Escorial, Spain. Dear Mommy and Papa: Today is Sunday and school is out until Tuesday due to some feast so I’ll get around to writing about my trip to Rome. It’s about time, isn’t it?
I’ll try to keep it short because if I were to tell everything that happened of interest, it would take a week to write this. I caught the ten o’clock train going to Barcelona, and got there at eleven p.m. After finding a pension (a literal hole) and going to a bar to have a bocadillo, I went to another bar to have a coffee, but ended up in a house of ill fame. Oops. Next morning, Thursday, I started hitch-hiking toward the border; Tim Baker was so right: The French don’t take anybody! By four, I was in Figueras, a town about 120 kilometers from Barcelona and about twenty from the border, and from there nobody would give me a lift, so I decided to take a train to the first French town, called Cerbère, but I didn’t know it was up in the mountains (i.e., in the middle of nowhere). After trying unsuccessfully for a couple of hours, I got a ticket on a train to Arles.




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