Here the Africa-Europe transition zone called Spain, with it’s shabby infrastructure, shouting people, and landscapes of strash-strewn tagged-up cities, gives way to France’s pruned trees and silent streets.
Civilization begins with a change of rails. The Spanish dictator Franco had the tracks built to an odd width to isolate the country. You are still obliged, more than 20 years after his death, to pass through an hour long mechanical process in Port Bou where the wheels are adjusted to euro-standard.
Next come the cops. In theory there is no more hard border between any two Schengen-area EU nations, so this is, in reality, a second line of defense against the dark continent.
Sarkozy would be proud- Arabs, Africans, and hippies are singled out for scutiny. Every train leaves the station lighter by a few passengers, hauled off to some detention center for not having their papers in order.
If you drive there is no apparent border. Or you can fly to france (it’s even cheaper), once again no border controls. But most immigrants w/o papers don’t have personal vehicles nor credit cards to buy online tickets, so the Immigration Police lurk here in Port Bou like spiders.
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Me and my wife were in Port Bou back in April or May. We were staying in Girona at the time and decided to see what Port Bou was all about. Thought it was relatively quiet for being in an area of such limbo. We almost got stuck there but found a way to catch the last train back to Girona which was delayed for around 1 hour or so while the cops made such “polite exits” of others as you speak of. At one point we saw some guys and a woman hopping from car to car trying to outsmart the police and I believe they were eventually nabbed. Why were you there? I didnt see much in the way of a nightlife there? Did you perform?
Ah, Port Bou. In addition to the intense racial profiling, and the delicious cheese that some basque campesinos shared on the train, I had some of the worst paella of my life there once. But more important and memorable than bad paella (since there are too many bad examples of that dish for any single one to stand out) is Walter Benjamin’s grave/memorial. Go if you get a chance – it’s beautiful, nearby-yet-solitary, wild, and by far the most vertiginous, entrancing monument to any individual I’ve seen. Good audioscape there, too.