After a particularly successful stint in Italy I had pretty high hopes for my time in Mallorca. To get there, though, would require risk, tragedy and a bit of kiwi charm.
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It started in Portovenere, where I ended my Italian sojourn. What should've been a relatively straightforward journey, though, started with an off course bus ride to the next town.
When I finally reached La Spezia, I had the small matter of where I would stay the night en route to Barcelona. I was to arrive in Barca on the Friday night and fly to Mallorca later that evening.
Nice was pleasant and a real beauty at night. The city was saturated with lights and sculptures that cemented the spot as one of the most beautiful in Southern France. I arrived not long after 10.30pm and checked in within the hour. Tres bien, so far.
I enjoyed my sleep in Nice so much that I slept in, perhaps my first real flaw in what should've been a relatively straightforward plan.
I found a new route and one would that would've comfortably got me to Barca in time for my 9.45pm flight. With confidence restored I took the tram to the train station and lined up to pay my reservation fee.
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In breaking news a woman has fallen to her death on the train tracks between Marseille and Montpellier.
The incident is believed to have happened some time after 10, but police can't confirm any more details.
Passengers awaiting trains on the route can expect significant delays.
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There wasn't a single moment of panic in the station as the news filtered through. Disappointment, yes. Anger, yes. Reflection, not a chance.
The suicide stalled everybody's plans. Delays of up to three hours were being predicted by the woman who served me as I waited to pay my reservation fee. Catching a train to Barcelona before the flight was no longer an option.
I was told that perhaps a bus would be the better option. I arrived at the Eurolines bus company only to find it was shut for the two hours in the middle of the day, something that is commonplace in France.
Upon the woman's return at 2pm I was told I couldn't make the 2.15pm bus as the departure station was at the airport, a 35-40minute drive away. Two options, both canned in the space of 20 minutes.
I was shattered. The chance to reconnect with somebody I truly adored was fading by the minute unless I was going to fork out for a new flight. Another unfortunate coincidence was the expiration of my Eurail pass was set to fall on the day I arrived in Barcelona. More expenses were set to come.
After a few hours of pithy pity and woe, I booked a new flight for the morning, told my dear friend of my new plans and went about finding accommodation for the night, something else I hadn't planned.
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There is news coming through of a second fatal incident on the Marseille-Montpellier line.
A woman is believed to have fallen on the line at 6.30 this evening.
Earlier this morning, another woman fell onto the train lines at around 10.
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This time the news didn't come through a ticket officer. It came while we were picking up passengers on said line.
A second suicide in the space of eight hours on the same train line. Not onto our train thankfully, but to one earlier on the line.
I was beyond any signs of sanity. Another significant delay, some 45-50 minutes, meant I missed the last connecting train to Barcelona for the night. The first incident meant I wouldn't be travelling to Mallorca; the second meant I wouldn't make it to Barcelona.
And yet within 30 minutes of this realisation came the sobering reality of why we were waiting. Suicides in France aren't uncommon, but for two incidents to occur on the same day - let alone in one's first day in France - was rather startling.
I spoke with a woman briefly about it all. My situation, the missed connections and such, and she was very compassionate. France is beautiful, she said, but these things happen sometimes.
It made me contemplate what sort of stage people get to, what level they reach before they make the mind-numbing decision to simply end it all. How bad it must be, I thought, that life for them is thought of as almost an unwinnable game. Player loses. No retrying.
I guess that was when I realised, probably for the eighth time on this trip, that I am super lucky. These sorts of experiences and travels can open you up to a world of unpredictability, and your characteristics can change fairly suddenly. I think I have. Hopefully for the good.
I arrived in Narbonne, the final stop on the Marseille line, at 11.13pm. Having discovered all available hotels ended check in at 10pm, I was stuck once more.
But instead of complaining and wishing the world would end for the remainder of the night, I grabbed my bag and slept in the train station for a couple of hours before it, too, closed for the night.
From there I picked up my gear and rather dejectedly walked around Narbonne Central looking like a man without a home. With the day that I had, it certainly felt like I didn't have a home. It was also the first time I missed home. New Zealand. My parents. My bed.
I returned to the station at 5am after a cold night and returned to my slumber there soon after. Another delay ensued before I reached Perpignan, Barcelona and then finally Mallorca.
While my rail pass had expired the night before I was able to convince the train conductors of the situation I had faced, and they kindly allowed me on board. Relief, I thought, my fortune was taking a turn for the better.
The long night meant I spent most of my time sleeping on the train and the plane to Mallorca and I felt ready for the penultimate European adventure.
Even I wasn't ready for this, though...
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