Paul and Matt's account of the crazy train man.

Somewhere north of Barcelona my friend Matt and I were enjoying the sweet security of cheap, chewy, French taffy, when we were approached by a fascinating and terrifying character. He walked up to us and greeted us with a smile that spanned fewer teeth than I have fingers on my left hand. His ear was torn literally in half a la Evander Holyfield and he stank of cheap alcohol.  Speaking mostly in French with words and sentences in Italian and Spanish, he spoke at us for twenty minutes, the combination of slurred speech and the French language making conversation impossible. Yet he persisted in his belief that we were engaged in conversation, leaning over Paul (that's right Matt has taken over the reins of this story) and angrily glaring and grabbing his man sack. While we could not understand what he was saying, it seemed that he was talking of fascism (and how German fascist tendencies would give them the edge in the night's soccer game) and the meaning of life and other stuff like that. Anyway, my pizza is ready. Peace.