Our train's finally here. Finally. We board in the early afternoon and there aren't any tables free or even four seats really put together. Near the other end of the car there's an angel of a girl, alone, sitting by herself by the window at a table for four. She's upright, reading a book, which she holds low and close in her lap so that her brown, Spanish locks fall in waves in front of her face, concealing her eyes before cascading down onto the shoulders of her worn denim jacket and her soft-red button-down blouse. In no time at all we've slung our bags into overhead carriages and found seats. Max beside her, and I across the table from her. Grant sits beside me, and Mike's sitting who the hell knows where. Who cares? Maybe he's down and across the aisle somewhere. She doesn't even bring her gaze up until we're well and seated with our headphones in, reading our own respective books. But I'm intrigued. Obviously. And I think it's safe to say we all are, even Mike down the aisle who every now and again pokes his head up for a glimpse of who we're all discreetly obsessing over.
Minutes pass, slow, as they often do on the train. I don't know how, but the dull-drum musing of All the Sad Young Literary Men has captivated me, but attention hits the deficit soon enough, and when I chance a glance up, her book's now higher. Long, elegant princess fingers hold it like you held a hymnal at mass when you were a child, and her wrists rest lightly on the table. She's leaning back now, so that now as my glance edges higher there's no layer of hair shrouding her eyeballs. They're just there, all bright brown and innocently curious, gazing right back into mine. She has a sharp chin and cheek-bone, a thin sharp lip that's curling up on one side, but her eyes, they're ever so soft; light brown, almost hazel. Downy soft. And so we're staring at each other across a two-foot wide train table, and I half-laugh and smile because, hell, I don't know what else to do. And she smiles back, eyes never breaking from mine and vice versa. I mouth a quick "hi" on impulse, soft and silent, just for her. But my headphones are still in and heart's picking up pace now so I might have well yelled it for the whole car to hear. Whatever the case, she closes her eyes and cranes her neck back to the left and to the right, pulling a tiny, inconspicuous ear-bud from each ear before leaning forward. She has naturally long eyelashes that you especially notice when her eyes are closed, if only for a second before she's back, rapt with a polite, excited attention, smiling wide now, eyebrows perked. "Que estos?" It's European Spanish. It's Catalyan Spanish and it rolls smooth off her tongue in a sultry, crisp lisp that tastes like honey to the ears.
"Uhm, lo siento?" I laugh a little at myself. "Habla inglés?"
"Ohh, englesh! Yess, I speak a lettle. Where are you fromm?" Her eyes light up and she shifts her weight, those glowing, brown orbs fixed on me, prying.
"Well, we're all from California. We just graduated university."
"Ahh, California. Which university is it that you have gone to?"
"UC Santa Cruz." She ticks her head to the side, confused. By this time, I've had this conversation a hundred times. "It's just south of San Francisco."
"Ahh, San Francisco. I like this place."
Adorable. We can barely understand each other, and it's enthralling. Grant and Max have de-headphoned and joined the conversation by now. It carries on in quite a charming, broken matter with as much to be understood as possible. Grant's and Max's Spanish is just about as good as my French, maybe a little bit better, and that helps. She tells us she's never actually been to San Francisco, but wants to go. She tells us she's just been in Barcelona at a friend's for the week, and is going back home. School's out for the summer. She tells us she wants to study business at university, and that she's seventeen years old. She tells us about her beautiful house in this Spanish town towards the French border, offering to let us sleep there the night. Her father owns a club in the town and we should come with her tonight she says. How absolutely divine.
But alas, we cann't. We're supposed to be in Paris tomorrow. And we only have two more days on our EuroRail passes; one to get to Amsterdam, and one to get on the ferry to London. And we're broke. We can't. Eff.
The conductor calls out "Calella!" through the terribly grainy and small wall speakers. That's her stop. She doesn't have any luggage. Max lets her out and as she readjusts her jacket and turns for the door, "Wait! What's your name?" I ask.
"My name? My name is Elena." And she breaths it out heavy, rolling it smooth and rich over her tongue. Then she's gone with a smile and a turn of the foot. Elena, the girl from Calella.
