Significant Strangers - a story from Spain

Over a year ago I met three Dutch men on a train, in Spain. I spent barely two hours
with them and never asked for their names.

I wish I had. It would have saved me a lifetime of wondering.

I was half way into my second week of backpacking solo. I’d spent the last few days in relative solitude. Mostly due to the emptiness of the town’s only hostel and my instinctive wariness of strangers. I realised that my embedded sense of caution was holding me back from the spontaneous opportunities that travel offers. Promising to give more of myself, I headed to the train station.

My legs were bronzed from basking in the Catalonian sun. I wore light blue linen shorts and coffee coloured Birkenstocks. I felt confident beneath my tinted moisture and decision to don a subtle apricot eyeshadow.

I stood on Platform 1 of the Tarragona train station and squinted up at the timetable. The tightness around my eyes the only indication of the uneasiness I felt when navigating foreign transport alone. I checked and double checked my platform. My ticket. The train number. The time.

My ticket to Valencia ft. all the directions I had

I was early. As always.

When I stepped onto the 10.41am train to Valencia, I had no reason to expect that I’d miscalculated. At least not until I was affronted by a carriage with legroom almost certainly beyond the 22.15€ I’d paid for my ticket.

I asked a stranger whether these seats were reserved. She didn’t seem to think so. However, almost as soon as I sat down the seats’ rightful owners appeared. As the train began to roll away from Tarragona station, I sought out a staff member. After presenting her with my ticket, she solemnly told me I was on the wrong train.

She advised me to wait near the kiosk selling food, and that she would come find me in a few minutes.

As I stood there, preparing to defend my decision to board the train, my attention was caught by the conversation next to me.

A blonde man and his darker featured friend, probably in their mid-twenties, were already engaged in the conversation I was gearing up for. I vaguely recognised them from the train station earlier. The confusion on their faces assuring me of our shared situation.

I held my commitment to give more of myself in mind and, somewhat awkwardly, approached them.

‘Excuse me. Hi. Are you heading to Valencia too? I was told I’m on the wrong train.’

They seemed relieved to hear they weren’t alone in their confusion. The staff member apologised, explaining that the Tarragona platform signage was incorrect, but that we’d have to get off at the next station. Unfortunately, this was an express train, and it wasn’t due to stop for another hour.

The staff member left us to stand next to the kiosk, contemplating the overpriced food.

Over the next 30 minutes I chatted to Blonde Man while Dark Hair squinted at his phone – taking responsibility for understanding how we were going to make it to Valencia.

Blonde Man told me that they were from Holland. That there was actually three of them, but the third was in another carriage, probably asleep. ‘He’s always asleep.’

I learnt that they’d finished studying and worked full time. Blonde Man was in finance. They were on a week’s holiday, planning to stay in an Airbnb in Valencia. They were looking forward to hiring bikes and going to the beach.

Blonde Man was surprised that I was travelling alone.

In the end, we were allowed to stay on the train, which turned out to be heading to Valencia anyway. As we stepped off the train and into the city, I realised that this was goodbye. I was catching the bus, and they were ordering a taxi.

I offered these strangers my biggest smile as I turned towards my bus. I’d walked about five meters before Sleeping Guy called out, ‘Hey, what’s your name!?’.

I spun around, surprised by the simple obviousness of the question, and yelled back ‘Lucy!’.

‘Ahh Lucy!’ They beamed at me. ‘It was nice to meet you.’

I never asked for their names. I wish I had.

It would have saved me a lifetime of wondering.

Significant Strangers: a true story set in Spain