: Four Months Afoot in Spain by Franck Harry Alverson - Spain Description and travel

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CHAPTER

FOUR MONTHS AFOOT IN SPAIN

A 'TWEENDECKS JOURNEY

Not the least of the virtues of the private schools of New York City is the length of their summer vacations. It was an evening late in May that I mounted to my lodgings in Hartley Hall, rollicksome with the information that I should soon be free from professional duties a full four months. Where I preferred to spend that term of freedom was easily decided. Except for one migratory "year off," I had not been so long outside a classroom since my fifth birthday; and it seemed fully as far back that I had begun to dream of tramping through Spain. If the desire had in earlier days battened on mere curiosity, it found more rational nourishment now in my hope of acquiring greater fluency in the Spanish tongue, the teaching of which, with other European languages, was the source of my livelihood.

There was one potent obstacle, however, to my jubilant planning. When I had set aside the smallest portion of my savings that could tide me over the first month of autumn, there was left a stark one hundred and seventy-two dollars. The briefest of mathematical calculations demonstrated that such a sum could cover but scantily one hundred and twenty days. Yet the blithesome project would not be put to rout by mere figures. I had been well schooled at least in the art of spending sparingly; with a long summer before me I was not averse to a bit of adventure, even the adventure of falling penniless in foreign lands. A permanent stranding was easily averted--I had but to leave in trust a sum sufficient for repatriation, to be forwarded to whatever corner of the globe insolvency might overhaul me. Which, being done, I pocketed in express checks and cash the remainder of my resources--to-wit, one hundred and thirty-two dollars--tossed into a battered suit-case a summer's supply of small clothes and a thread-bare costume for ship wear, and set out to discover what portion of the Iberian peninsula might be surveyed with such equipment.

Thus it was that on the morning of June first I boarded the "L" as usual at One Hundred and Sixteenth street; but took this time the west side express instead of the local that screeches off at Fifty-third into the heart of the city. A serge suit of an earlier vintage and double-soled oxfords were the chief articles of my attire, reduced already to Spanish simplicity except for the fleckless collar and the cracked derby I had donned for the flight through exacting Manhattan. As for the suitcase that rocked against the platform gate as we roared southward, it was still far from a pedestrian's scrip. For with the ambitious resolution to rectify during the long sea voyage before me some of the sins of omission, I had stuffed into it at the last moment a dozen classic volumes in Sixth-avenue bindings.

"Christ'fer!" croaked the guard.

I descended to the street and threaded my way to the ferry. Across the river Hoboken was thronged with luggage-laden mankind, swarthy sons and daughters of toil for the most part; an eddying stream of which the general trend was toward a group of steamship docks. With it I was borne into a vast two-story pier, strewn below with everything that ships transport across the seas and resounding above with the voice of an excited multitude. Near the center of the upper wharf stood an isolated booth bearing a transient sign-board:

Within, sat a coatless, broad-gauge Teuton, puffing at a stogie.

"Third-class to Gibraltar," I requested, stooping to peer through the wicket.

The German reached mechanically for a pen and began to fill in a leaf of what looked like a large check-book. Then he paused and squinted out upon me:

"Steerage, mein Herr; to Gibraltar."

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