Do You Speak English - Part Two

"Do you speak English?" It was my second time hearing this simple but important question that afternoon in the Marseille train station. It was probably based on the Canadian flag sewn onto the upper flap of my blue nylon backpack. Coming from behind me, the words came out in a warm Scandinavian sing-song accent. The first time, a couple of hours earlier, was when a recently retired member of the French Foreign Legion invited me to have a drink with him and his friends, he and his companions were all wanted for murder or attempted murder in their home countries.

While I was keen on making my train to Nice, I was intrigued. As I turned around, I first saw the blonde top of a head. A smiling yet inquiring face was below. Blue eyes, hair straight and cut at shoulder length, Katarina’s clothing was that of a traveler, light and durable. A backpack adorned her shoulders.

My face lit up at the sight of her. My answer was rapid fire, “Yes, I do! Are you Swedish? My name is Jim, I’m from Canada.” For some reason I had to point to myself, thinking this might help her know that it was me I was referring to.

The conversation flowed quickly because it was all about logistics.

“Which train platform for Nice?”

“Ah, I’m going to Nice too!”

“We travel together. possibly?”

“Where are you staying in Nice?”

“The Hostel for young people.”

“Me too!”

“Do you know where is situated?”

“Nope. I’ve never been there, maybe we can find it together.”

Now sitting in an old-fashioned six-seat cabin on a train going to Nice with a beautiful woman. Katarina had just finished high school and was taking a holiday before returning to Sweden to start college.

We were sitting side-by-side, on the worn brown leather seats. The door to the hallway was closed, and the window shades were open. People strolled by, and the conductor had already been to punch our tickets. I was nervous and didn’t know what to say to Katarina. I felt that she had been flirting with me. Was her hand brushing up against mine, or the way her knee slightly pressed into my leg, a mating signal, or was it the imagination of a young man travelling on his own and seeking a connection, companionship? My mind was reeling, excited, but at the same time, wondering why this attractive woman was interested in me.

I was 19, travelling through Europe on my own. I’ve run election campaigns, sailed small yachts single-handedly, and taught myself to tend bar, be a short-order cook, and sew. Yet I’m stymied by what to say to this woman who is clearly interested in me. I’ve never been comfortable in social situations. I was better at integrating by doing things, not talking. I was nervous, and the next few minutes didn’t help me at all.

The train went through the first of many tunnels on the mountainous coastal route. We sat squarely beside each other in the centre of our seats. When the train emerged from the tunnel, Katarina and I were as close as two people could be without touching, leaning into the armrests that separated our seats. Our focus before the temporary darkness had been some sort of map or brochure. Her left hand was now gently touching my right. I looked at her quickly - her eyes were mere centimetres away -and I didn’t know what to say or do. This wasn’t a situation I was familiar with. This close, intimate connection. Her face was all openness, warmth and friendliness. I resorted to the only way I knew to handle a situation like this - keep on discussing the brochure.

"I think the hostel is on a hillside to the east of the old city,” I said. I couldn’t look her in the eye. There was a pause, and she replied, “OK, I hope the hill isn’t too high.” I was thinking - this isn’t the conversation that leads to a romantic relationship. But I didn’t know what else to say.

Our conversation never progressed past small talk. You know, those questions you ask each other when you really have no clue about them. Why were we travelling? Katarina for a short break before college; me, a break from almost two decades of school. We went through a series of tunnels, and each time we came out the other end, Katarina was looking at me- eyes wide open and a slight smile. Hyper-aware of all that was around me. Her every move implies physical intimacy. The brief touching of my hand as we pour over the map of Nice makes it twitch, disconnecting the touch. Trying to understand her motives. I have so little experience with this.

The train’s PA system announces the imminent arrival at Nice’s train station. We pack up our notes, leftover snacks and various other items taken from our backpacks. I was glad to be getting off the train and worried that Katarina wasn’t going to walk to the hostel with me. I kept the map in hand as we moved towards the exit. We were both peering out the windows to see what Nice looked like. The backs of many three and four-story buildings looked run-down with peeling paint, broken shutters, and metal fire escapes bolted to the backs of many of the buildings.

We descended from the train, two young people dressed in jeans and sneakers, heads snapping back and forth, were looking for the exit sign on a very long concrete platform. I looked at Katarina, pointed in the direction we needed to go, and said, “Shall we head off to the hostel?” She nodded her head and fell into step beside me.

We reached the hostel after a walk through the old town with café tables and produce stands crowding the narrow streets and up a hill. As we picked up our backpacks to head off to our different rooms, I said to Katarina that I hoped we could meet up later and go out. She looked up at me and said it was possible but wanted to get settled first before making plans. Her face was friendly, but I detected a slight hesitation.

I found my bunk, chatted with a couple of my new roommates, showered and made a quick bite to eat. It was getting dark, and I was getting restless. There was no way for me to reach Katarina directly, as men weren’t allowed on the women’s floor. I went outside into the warm evening air, hoping to catch her attention in one of the windows. I could see her looking out as she brushed her hair. I waved happily, a big grin on my face, and called up, “Hope to see you soon!”

She smiled, waved back, looked at her watch and yelled back, “Not too long now!”

My heart jumped, and I felt a wave of joy sweep through my body. There she was, beautiful and thinking that smile was especially for me, and me thinking that I was going out on the town with her when I noticed an older man - maybe in his 50s, with trim salt & pepper hair, a businessman dressed for holidays. A relaxed look on his face, as his eyes scanned, climbing up the stairs from the old town and coming up to the hostel's front door. He looked at his watch, then backed away from the front door and glanced up at the upper floors, looking for someone, just as I had a few moments before. At that point, Katarina appeared again in the window. She looked down and saw the older man at the same time that he saw her. They both waved to each other, and Katarina called out in Swedish.

Who was this man who was about to ruin my night out? Katarina bounded through the front door and hugged him. She saw me standing there looking confused and said, “Jim, meet my father!” Holding on to his arm, she told me that he had flown down from Sweden to meet her at the end of her pre-school vacation. I shook his hand and wished them a lovely evening.

They went off for dinner or whatever; I returned to the dormitory room, dejected, confused, and hurt hoping to avoid contact while it sunk in that all Katrina was interested in was a safe travel companion, no more.