real french kiss.

i check out of my hostel, browse street markets, stop for coffee in a small bar. as i'm leaving a guy starts to chat. he doesn't speak much english, but tries for me, and i speak french for him. he tells me he's from algerie, but also france. he has dual citizenship. he shows me his residency card. he's proud. i ask if he goes back much, and he does. i assume he goes via boat, but he flies. it only takes 1 hour (pauses to think) 20 minutes. i say goodbye, tell him 'enchanté' and leave. it's the first time i've used this expression, but in this situation it's valid. i was. a pleasant chat with a stranger, finding out a bit about the other. meanwhile, the woman who made my coffee chats to other patrons (all algerian, i suspect), and r'n'b music videos play on the tv in the corner.

i walk to the water where i sit on a wall and make camembert and tomato sandwiches. the sun is out. i write and reflect upon my day so far, my realisation that conversation is the new sex. the buzz, the high, from talking to strangers and meeting new people seems extraordinary. i'm smiling. i'm the happiest person on the planet. but soon to become the most frustrated.

the first train is late, i miss my connection, i board another to port bou. the conductor tells me to go to barcelona i must get off at perpignan not port bou. so i do. i ask when the next train to barcelona is, and the snfc woman points to the train i just got off, says to change at port bou. it starts moving. i explain that i was told to get off here. she says she doesn't understand, and nor does she speak english. she says no trains to barcelona until the morning. tells me i can't use my ticket again and need to buy another. i'm telling her that the snfc man on the train told me to get off here. i suspect she understands, but is disinterested. she tells me to go to the ticket machines because they speak english.

so i spend a night in perpignan. it's late, there's not much to see. i find a hotel and a net café. my hotel room is big, with 2 double beds, one pink, one yellow. someone has painted green vines all over the yellow walls, around doors, on the furniture. i eat cous cous, brush my teeth, wash my face, have a cry.

next morning the couple in the room over the hall are screaming at each other. i shower, dress, leave. i get a new ticket (with 'exceptionally' no charge), some croissants, and board the train. the coastline around the border is impressive, and i start to think missing the train was possibly worth it, for this. passports are checked on either side of the border. in france the guy asks where i'm from. 'australie'. 'oh, c'est bien'. he doesn't need to see it. i'm safe, insignificant.

barcelona-sants. is this my stop? i wanted to go to barcelona-franca. perhaps it will go there too. but the woman behind me says 'this is your stop' and a man has a ticket for my seat. and i have to grab all my bags and fight my way through all the new passengers. and the woman behind me is on the edge of her seat, giving me a look of 'you can do it. go! go!' and i make it off the train.

i find information. find the trains that can take me to the other station, queue to buy a ticket, go to take my wallet from my pocket. but there's no jacket and no wallet. my jacket is still in the train, in the overhead compartment. fuck!

tears well as i wait for the woman to return from her break at the lost and found desk. when she does, i discover she doesn't speak english. she asks a few colleagues, but none of them speak english. fuck!

through sign language, and finding a few words we can understand each other by, and referring to my phrase book, she makes a note of the missing items, my train number and seat, my hotel number. that's all she can do. she tells me 'one to two days'.

i walk onto the street. get out my gay map*, start walking in the direction of my hotel. tears in my eyes. i walk past a large Miro sculpture. i don't care. i love Miro and that's partly why i'm interested in barcelona, but i really couldn't care. i want to be home. to be able to speak to somebody. to cry, alone, not on these streets.

i find the hotel but there's a sign saying to phone the manager. i have no phone. i have no change to use a public phone. i wait, but nobody is passing through this door. i finally ask a passer-by if they speak english. they don't. after a while i try another. he does. i explain my situation, but cringe as i hear myself say i've lost my phone and wallet. sounds like such a lie. i show him my booking invoice and ask if he might phone the number for me. he does. i thank him again and again, tell him he's very kind.

i'm in the hotel. turns out the manager doesn't speak spanish, so he was confused by the guy who made the call for me. i tell him my situation. i have to stop him from speaking several times, because he keeps cutting in. talking about money, my booking, my being late. i say 'please listen' and explain delicately what has happened. he understands. he says i can pay the remainder owing tomorrow, shows me the room, lets me use his phone. he says his friend can call the station for me, because his friend speaks spanish.

so many details. so many frustrations. so many tears. i fax the australian consulate thinking they might be able to lend me a few euro to get by. no response. the station says phone back in the morning. the phone cannot make international calls. i'm online, waiting for someone in australia to wake up, so they might phone mark for me, tell him to get online. no money, no food, but a plush hotel room with clean linen, a tv, toaster...

more tears than i have shed in a long time. thankfully i have the internet. i chat to Renaud and he convinces me that it's not so bad. i'm hungry. i try my luck with gaydar. sure enough, someone wants to chat. they ask what i think of barcelona. i tell them i hate it, but not because of barcelona, because of my situation. he says don't take this the wrong way, but how about i buy you dinner. sure.

mark appears online and we organise money wiring. i dine with a stranger, eduardo. he's nice, but we don't have much in common. he's mexican. he tells me about the spanish languages, spanish history, gives a bit of local knowledge. i learn that i'm staying in the dodgy part of town where there's muggings. i laugh and say, well they're not going to have much luck getting my wallet. i don't think he gets why it's funny.

dinner was goats cheese salad, mushroom ravioli, creme caramel with raspberry coulis, lambrusco. so cheap compared to france. i tell him i'll repay this favour.

it's past midnight. back to the hotel, to emails from mark, and all is on track.

this morning i pick up the money. the cashier is jovial and she laughs with the other cashier about something. keeps on laughing. it's comforting. the feel of cash between my fingers is also comforting. and back at the hotel the lost'n'found person is on the phone. they have my jacket. it's 6 hours away. they will have to mail it to me, but i have to phone the place where it is. i do, but they don't speak english. the manager's friend will call again later.

so things are on the up. i walk back into the streets and start to actually see them, and like them. gritty streets with an interesting blend of people. grunge, colour, punk, elderly. the alley ways are slim, tall, and busy with people. i drink coffee for the first time since sunday, to ease the slight throb in my head. a croissant - but it's bad. what's with the sugar syrup coating? a walk by the water. a seat by the water. a bit of grocery shopping. and back here for tomato and goats cheese sandwiches.


*i picked up a gay guide to barcelona while in brussels. they had them for most european cities. i'm so glad i did, as without it i'd be even more fucked. it has a map with ads of half-naked men around the outside, so i've self-consciously folded all the edges over.