The station official directs me to a travelers aid office where I can make a hotel reservation. The students fades but the second man proudly ushers me into the office as if he had personally placed it there. He tells the clerk we need a room. "For how many?" says the clerk. "Un", I shout, "Une - pour moi, pour moi seulement." The clerk gives me a disdainful look. I clutch the address of the hotel and we go to the taxi rank. Suddenly many French people are in line behind me. A taxi arrives and my man rushes to pull open the door before the French people can get it. I fling in my bag and follow it inside.
Then my head swivels to the front of the cab in horror and disbelief. Just when I thought I was safe, my companion is talking swiftly and in Arabic to the driver and is insinuating his body into the cab with me. As he stoops to enter, I barrel out both feet first thrusting him aside and dragging my bag after me. The French people look at me in disgust and push past in to the cab.
I look at the next driver. He is old, bulbous nosed, certainly French. He reminds me of the men in the train in Spain. And I fling myself into his cab as my Arab friend melts back into the station chaos. I stammer out a few words of greeting and explanation and again the words tumble out of my face in Spanish. Then my sweet cab driver answers me back in Spanish. I am safe, totally safe. He is Spanish, has lived and worked here for years. The world regains its normal proportions. I can speak again.
Other memories jogged by this photo. Further memories. This Photo. All the Photos
and Indifferent
Photos in Chronological Order
Map/Diagram of Story Elements