Crazy Train

Sometimes the best parts about traveling are the traveling parts themselves. It was a cool night in May, post college graduation, when me and the Smaz himself decided we would take a journey across seas. This would be my first time in Europe and the Smaz’s as well. We didn’t know what to expect at all and therefore entered a new world with arms wide open and mouths thirsting for alcohol.
This particular story takes place on a train, specifically a train ride from Paris to Madrid. Now I thought this trip would be a couple hours, as rumor has it, trains are extremely fast in Europe. WRONG, this train was 14 hours long and me and the Smaz had what you would describe as a greyhound seat to enjoy the ride. We show up at the train station after walking around all day carrying 40lb backpacks. This was well before we learned the art of traveling light. We were hung-over, tired of the French, and ready to get a good night’s sleep before the rage fest in Spain. We booked a night train after learning of our 14 hour journey ahead and took whatever seats they had left (greyhound).
Upon boarding the train, we found our seats and sat…. eager for some rest and recovery. One small problem, these seats sucked. We hadn’t showered in days and were about as comfortable as a kid in a lion’s den. The Smaz leans over to me and says, I’m gonna go get a quick bite from the restaurant in the back of the train, I’ll be right back.” “ Whatever,” I say. An hour goes by and I’m thinking to myself, what the hell is wrong with this kid. Where is he? He stumbles back to the seat about an hour and a half later reeking of sweat and alcohol. I ask no questions and say, “I want to go to there.” We proceed to the back of the train and post up at the bar with another American whom we had just met and some crazy ass Brazilians. We proceed to punish Carlsberg beers, pouring out what remaining Euros we have left. Our only communication tool with the Brazilian is the Smaz’s broken Spanish and the snapping of our fingers. The good thing was… we were all hammered. We spoke to each other like 5 year old kids who were just learning how to talk. The Smaz and I were in the zone, we were crushing beers, living up to the hype that is Animal House, where as our American friend, you could say, was being the biggest pussy in the world. Due to his pussy ways, he went back to his seat, through in a tampon, and left myself, the Smaz, the 35 year old Brazilian, and our bartender. Once we are three sheets to the wind, we realize, our Brazilian friend, can’t speak Spanish, he speaks Portuguese. We can hardly speak Spanish, much less Portuguese. We haven’t said one thing to each other for the last 5 hours that any of us understand. We argued, we laughed, and told stories that no one understood…. Doesn’t matter, we all knew how to punish beers and how to act like men. We hit on the bartender, arranged a car ride around Madrid the next day with our new Brazilian friend, closed down the bar at 1am due to no more alcohol, hugged it out, and head back to our seats. More messed up than a nine-eyed midget, we passed out in our seats, which now felt like beds in the Ritz Carlton, woke up in Madrid, where the national language was now Spanish.