Ugh. I forgot that we were fleeing South to get our summer back. Whatever, Germany was actually quite sunny today. Rejoice and be merry, though, if I was always on the road I would never have found the time to set up this blog. #toomuchfun
Oh, I forgot to mention fences. Like those around the service area on the motorway. Our friends at hitchwiki had left us clues on how to leave Bologna, so we took a bus out of town, investing all our remaining money spare 30 cents or so. What we didn’t know was that the area was under construction, so a lot had changed, and we couldn’t see a (legal) way of getting into the rest area. Also, it was hot. And our backpacks heavy. And then, a car came out the gate and its driver told us he’d call the police if he caught us entering.
We backed off and he followed us in his car, gosh.
– “Where are you, going, anyway?”
– “We want to get towards Modena, then Milan”
– “Ah, well, then you’re on the wrong side anyway, this one goes to Florence. If you want to get to Modena, take this underpass, walk around the fence, and there’ll be an entrance”
He was right. We didn’t quite believe it, the way all around the fence was long, we nearly gave up – but we had a ukulele and could sing and hope we’d see some figs on the way and ultimately, we slipped through a gap right into a super-busy service station.
By that time, it was already 5pm, also because we’d spent all morning cooking up random leftover food in the hostel kitchen (you have to eat, right?). After some starting difficulties, we got a ride by a Neapolitan lorry driver, then by a guy driving Italian branded goods over to rich people in Switzerland, who got us up to the Swiss border. We watched all the full cars (“I mean, it’s okay that people want children, but why do they also have to take them on holiday??”) and the sunset and thought about where to put up our tent. Before we had to, however, we met a young German couple coming back from Rimini. We spent most of the night together, until they left us about 70km before our final destination. It was something inhumane like 4am, but we quickly found a really sweet Turkish-born truck driver who brought us closer still. Still in darkness, we asked in a car that turned out to be going to a games convention.
Since my house wasn’t exactly on their way, they dropped us off in another suburb and we had a lovely sunrise walk to then join (or rather: wake up) my family for breakfast.
That journey is over, and incredibly, this part of summer, too. I’ll be back in Oxford in a week or so and there will be no time for travels for the whole year, until that degree’s done. Well… I don’t really believe it (yet).
For now, a song including the line “This is how the summer ends”. Not quite coincidentally also the song we sang during that last Italian sunset.
Lina and me started off profiting from the cheap Italian trains again (after, of course, having another ice-cream in Jesi for breakfast) and arrived in Bologna in the afternoon. As those things go, it was evening by the time we had visited the city and felt like we could move on, and, you might guess, we realised that it was getting kind of too late* to hitch out. Since it was our last evening in Italy, we felt like we should treat ourselves to something, and, more importantly, finally try that street music thing. Bologna is fantastic in terms of acoustic, since all the sound bounces off the arcades you find everywhere in the city centre. We had fun, and some other people seemed to enjoy it, too, some even put some coins in our orange hat.
After a short while, we realised that we might want to find a place to sleep (before one of the single men about could offer to, ugh, host us), but that was no trouble, since we had money and internet and felt like filthy rich kids. We went to a hostel and got the offer of taking a private two-bed room for only 2 Euros more than what we’d pay for two dorm beds. We opened our wallets wide and pulled out the 50€ he was asking for – we had just about enough. Then, he asked for just one Euro more, taxes. We looked at the heap of coins in front of us, and at our empty purses. After a moment, Lina opened her bag and fumbled around until she produced a certain hat still containing the circa 4€ we’d collected before. Hah!
We felt less rich, but daring (since we knew we wouldn’t take out any more money before reaching home). Moreover, we took a thorough shower and stained the brilliant white towels with our dirty feet.
*Okay, it’s never too late for anything. But standing on a road for the whole night is decidedly less fun than sleeping.
We arrived by train in a town called Jesi. It was a hungry Sunday, since we didn’t realise how serious Italians can be about public holidays. Lina chatted to a woman who brought us to the only open spot in town, doubling as the best gelateria and quasi cultural heritage museum. We ate a sandwich, I had my first Italian cappucino (and couldn’t believe that is was half the price of cappucino in England), all rounded off with copious ice cream and clotted cream (“Foreigners never eat their ice with cream, but you really have to try!”).
Our next stop was a little village up the hill, Santa Maria Nuova, where we had found a Couchsurfing host, so we walked until the road and stuck out our thumbs (no buses on Sundays anyway). A man just a bit over our age and decorated with Indian pearls stopped, invited us to a drink – Lina had to try milk with mint sirup since she didn’t want coffee – and took us to the village. He was used to travelling and hosting people in his place, also through Couchsurfing, and immediately invited us to stop there next.
Just after he dropped us off at the Santa Maria’s main square, we noticed lots of well-dressed people and so stayed on to wait for the newly married couple, welcomed pompuously with heart-shaped confetti.
In this surrounding of mild hills, small villages, sunshine, and the smell of food in preparation, we exhaled deeply, looked at each other, and realised that this was where the actual Italy started.
We walked out of the village until our hosts’ house and garden. Misericordia and Jeronimo are Catalan in origin and speak just like Lina does when she mixes up her Italian with the Spanish she learnt in her gap year. They are artists, new age musicians, hosts for volunteers who want to work in the garden or help with the house that was still uninhabitable a year ago. They could also be my grandparents, but only if my grandparents were small and skinny and yoga teachers. The calm of the place makes us feel that we finally arrived at our destination. These one and a half days are the summit of our travel – we’ve finally stopped moving more South, and are in an agreeable state of equilibrium.
We’ll be leaving tomorrow (the 16th), which will give us three days to get back to Mannheim, after which Lina will move on to Amsterdam and Denmark on her own. Strange that our journey took up all that time, it seems that we’re now in the spirit of valuing processes, not outcomes. Still, I am pleased by the outcome, very much so. When we left Bielefeld exactly a week ago, Italy seemed really far away. Now, it feels like a dream – it’s the summer that didn’t quite happen throughout my time in Oxford, Edinburgh, France, Amsterdam, or Germany. It will not be easy to head North tomorrow.
Leaving Modena, we expierenced a first day of so-called bad luck. That is, it took us three hours to get out of town, and I felt slightly delirious because of the sun and limited water supplies.
“Bad luck” means that things don’t go to plan, and one of our ideas was to go to Ancona or even further South, in a region where we could see the coast without herds of tourists. We ended up some 25km North of Rimini, the hot spot of Adriatic sunbathing. More precisely, we ended up in a service station surrounded by beach resorts. A really weird person had brought us there, speaking in a version of Italian that none of us could fully understand, seemingly in lack of social contacts and possibly a bit drunk.
It was getting dark, the road was straight and fast, stopping people unsympathetic. We stayed for one or two hours while rehearsing some of the songs we’d learnt on the road, until it was fully dark. There wasn’t even a bus to Rimini where we could have gone into a hostel, and wild camping is fined in the coastal area. A bit up the road was a sign for a piadineria, a sort of street restaurant selling typical piadine, a sort of filled, solid-ish pancake. We decided that we might as well eat. The piadineria was still well frequented and we immediately felt comfortable. As we ordered two piadine with cheese and rucola, the man behind the till, Bruno, began chatting to us in his smoky voice. It was easy to see what we were up to, with our backpacks and Lina still absentmindedly holding onto the “Rimini” sign, and he had the air of someone who has dealt with everything back in the day. When we asked whether there was a campeggio nearby that was still open, he very naturally offered us space in the small playground attached to the restaurant. After deliberating over our meal, we accepted the offer and ended up sleeping in the tiny wooden hut designed for children to play in. No way to plan for the unconventional.
The next day, we invested 40 Euros of our shared travel money to take public transport for the next 150km into the mountains behind Ancona, after we were thrown out of the private beach we frequented in the morning. Since I don’t carry a swimsuit, only Lina could experience the mediterranean, but I didn’t feel like missing out. Our next station was going to be much more typical and way less touristic anyway.
I was waking up to mild light reflecting off terra cotta coloured walls under a blue, blue sky. After un momento stupefatto, I grinned an extra large holiday-grin. We actually are in Italy. And it actually feels like Italy. In the course of four days, we came from the plains of norrthern Germany, traversed the hills mounding into the Alps, shivered on Swiss service areas (9°C), stayed in the beautiful Ticino (Tessin) area and then, yesterday, crossed the border to Italy.
Yesterday was one of those days that seem way too easy and way too good. Not that I’d complain of that. We started off tasting grapes in this quiet stone-built village where we’d spent the night with Lina’s grandmother and the Swiss-Italian family friends she was visiting. We got a first lift out of Valle Maggia (the Maggia valley), until Locarno.
Our first taste of mediterranean generosità came in form of a gentleman who drove half an hour more to get us to Lugano. And then, a wonderful encounter happened. We were already in a good mood when we waited in Lugano, since someone who’d seen us from his office block had drawn us a beautiful sign saying “Italy”. After about half an hour in this spot, an Italian lady in her fifties stopped and offered to drive us to Como. During the ride, we shared our excitement about Italy and its warmth, and about tasting true pizza, pasta, and ice cream again. Just before leaving us in Como, this wonderful Emanuela said “Do you have time for some ice cream, your first Italian gelato?”. Of course we did, and she ended up inviting us to both pizza and ice cream and a wonderful afternoon in the outskirts of Como. While eating, she shared her story and how meeting His Holiness the Dalai Lama changed her life. Radiating goodwill, she drove us to our next spot, repeating how happy she was that she had met us and that she’d been able to help. We continued with full stomachs, hearts, and minds.
Another person that day will certainly make it onto our top-list of cool rides. I spoke to the guy on a station out of Milan and described him to Lina as “the chilled American in the big car who’s going to take a nap now”. We got a lift before he woke up, but met him again on a service area further along the way, where he stopped while we were singing a song in the evening sun.
It turned out that he had been a street musician for ages (playing in front of the Berlin wall a week before it fell), who then went into the film business and now works for James Cameron in New Zealand. For the summer holiday, however, he’d come to Italy to tour street art festivals, doing some stuff on guitars involving drilling machines (I didn’t get that, either). Also, he was Canadian, if you care to know. Anyway, he gave us some tips for our future busking career after we sang and played a song on the ukulele (“Yeah, you’re good, this will work, find yourself a spot with good acoustics”). Now, in Italy, it all seems possible. Perhaps our next challenge will be to finance our own pizza with our music?
About three weeks ago, I co-facilitated (along with the wonderful Anick-Marie and Luca) a workshop at the Alternative Travel Gathering in Amsterdam. Its theme was “solo travel“. We had a great discussion, shared a lot of hitchhiking experiences, our strategies of dealing with lonely moments on the road, and some of the differences between genders when travelling solo. The most commonly cited motivation for travelling solo was “freedom”. This word makes me imagine the lonesome traveller on a Patagonian plain, surrounded by gorgeous mountains, patiently awaiting the next lift while developing a deep philosophy of calm. Freedom: being only responsible for oneself, not worrying about plans since it’s only ourselves who will be screwed up if they fail.
Now that I’m travelling with another person, I’ve had some occasion to refine this view of what I like about being alone. It’s quite simple. I really just miss time for myself.
In our workshop, we stressed that travelling solo is not the best way to move for everyone, that one should be able and willing to be alone and that challenges can be all the more challenging if you have to face them for yourself. Now, I’d like to add the opposite perspective to this. Travelling with other people includes being around people a lot of your time, possibly all of it. In much the same way in which I use certain strategies to meet and socialise with people when travelling on my own, I need to develop ways to deal with people.
I’m not trying to say that I hate people (just look at all my rambles why I travel for people, not places), but I do struggle to secure my personal space, especially since this is sometimes seen as anti-social behaviour. If I didn’t have time on my own, I couldn’t write blog articles, I couldn’t even reflect the journey I’m on, and for me, this would mean only having loads of raw experiences while not learning from them.
Another thing that this short reflection made me realise is that I must have started behaving like a long-term nomad. When I’m on the road, I’m not too fussed about exploring all the sights I could possibly fit into my schedule. By now, it seems more important to me to take that time for myself, read a book, chill, do some boring admin. Since I spend nearly half my time on the move, I shouldn’t be surprised about this.
It’s also no surprise that I found my first strategy for caring for myself. It’s above all realising my own needs, then communicating them. Boring, really. But it helped a lot. And it turned out that my friend was really looking forward to some time on her own, too.
I love the red sofas and wall in this squat. Actually, I love almost everything about this squat. Coincidentally, it is also the first squat I’ve ever been to, or stayed in. Permit me the childlike excitement, but this place is just so cooool. A large house in Amsterdam that was taken over when the original owner had to go undercover abroad, this squat has been running for over ten years. Nine people live here permanently and the sofas in the living room as well as the especially designated guest room are constantly occupied. Everything is covered in edgy posters, art work, and left-wing propaganda.
I always imagined the living conditions in squats as much more basic, but apart from the occasional bit of dirt or homemade piece of furniture, this just looks like a place in which people have had the chance to live and be creative. Seems like this is what “owning a space” is about. The kitchen cupboards are comfortably filled with organic staple foods and most things are communal, working on the trust that everyone will contribute.
Too bad that the Alternative Travel Gathering that put me up here in Amsterdam keeps me too occupied to write more. In some future time or parrallel universe, more stories will follow!