Paris and the Big Adieu

The Puerta del Sol bound for Paris left close to midnight. Tom and Jim got to the Madrid Chamartin train station early to snag an empty compartment. It was a 12-hour trip, and they hoped to be able to stretch out, maybe catch some sleep.

They discovered they weren’t the only ones with this strategy.

After a panicky search down the train’s crowded, narrow corridor, they found a compartment with two empty seats. The eyes of the current couchette occupants shot darts at the boys as they slid open the compartment door, hefted their backpacks onto the overhead luggage rack, and tried not to step on any toes as they took their seats. Tom’s loud apologies (“Scuzi, scuzi!”) and his frequent sitting-standing-sitting to retrieve a guidebook… then his journal…. then his trusty map… didn’t help lighten anyone’s mood. Then again, Tom and Jim’s mood was already somewhat depressed, as this was to be (they thought) the final train they’d take together before Tom went to search for a job in Germany and Jim went home to take on the role of starving artist.

As the train left the station, one of the other passengers started talking to the young woman seated next to Tom. Tom perked up. As with Jim and the Spanish Abogado, Tom saw an opportunity to put his high school French to the test. Laughter ensued. And it continued for the next hour or so, when it became clear that everyone in the compartment, except Tom, wanted to try to get some shut-eye.

Thirteen hours later, the Puerta Del Sol arrived at the Gare d’Orléans. The boys found a room on the Left Bank for thirty francs (about $6) and, though exhausted, explored the nearby Sorbonne area. The rest of that day and into the night, they wandered about with no particular destination in mind. The lights of the sidewalk cafes, the cabarets and bars, the boulangeries and boucheries and fromageries—all made for an excellent introduction to Paris. But they were exhausted from the sleep-deprived train ride, so they headed back to their pensione early.

The next morning, the sun shone brightly and the weather felt unseasonably warm, which lifted their spirits as the boys set out to explore Paris more strategically than they had the night before. Walking up Boulevard Saint-Michel, they came upon an island in the middle of the Seine—Notre-Dame de Paris, the iconic cathedral. The massive structure seemed to rise effortlessly from its plaza, alive with pigeons. From the twin Gothic towers to the Rose Windows, and finally to the small park behind the cathedral that revealed countless architectural details, Notre-Dame unfolded slowly and beautifully.  Jim made sure to wear his Notre Dame t-shirt—the one honoring not the cathedral but their alma mater, just a few miles away in Indiana.

Next came the Louvre. This was another of those sites that backpackers had very different opinions—if not convictions—about:

You haven’t seen Paris if you haven’t seen the Louvre.

You need to spend at least one full day there.

Don’t go—not worth the crowds.

Tom and Jim never doubted it would be worth a visit. As expected, it was both fascinating and completely overwhelming. Treasures from the Orient, Egypt, Greece, and Rome flowed into sculpture and then painting. Thankfully, it was off-season, so the boys were able to get up close but not personal with Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, encased in plastic after a recent vandalism attack. Tom stared at her mysterious smile and wondered why it held such power. and wondering why her smile has such power. Jim sat on a nearby bench for a while, then approached his friend and suggested some fresh air.

They left the museum and walked through the calm of the Tuileries Gardens—a world of fountains, flowers, and quiet tucked inside the city—until they reached the Place de la Concorde. From there, they stepped onto one of the most famous streets in the world: the Champs-Élysées. One of them remarked how—not all that long ago—Third Reich soldiers marched down this same avenue, followed years later by victorious Allied forces reclaiming it. At the far end stood the Arc de Triomphe, a symbol of freedom and survival. But in 1977, Tom and Jim felt that the Champs was oddly ordinary: clothing stores you might find in any American mall, pizza parlors—even a McDonald’s—lined the wide sidewalks.

Continuing their touristy day, Jim and Tom followed the Seine toward another powerful symbol. As they walked, Tom read aloud from his Let’s Go guidebook that they were about to visit “the biggest oil well in the world”—the Eiffel Tower. They walked around the structure and debated taking the elevator to the top, but their funds were just about depleted. They contented themselves with sitting on a nearby bench for a while to people-watch.

That final night came quickly. With Jim ticketed to London the next day, the boys decided on a night on the town one last time, budget be damned. In the Sorbonne area, they found seats at the bar in a lively club and started working their way through a forty-franc ($8) carafe of red wine. With each sip, memories from the journey surfaced and spilled out. Their laughter and good-natured arguing drew other patrons into the conversation. The boys’ new drinking buddies were all French. They wanted to practice their English. Tom wanted to practice his French. The result was a lot of laughter and more drinks all around.

Bonus for the boys blowing their budgets: the French would not allow Tom or Jim to pay!

Somewhere near 2 a.m., they stumbled back to the pension, having been thoroughly overserved. Tom made it into the bathroom in time to do what you do when your stomach rebels against heavy drinking, then collapsed into bed and tried, unsuccessfully, to stop the room from spinning. Jim, also terribly intoxicated, tried to set his alarm clock so he wouldn’t miss his early morning train, but the numbers kept jumping around.

Four hours later, Tom woke to see Jim already dressed, his backpack on. This was the moment both had been dreading—but both were too hungover to make too big a deal of it. They shook hands, wished each other luck, and told one another to take care.

And then Jim was gone.

When Tom woke a few broken hours of sleep later, the room felt hollow. The quiet was heavy. For the first time in two months, Tom was completely on his own. The fear was real, but so was a strange calm. This was what he had chosen. There was no one to lean on now, no shared decisions, no familiar voice to confirm the next step. Just Paris, and whatever came next.

Hours earlier, at the Gare de l'Est, Jim’s certainty about his decision began to unravel. What had felt so right only hours earlier—England, Christmas, the sensible next move—now felt rushed, even wrong. As the train pulled away from Paris, doubt flooded in. He questioned why he hadn’t stayed, why he hadn’t done what Tom was going to do: live and work in a foreign country. What could be a better experience to eventually write about? In a matter of minutes, confidence gave way to sharp and unexpected regret. As Paris faded into the distance, he wondered if the braver choice had been the one he didn’t take.

Neither he nor Tom knew it at the time, but this was not an ending. It only felt like one. This was a necessary pause. They would stay in touch and, before long, start making plans to meet up again—this time in Cairo, Egypt—packs on back, more experienced, ready, and eager to move past Europe and onto the Middle East and Asia.

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That was Then. Click on the video for the boys' Now reflections on Paris and the Big Adieu.

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Final Stops in Spain: Toledo & Madrid

After a tense few days in Torremolinos, Tom and Jim got back into the backpacking groove by taking a six-hour train ride north to Toledo.

Leaving the Mediterranean behind, the boys headed northeast through the olive groves, vineyards, and broad agricultural plains of Andalusia. Farther north, as they entered Castilla-La Mancha province, the terrain grew scrubby and spare. It was easy to imagine Cervantes’s famous duo, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, atop their mounts, trotting across the fields in search of windmills.

Then, almost suddenly, Toledo appeared, perched atop enormous rock foundations and sheer cliffs. Its Mudejar towers, temple domes, and church spires, set against distant hills and low mountain ranges, offered an inspiring panorama that seemed to testify to centuries of coexistence between Muslims, Jews, and Christians. The color of the city’s stone — warm browns — matched the surrounding landscape. The Tagus River curved around the base of the hill like a moat. Breathtaking.

For Tom, Toledo was felt in her narrow streets, the flea markets, the architecture of the old fortress Alcazar, the little souvenir shops, the old women dressed in black, the children running in the streets, the cobblestones, the arches, the red-earth buildings, and the leisurely pace of the city. As he noted in his journal: “Just to walk through the streets, it is easy to conjure up visions of earlier civilizations; in these small towns, the history of the land is so close.”

Rich in history and the arts, Toledo was the highlight of their Spanish adventure. This was the Spain they had imagined: rustic, unhurried, and deeply rooted in history. Again, from Tom’s journal: “I do not say this just because Toledo, Spain, is the sister city of my Ohio hometown, but because of the quaintness of the area and region. Toledo has successfully combined the old with the new, each respecting the other and striving forward.”
Despite their enchantment with Toledo, the boys pushed farther north to Madrid.
The contrast was sharp. Energetic, sprawling, and growing, the capital felt restless by comparison, and the effect on the boys was jarring. Still, they found two oases of calm amid the city’s bustle: The Prado Museum and Retiro Park.

The Prado remains Jim’s favorite museum. Unlike many of the museums they had visited, where he felt the need for fresh air after an hour or so, the Prado was compact and well-arranged. He and Tom took in works by Goya, Velázquez, Titian, and Raphael without getting lost or overwhelmed. They were even able to contemplate Picasso’s “Guernica” crowd-free. (The masterpiece was moved a decade or so later to the Museo Reina Sofia, where it became the centerpiece of the museum’s 20^th-century art collection.)

Speaking of fresh air, Retiro Park offered plenty, a relatively quiet island of green and calm amid the asphalt. The boys separated for the rest of the afternoon, and Jim headed to the park and one of its benches. An older man sat on the same bench and struck up a conversation. This was the most extensive test of Jim’s mastery of the Spanish language. From the gentleman, Jim was able to learn that the man grew up in Madrid, was an abogado (lawyer), and had an esposa and dos hijos. The lawyer, in turn, learned from Jim that

“España is muy grande.”

For nodding graciously instead of laughing outright, Jim remains convinced that the man he met on that bench was a saint.

Retro Park: An oasis of green in the middle of Madrid

For both Tom and Jim, Toledo was inseparable from El Greco, who arrived in Spain in 1577 from Greece. The artist’s stormy skies, elongated figures, and spiritual themes seemed to make Toledo a living museum dedicated to the painter and sculptor. A number of his works are in churches, where his paintings inspire tourist donations to maintain both the art and the building’s upkeep.

Madrid, of course, offered much more than the Prado and Retiro Park. Beautiful fountains flourished in major squares, and the architecture of many buildings spoke to Bourbon influence and the romantic period of Isabella II.  Life in Spain moved at a slower pace, shaped by heat, tradition, and long afternoons when shops closed and streets emptied.
For better or worse, this lifestyle rhythm was changing. Spain was emerging from four decades under the dictatorship of Franco—who had died just two years earlier—and cautiously transitioning toward a constitutional democracy under King Juan Carlos I.
But most memorable for Tom and Jim were the Spanish people. Friendly, patient, and hospitable, they defied whatever stereotypes the boys had unknowingly carried with them. It seemed everyone they met was looking out for them.

One example: As the boys checked out of their pensión to catch a train to what was likely to be their last destination together, the landlady thanked them warmly and wished them a good trip.

“And don’t forget to call your mothers,” she added.

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 That was the "Then." Watch the Video below for the "Now" reflections on Toledo and Madrid.

Comments? Don't be shy. Tell us what you think. We'd love to hear from you!