There's a lovely little thing with a Glaswegian accent and a stare that's lost on the world around her--she's blind. But that doesn't stop her from smiling out the window at the land that whizzes by, and curling in gently to the man beside her who holds her as one might hold a paper lily before placing it on the breeze.
They're going South--not South as in England, South as in Morocco. They told me over dinner last night. Right now we're somewhere in the Basque region--oh yes this train likes to dilly-dally it's way across the continent, there's no sense, you see, in going anywhere in a hurry. You'll undoubtedly be too late for what ever just happened and far too early for what ever is to come.
They made the decision two weeks ago to leave this old country and head for a land where what you see is so little of what you experience...not to say that Northern Africa can't offer spectacular sights, but the sounds and the smells are so rich and inviting...the things you see are less relevant. And when one is blind it becomes ever so important to entertain the other senses.
She hasn't always been blind, you know...
Oh the conversations we have are marvelous, we speak of rich dreams and evocative nightmares. The little girl tells me what she sees, because it isn't black, you know, when you close your eyes. She makes her own worlds now and gives a new name to each shape she remembers. The man listens quietly and keeps her close to him. He says a word from time to time, but he lets her do most of the talking, and to be honest it's her that I most want to listen to. Somewhere between Basque and Barcelona we stop to stretch our legs and she smells the desert of the Spanish plateau. She doesn't know whether to laugh or weep; the vastness of the desert is terrifying, it smells like death, but it is so open it pulls you in and you almost forget you can't survive on your own.
We avoid big cities because they are only a conundrum of noise and confusing screeches that would upset a little blind girl. We detour in small towns and dine with the locals while they tell us tales of visitors and creatures we thought only existed in somebody else's imagination.
The little girl never tells me her secret, but I know she's got something to say. The man knows too, but he isn't ever going to let on. I want to keep travelling with them but my stop is coming soon and I have to get off.
This train is only for people who don't know where they are going, it only stops once to let you off and you don't ever get to choose where. There aren't any rules, and I doubt very much that there is a driver, but nonetheless it can only be found by those who most need it and isn't ever there if you look.
This train doesn't need tracks, this train finds its way all on its own.