Adiós, Spain; Hello, UK!

June 2017

Day whatever into our journey:  If anyone ever finds this journal, it means Jo is dead…and I threw her over the balcony…or tripped her going down the stairs.  And I’m lying on a beach somewhere sipping beef-flavored water…or being fanned by cats.  Doesn’t matter.  I’ll figure out the details if the time comes.

Jo is stressing both of us out!  With one eye, I’m peering out from beneath my blanket as I write this, and she’s pacing back n’ forth, wringing her hands and then throwing them up in the air as if releasing invisible confetti, and asking the room why does she do everything last minute…the train tickets are so expensive now…two pet taxi companies are completely booked for that day…there’s a very small window between the vet signing off on the passport and getting into the UK…and we have a housesitting job to get to.  We have to line up the train times, taxi, and hotel just right! “How are we going to get across the Channel, Penny?!” 

She probably should have figured that out earlier.

Later that night:  I stared at Jo while she slept.  She was dreaming and kicking at the sheets…murmuring something about hotels and Google maps.  My tummy gurgled and I broke wind.

“Excuse me,” I said out of habit.

“Doesn’t bother me any,” I heard someone say from behind me.

Literally from my behind.  A Lil Dog Devil emerged from the cloud of gas and hopped onto the nub of my tail.  I mean, Jo always said I had the devil in me, but this is a bit much!

I FA-REAKED OUT!  Jumped off the bed, raced around the coffee table like a scalded ape, up onto the couch, bucking and kicking the whole way.

He held on for the ride, one tiny paw waving his cowboy hat in the air and barking, “Yeeee-haaaw!”  One more buck and he let go, flying through the air, and plopping squarely down on my shoulder.

He lit a cigarette, inhaled it for ages, then exhaled, “Hooo-wheee!  You got some fire in ya’, lil lady!  Beelzedog, at your disservice!  Ya’ know,  Jo’s stressed; you’re stressed.  You guys aren’t adapting as quickly as you expected, huh?  She’s expecting a lot from you in your old age. There’s too much to learn too fast.  

Pretty selfish of her to drag you along, don’t ya’ think? Wouldn’t you rather be home in your own bed, eating froyo? Wouldn’t it just be easier to nudge one of those pillows there across Jo’s face and sleep on it?  It would look like an accident.  And Gma would take you back home in a jiffy!”

Could this Beelzedog be serious?!

Suddenly:  The squeak of ropes n’ pulleys.  A Dog Angel with one wing, sitting on a painter’s bench, lowered himself down from my ear, touching up any old-age spots with a splash of white as he went.

“You guys aren’t THAT old.”

He looked and sounded a bit like Rob Schneider.  Or maybe it’s that Rob Schneider looks a bit like a frumpy angelic dog.

So, Angel Dog Schneider says,

“Things WILL get better.  Learning and planning will come easier for both of you.  You will see and smell some amaaazing places.  You will have a newfound love of Scottish grass (both rolling in it and eating it).  You will climb mountains together!  You will be welcome with open paws at more cafés and pubs than you’ll know what to do with.  Neither one of you will EVER forget this journey….

Besides, Jo cooks for you when she doesn’t even cook for herself.  So you’re kinda stuck with her. You can doooo iiiit…”

I awoke with a start.  Still night.  Still a sleeping Jo.  I knew what I had to do.

I sprung from the bed, opened the laptop, performed some astronomical calculations, ordered our 1st class train tickets (Jo owes me for that one), and booked a hotel in Paris and a hotel in England.

Done and done.

In the end, to get across the Channel, we fashioned a hang glider-raft combo out of yogurt containers, cigarette butts, and mammoth hide, all stuck together with some good ol’ fashioned spit and gumption…flew/sailed across, paid off Immigration, and illegally entered the UK. Woohooo!

That actually might have been simpler.  Hell, it’s probably easier to smuggle drugs in than a dog!  Just kidding, I found a pet taxi to take us. 😀

SUMMARY

We traveled about 6.5 hours by speed train from Barcelona to Paris…and totally worth 1st class…then to another station in Paris, got lost trying to find our hotel for the night, gave up, stopped and had a beer at an outdoor café, got our shit together, and found that damn hotel.

FYI:  You can’t use the English version of the SNCF railway site to purchase a ticket for your dog. Use the French version, and then you’ll see an option to pay.

After checking in to the hotel after 10 p.m., hilarity ensued yet again while trying to squeeze into a reeeally tiny elevator with Jo, a big suitcase on Jo’s back, my big rolling suitcase, two tote bags, and me…and another guest who wanted to get on.  Finally, the guest said, “I’ll just take the stairs.”  Yeah, you do that, buddy.

Felt like the “Crowded Cabin” scene from the classic Marx Brothers film below.

Finally in our room, I passed out on the bed while an exhausted Jo took a shower.  In her stupor, Jo grabbed the first towel she saw:  A small hand towel.  She started drying herself off with it, and as I dozed off to sleep, I heard a perplexed Jo exclaim, “Christ, first the tiny elevator…now the towels!”

In the wee hours of the following morning, we hauled ass back to the station to catch a train to Calais, France (about 1.5 hours away), where our pet taxi was waiting to pick us up.  The taxi took us to the pet reception building, where my embedded microchip was successfully scanned and my passport and other paperwork were looked over with a fine-toothed comb.

In addition, they required a retinal scan, and I had to promise my first-born pup to them.  I told them I was spayed but could DJ at their daughter’s wedding instead.

And so I was approved!

Jo and I both heaved a sigh of relief that morning!  Another couple there was not so lucky. They had forgotten the required dewormer, were denied entry to the UK, and now would have to locate a vet, get the proper medication, and wait at least 24 hours before attempting to enter the UK again.

They. Were. Pissed.

We hopped back into the taxi, boarded the Chunnel (the Channel Tunnel), and stayed in the car for about 30 minutes or so until we arrived!

* Driving into The Chunnel

Got rather heavily questioned by Immigration:

What are you doing here?  Where are you going to right now?  How long will you be in the UK?  Five months?!  Why so long?  Just backpacking and sightseeing with your dog, you say?  Do you have enough money in the bank?  

Do you have a return flight?  No??  Oh, you’ll be taking a train back to France?  But you don’t have a return ticket back to the U.S.?  Do you promise to drink English tea from here on out for the rest of your remaining days on Earth?

He looked over Jo’s passport, looked at me, looked back at Jo, stamped her passport, and awaaaay we went!  Pretty intense.  And the guy didn’t even have any biscuits for me!

My First Train Ride!

* I turned Jo’s luggage into my personal throne whilst we waited for our train to Paris

THE DETAILS (Barcelona to Paris)  

Our seats were on the second floor of the train, which means Jo had to lug what felt like three dead bodies’ (and I know she doesn’t mean sweet lil ol’ meee) worth of luggage up the flight of stairs and locate our seat.

She mistakenly told a woman she was sitting in our seat.  Correct seat number. Wrong coach. Jo sheepishly apologized and made her way to the appropriate car.

Our coach was so quiet – a welcome change from the constant barrage of street noise in Barcelona.  Our seats were wide, reclined, came with a footrest and even matching smoking jackets, pipes, and monocles for us to read the daily news!  Okay, okay.  I’m exaggerating.  It didn’t have the footrest. 😉

* I was digging it, maaan!

* Amazing scenery as far as the eye could see

* Vineyards galore, with a smattering of lavender and sunflowers (Jo wasn’t quick enough to catch a pic of the last two.  What the hell is she doing all the time?  I feel like I’m constantly picking up the slack for her)

NEGATIVES:

1.  The windows didn’t open.  I’m a dog.  I like the wind in my face.  Jo tried explaining to me that we were going too fast.  If I stuck my face out the window, it would stretch back like melted cheese and my eyes would shrivel into raisins.  She’s lying.  Right?
2.   No seat pockets for my biscuits.
3.   No chin rest for when I’m looking longingly out the window.
4.   Our partition door between coaches had a taste for human flesh.  It would open and immediately shut just as someone was walking through, ensnaring them in its greasy mechanical maw!  An English boy nearly met his maker and jumped back just in time.  “Oy!” he said.  “Did you see that, dad?!  It shut on me!”  As I’m still not quite sure what to think of kids, I secretly rooted for the door and thought, ‘Better luck next time…’

After arriving in Paris (Gare de Lyon station), Jo thought she was supposed to take the metro to Gare du Nord to get to her hotel, but she ended up having to take the RER train.

BOOB ALERT:  She had no idea what the hell she was doing.  Didn’t know what ticket to buy, what train it was, the turnstile wasn’t reading her ticket, etc.  I thought she would have this all figured out since she already tackled Barcelona, but nay.  Another old dog fails to learn new tricks.

Jo tried to keep her cool, but it was quite apparent that she was floundering, as a seedy-looking girl approached us at the ticket machine, offering to sell the exact ticket we needed, already in hand.  Jo saw this scam coming a mile away and, without even looking in her direction, immediately dismissed her with a wave of her meaty fist.  And the girl quickly darted off in search of another mark.

However, everyone else was nothing but helpful.  Jo had heard many bleak opinions about Parisians, but she was glad she didn’t know what the hell she was doing. It gave her a chance to stop and speak with many folks and see how warm, friendly, and helpful they are. Sweeping generalizations and stereotypes be damned!

From the girl helping us through the turnstile when our luggage got stuck, to the gentleman named Leo helping us find the correct RER train, to the café owner offering to help with directions and give us a beer, to the gents who ran to catch up and inform us we were getting on the wrong half of the right train to Calais (apparently trains split up and go in different directions) and then proceeded to help us carry our casket of a suitcase onto the correct train…to everyone in between…

Thank you, Paris, for taking pity on this boob of an American and her dog. 😀  We look forward to giving you a proper visit in December!

* SIDENOTE:  Gare du Nord station is the 10th level of Hell, designed by MC Escher.

Up Next:  Canterbury Tails