Defending the Oxford Comma: Marseille

Waking up 25 minutes before your train's departure is not advisable. I took off down the hallway in my boxers, past the hostel's cleaning ladies standing amused (or confused) in the doorway to the eight bunk room, and feigned composure as I called for the desk attendant to hail a cab.

Just barely making my train to Cerbere, once seated I found time to catch my breath and suck down the final drops of a one liter bottle of water wisely placed beside my pack in the hostel. Relief settled in as the train disembarked and I was quickly asleep, soothed by the sensation of motion and the sounds of For Emma, Forever Ago.

The train came to a stop and the noise of people lining up at the door roused me. Confused about being the only one still sitting, I grabbed my pack and hopped off. The herd mentality is troublesome. As the doors closed behind me, the gravity of my mistake emerged. "Figueres." At the home of the Salvador Dali museum and apparently all of my fellow passengers, I was not where I needed to be. According to the itinerary I needed to follow to make it to Marseille, I had just trapped myself in Spain for the remainder of the day.

Do I go back to Barca to enjoy another night out and risk repeating this hectic morning? The next train to Cerbere wasn't coming for two hours and at this rate I would be stuck in some little town right before the French border for the evening.

Catharsis shouldn't come easily.

I let the anxiety and frustration go. As I watched Barcelona-bound trains pass every thirty minutes, I reminded myself that I would figure this out.

Onward, to Narbonne.

I did.

Notre Dame De La Garde from my hotel window.

I arrived in Marseille at 11:30 that evening and would soon discover that my only actual mistake was not staying in Barcelona for another day or two.

The absence of hostels meant I was truly on my own in this city. I was restless in my hotel room, but at the very least, I got some much needed sleep after the consistently long evenings in Spain.

Knowing what I left behind and what lay ahead, I was disappointed by my surplus of time in the city.

I tried to stretch the hours while in Spain; here I had to learn to slow down and compress them.

The views from the Notre Dame De La Garde were stunning and well worth the long walk up.

The hidden path up.

Over the course of this trip, I realized I was rarely on level ground. My seemingly constant climbing led me to new views and perspectives; the only thing that mattered was seeing something different.