A train 50 years ago
must have been a train which was smoking and charcoal, of which when entering a tunnel, it was dark. The general compartment, the third, he must have wooden benches bolted to the floor, probably also wood. The lights should be carbides, subject to the walls, a long face reviewer would occasionally looking down on the rioters villagers way of the big city.
The train made the journey from Badajoz to Madrid in more than 10 hours, with many stops. In the train, which made travel much at night, my mother was traveling just over 50 years. Traveling with a blank ballot, which apparently was the authorization for a minor to travel alone by train and arrived in Madrid. That role was his most prized possession, not meant to have problems, the forced return to a town where life was already very difficult. An orphan, forced to leave school, snacks hunger could not with the energy of about 16 brave and seasoned. Always ready to party, accustomed to long walks in search of the dances in neighboring towns, accustomed to the treatment hearty, uninhibited but honest with people his age, was not a timid and frightened girl from the provinces which was on that train with his friend.
But the concern must be there. The pain and grief to look back and remember how he lost his parents in a few years, wiped out by diseases that were nothing more to end hunger and hard work. In Madrid expected the relative of a relative, who worked at a home in domestic service, the ability to work in a family, cleaning or caring for children in the best of cases. The vision of a big city, dark and anonymous, he swallowed and digested daily waves of migrants from the countryside should not be going through your mind full of optimism.
The trip was anything but boring. The coincidence of the large and airy wagon with a squad of recruits returning from a night enlivened permission. They did not stop the songs and jokes. In my imagination is not very difficult to see those old faces, almost without expression still, I can almost hear the palm trees, breathing smoke from sunstroke infumable of soldiers, who knows if some mischievous innuendo, some innocent joke spicy.
Upon arrival in Madrid, and timidly dawn. As if to emphasize the contrast with the arid and always thirsty land of Badajoz, a tremendous snowfall covered the Madrid of the trams, which still would wake up in the middle of the night with the nightmare has not forgotten the bombing. In the city, still unknown to her, dozing with his young hands and chilblains plump and full of my father, in a room shared with many other refugees of that Spain was already old and ancient. With patience, humility, and primitive in that city everything was ready for us, the next generation, those trains would grow outside the museum, furrowing and smoked the field empty Castilla.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
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A train 50 years ago
must have been a train which was smoking and charcoal, of which when entering a tunnel, it was dark. The general compartment, the third, he must have wooden benches bolted to the floor, probably also wood. The lights should be carbides, subject to the walls, a long face reviewer would occasionally looking down on the rioters villagers way of the big city.
The train made the journey from Badajoz to Madrid in more than 10 hours, with many stops. In the train, which made travel much at night, my mother was traveling just over 50 years. Traveling with a blank ballot, which apparently was the authorization for a minor to travel alone by train and arrived in Madrid. That role was his most prized possession, not meant to have problems, the forced return to a town where life was already very difficult. An orphan, forced to leave school, snacks hunger could not with the energy of about 16 brave and seasoned. Always ready to party, accustomed to long walks in search of the dances in neighboring towns, accustomed to the treatment hearty, uninhibited but honest with people his age, was not a timid and frightened girl from the provinces which was on that train with his friend.
But the concern must be there. The pain and grief to look back and remember how he lost his parents in a few years, wiped out by diseases that were nothing more to end hunger and hard work. In Madrid expected the relative of a relative, who worked at a home in domestic service, the ability to work in a family, cleaning or caring for children in the best of cases. The vision of a big city, dark and anonymous, he swallowed and digested daily waves of migrants from the countryside should not be going through your mind full of optimism.
The trip was anything but boring. The coincidence of the large and airy wagon with a squad of recruits returning from a night enlivened permission. They did not stop the songs and jokes. In my imagination is not very difficult to see those old faces, almost without expression still, I can almost hear the palm trees, breathing smoke from sunstroke infumable of soldiers, who knows if some mischievous innuendo, some innocent joke spicy.
Upon arrival in Madrid, and timidly dawn. As if to emphasize the contrast with the arid and always thirsty land of Badajoz, a tremendous snowfall covered the Madrid of the trams, which still would wake up in the middle of the night with the nightmare has not forgotten the bombing. In the city, still unknown to her, dozing with his young hands and chilblains plump and full of my father, in a room shared with many other refugees of that Spain was already old and ancient. With patience, humility, and primitive in that city everything was ready for us, the next generation, those trains would grow outside the museum, furrowing and smoked the field empty Castilla.
must have been a train which was smoking and charcoal, of which when entering a tunnel, it was dark. The general compartment, the third, he must have wooden benches bolted to the floor, probably also wood. The lights should be carbides, subject to the walls, a long face reviewer would occasionally looking down on the rioters villagers way of the big city.
The train made the journey from Badajoz to Madrid in more than 10 hours, with many stops. In the train, which made travel much at night, my mother was traveling just over 50 years. Traveling with a blank ballot, which apparently was the authorization for a minor to travel alone by train and arrived in Madrid. That role was his most prized possession, not meant to have problems, the forced return to a town where life was already very difficult. An orphan, forced to leave school, snacks hunger could not with the energy of about 16 brave and seasoned. Always ready to party, accustomed to long walks in search of the dances in neighboring towns, accustomed to the treatment hearty, uninhibited but honest with people his age, was not a timid and frightened girl from the provinces which was on that train with his friend.
But the concern must be there. The pain and grief to look back and remember how he lost his parents in a few years, wiped out by diseases that were nothing more to end hunger and hard work. In Madrid expected the relative of a relative, who worked at a home in domestic service, the ability to work in a family, cleaning or caring for children in the best of cases. The vision of a big city, dark and anonymous, he swallowed and digested daily waves of migrants from the countryside should not be going through your mind full of optimism.
The trip was anything but boring. The coincidence of the large and airy wagon with a squad of recruits returning from a night enlivened permission. They did not stop the songs and jokes. In my imagination is not very difficult to see those old faces, almost without expression still, I can almost hear the palm trees, breathing smoke from sunstroke infumable of soldiers, who knows if some mischievous innuendo, some innocent joke spicy.
Upon arrival in Madrid, and timidly dawn. As if to emphasize the contrast with the arid and always thirsty land of Badajoz, a tremendous snowfall covered the Madrid of the trams, which still would wake up in the middle of the night with the nightmare has not forgotten the bombing. In the city, still unknown to her, dozing with his young hands and chilblains plump and full of my father, in a room shared with many other refugees of that Spain was already old and ancient. With patience, humility, and primitive in that city everything was ready for us, the next generation, those trains would grow outside the museum, furrowing and smoked the field empty Castilla.
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