Guest Post: My Lucky Day

By Joel Rogers

In March 2015, I went on my second trip to Europe; my first to Spain. I was by myself, but that wasn't originally the plan. My traveling partner had, unfortunately, had their passport stolen within days of travel, and I decided to continue solo. The trip was eight days; the first half in Barcelona and the second in Madrid. On my final full day, I ended up in a town, a short train ride outside Madrid. It ended with a wild St. Patrick's Day night that I partially forget and partially will never forget. The end of that day is what this story is about.

The trip turned out to be a good adventure and I made a couple friends that were part of the tour group. It was one of the Gate 1 tours where they coordinate air travel, bus transportation, and hotel reservations, but the excursions and what you do during the day are up to you. There was no tour guide, and since the group was so small, consisting of only me and a mother and daughter duo, we tended to stay together for most of the excursions. The mother and daughter had never traveled outside the US, so they relied on me to be the impromptu guide/decider for the trip. On the last day they decided to give me some space and were not keen about my idea of taking a speed train from Madrid to a castle town to the north on the far side of the mountains.

Segovia, Spain.

The castle town is called Segovia. My main purpose for visiting was to see one of the largest remaining Roman aqueducts. I had heard about the aqueduct and where it was located shortly before my trip to Spain and was determined to see it. I discovered that while Segovia was an hour and a half drive, there conveniently was a speed train that went through the mountain directly to the town, reducing the travel time to twenty minutes. The only issue was figuring out how to purchase tickets and getting to an appropriate train station in Madrid. Once I had accomplished that, I began my day trip to Segovia and explored the fascinating castle town, old cathedral, and Roman Aqueduct. Regardless of my activities that day, I knew that I had a very specific time that I needed to be back at the train station to catch the last train back to Madrid. There was no margin for error since the train worked like clockwork and it only stayed at the platform for 30 seconds before its doors closed and proceeded on its way.

Roman Aqueduct in Segovia, Spain.

I thoroughly enjoyed walking the old cobblestone streets and witnessing the ancient history at every turn. While exploring, one out of place-thing did catch my eye. It was an Irish pub within the old city walls on a tiny street. I was surprised but delighted when I realized that it was March 17th. I had been unaware it was St. Patrick’s Day until that moment. It seemed like fate that I had discovered this little pub in the unlikeliest of places. I made a mental note of the pub and decided that maybe I should stop by later in the day after I had finished exploring the town's ancient relics.

As evening approached, and I was satisfied with my adventure, I returned to the little pub to grab a pint for a brief celebration before making my way back to the train station. When I entered through the rustic door it felt as though I was immediately transported from Ancient Rome and Spain to an authentic establishment in Ireland. Although I had never been to Ireland, it was at least as authentic as the Irish pubs I had frequented in Baltimore or Philadelphia. The only thing that was missing was the patrons. I was the first customer to walk through the door.

An Irish pub in Segovia, Spain.

I settled in at one of the stools at the wooden bar, admiring the decor that seemed it was all shipped directly from Ireland in the last century. After a few minutes, a young man appeared from the back and greeted me in Spanish. He didn't seem to speak any English, and my Spanish is very basic. Despite this hurdle it was quite clear what my purpose was there and within no time there was a pint of Guinness settling on the counter in front of me. Once the brew was ready, I slowly sipped it and took pictures of the interior of the place. The bar tender had disappeared once more to the back of the building, no doubt preparing for any additional patrons that may be coming in that evening.

The traditional St. Patrick's Day beer.

As I was finishing my beer, and contemplating whether I should have another, a man entered and made his way to the bar just a couple seats away from me. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties and had a pale complexion. The bartender greeted him. When the new guest ordered his beer, it was quite apparent that he had a thick Irish accent. Once he had concluded his interaction with the bar tender, I decided to strike up a conversation since he was the only other English speaker I had encountered in a little while. And after all, I was standing in an Irish themed pub, next to an Irish man, on St. Patrick’s Day. What are the odds? Especially in rural Spain.

We dove into a hearty conversation about where we were each from and where we had traveled. We also began a barrage of drink purchases including Jameson's and Guinness. First, one of us would buy a round and then the other would reciprocate until we lost track of what we ordered. Through the salvos of shots and draughts I learned his name was George. He was there on holiday because his wife's family was from that town. He had already spent a few days with them and had stolen away for much needed respite by visiting the only Irish pub around for many miles. I perceived that he did enjoy the company of a native English speaker even though it was provided by a simple yank. As the stories and libation and singing flowed we settled into a comfortable camaraderie that is only encountered in certain situations while traveling on foreign soil with others that are not native to that land.

St. Patrick's Day, party of 1. But not for long.

Although the time passed effortlessly, I did manage to glance down at my watch at one point and immediately spewed forth a volley of expletives due to the surprise of how late it was. I was jolted back into reality and realized that I was dangerously close to missing my precious transportation back to Madrid. Without much explanation I indicated to George that it was nice to meet him, and I enjoyed my time, but I had to make a hasty return to the train station. He bid me farewell and I threw the required Euros to the bartender to close my tab, and I ran out the door.

While I was imbibing with my new Celtic friend the day had turned to night and the ancient city now looked eerie and unfamiliar. I had a general sense of which direction I had to go to find a taxi and I sprinted through cobblestone streets and leapt over obstacles like the exploits of Jason Bourne in one of his daring spy movies. Although in my intoxicated state I probably more closely resembled a Buster Keaton scene. I eventually made my way under the Roman aqueduct and to the line of waiting taxis. I jumped into the nearest one and simply shouted “train!” to the startled driver. He correctly perceived my haste and quickly sped away. As we were nearing the station, I threw him more Euros than I thought necessary and exited the door before he had put the vehicle in park. I continued my harried run into and through the station to the woman at the turnstile. She had an outstretched hand in preparation for my impending baton style hand off of my ticket. She was urging me to hurry and got out of my way as I rounded the obstacle to cross the finish line on the train platform. As I slowed my gait and halted to bend over at the waist and catch my breath, the train slowed to a halt and the door swooshed open. I had not been there for more than ten seconds.

I shuffled quickly through the beckoning door and took the first seat available. The doors closed quickly and without fanfare the train began its journey to Madrid. I had made it, but only by the narrowest of margins. My revelry had almost hampered my return to Madrid, but I had so much fun. I also have a cool story to tell which may hinder me from learning my lesson. I may continue testing my luck with other modes of transportation in other continents even if it’s not St. Patrick’s Day.