“Billet?” the conductrice demanded in her thick Spanish accent. She stood in front of the steps of car 43 of the Spanish night train to Barcelona and clutched her clipboard.

I knew my print out wouldn’t cut it.

Robbert, RB2, had bought the ticket for me and he still had it with him. He got on in Zurich where he is working and I would get on in Geneva and we would travel together to Perpignan. That was the plan.

Before I could answer or look for RB2 an arm came down over her shoulder. It was Rb2’s and his hand held my ticket.

He showed me my room. Second class sleepers on Spanish trains unlike French have better linen, mattress and limit the number of people to four rather than six. Men and women are separated. RB2 said he was in the next compartment.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

“Not terribly,” I said even if it was 23:30.

“Let’s celebrate your birthday. Late,”

He led me down the ultra clean and carpeted corridors to the dining car and bar. We split a split of Spanish champagne and got caught up on our news only tiptoeing into our compartments when we had exhausted the information we wanted to share.

At 6 we got off in Perpignan, headed for the café across the street for petit dejeuner until the train for Argelès arrived. We found new topics, but why should I be surprised after 15 years of friendship should I ever wonder if we would run out of something to share. As my girl friend says, RB2 is the brother I always wanted to have.