Through Spain

December 20, 2011

Hitchhiking from Toulouse, France, I arrived in Valencia, Spain on December 15, 2011.

Valencia is a truly beautiful town, among many truly beautiful towns on and near Spain's eastern coast.

registering at a hotel in Valencia, Spain

I had been sick with a cold for about 8 days. Because I was exhausted, I didn't spend any energy searching for a cheap hotel or a hostel. I registered at the first hotel I found, which happened to be a 3-star hotel. Fortunately, in Valencia in the non-tourist season, a 3-star hotel costs only 50-something euros.

view from the window of my hotel room

Gale-force winds the next day inspired me to take a bus south for 37.33 euros.

bus ticket receipt

bus arrival spot (#21)

passengers going to Almeria and other locations

We traveled 400 kilometers, or so, to the south-coast town of Almeria, stopping at 12 other towns along the way. The bus was almost blown off the road a number of times, but after 8 1/2 hours, we arrived in Almeria safe and in relatively placid weather.

Still sick, I again chose the closest hotel (a tad more expensive than the one in Valencia, at 60 euros). I allowed myself to be pampered by various amenities and cleaned up the room, as I always do after sleeping in a hotel room, thinking that maids in general work harder for less pay than is humane.

The next morning, I walked three kilometers to the outskirts of town and began hitching with my "Cadiz" sign, which sported deep-sea-blue letters on a cardboard background.

My artist friend Ben, in Toulouse, had provided the blue crayon to make the sign -- and he had also added the accent over the "i." I thought, "How wonderful that he knows this detail." I found out a few days later that the accent actually goes over the "a":

Cádiz

waiting for Godot, or at least a ride, outside Almeria, Spain

the view from my first hitchhiking location on the outskirts of Almeria

After three hours of no rides, I walked a bit farther outside the city to a new location. Just before dark, some kids in a van picked me up and took me about 30 kilometers west and dropped me basically in the middle of nowhere. An hour or so after dark, I got a ride from a man who took me another 20 kilometers, or so, to a busier on-ramp. I hitched in the dark, for a while, then headed into a field to sleep.

waking up in some field, somewhere.

I walked back to the same location and stood for 8 hours without getting a ride.

no horses, tractors, bicycles, or bad dancers allowed.

sunset

After two more days of hitching, I made it to Granada, then to Cadiz. On the way, three people offered me money. One of the drivers who offered me money also gave me a hug. Al least I thought it was a hug. What she was actually trying to do was begin the Spanish ritual of the two-cheek kiss. I clumsily completed this ritual, once I realized what was expected, smearing a cold nose-drip on her cheek for her trouble. She had picked me up at night (untypical) in a fancy SUV (untypical) and was around 30 years of age (unheard of; the only women who have ever picked me up in 34 years of hitchhiking have been students or matrons).

Also, in 34 years of hitchhiking, only one other person has offered me money, and that was an American. 

I knew the ferry to the Canary Islands left every Tuesday from Cadiz, on the southwest coast of Spain. I had two days to get to Cadiz, but I wouldn't make it in time. I would arrive on Wednesday, a day late, by train.

the strangely unpopulated Cadiz train station, December 21, 2011

nowhere to nowhere?

luggage from inside bathroom stall at Cadiz train station

I don't have a cell phone, so I made a lot of friends asking for them to call a number for me, on my trip through Spain. One more excellent reason not to own a phone.

I called a young student named Clement, a member of couchsurfing.org, and he said to meet him on Caleta Beach. I headed off to find the beach.

Cadiz, Spain

nice girl

 

a Spanish seagull

Clement (left) and family on the roof in Cadiz, Spain

Clement lives with several other students in an apartment near Caleta Beach, in Cadiz.

I stayed with Clement and his roommates for two day.

Brittany

One of Clement's roommates, Brittany, said, "You look relaxed. I guess it's possible to live a stress-free life." She spoke of how her parents always yelled at each other, and how this wasn't a good way to solve problems. I agreed with her. I did not mention that hitchhiking is not exactly a stress-free lifestyle. :)

On December 23, 2011, I took the train to Sevilla, got a shuttle to the airport, and flew to Tenerife, Canary Islands.

Ben the French Man

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

I had caught a cold in Aix en Provence and I was coughing one of those uncontrollable coughs. Ben of couchsurfing.org let me stay in his apartment in Toulouse, France for six days.

Ben of Toulouse, France

I coughed all day and all night for most of my time there, but Ben said several times, "Don't worry: my son and I sleep like babies."

On my final day there, Ben accompanied me to the train station to help me purchase a ticket to Cadiz, Spain -- something we found out could not happen for several days, which seemed odd, considering the train culture of Europe. (I ended up hitchhiking, after taking a bus to the outskirts of the city.)

train station in Toulouse

At the station, Ben noticed someone sitting on the floor and went over to him. It turned out the man was both exhausted and disoriented. When the train station clerks exhibited significant disinterest, Ben gave them a piece of his mind: a rather large, loud, well-articulated piece.

Up to that point, Ben had been as mild-mannered as any out-of-work artist in the South of France. So it was educational and impressive to see him stand up for those who could not stand.

Ben had also done quite a bit of improvisational training when he was younger. I found this out after I turned the videocamera on him in his apartment and he went into a ten-minute comedy routine about French wine, smoking, a motor-powered French bicycle, and other things French. Here's the video.

a French motor-powered bicycle

Ben

The Red Wolf

Friday, December 2, 2011

Short rides to a village in Italy on a curving road paralleling the Autostrade. Got dark at 4:45 p.m. Continued hitching for two hours. Waited for the plastiche factory across the street to close so that I could sleep in the nicely mowed field next to and behind it, out of the streetlight's glow.

But after the owner left around 6:45 p.m., I decided to continue hitchhiking, even though it was cold (and, as every good hitchhiker knows, it's almost impossible to get a ride in the dark). If I went to sleep now, it would mean 12 hours in a narrow sleeping bag. I thought it would be nicer to stand and at least fulfill the form of hitchhiking.

Defying the odds, a gentleman named Jean-Pascal stopped for me around 7 p.m. He said he was going to Montgenèvre in the Vallée de la Clarée, specifically to a tiny village called Les Alberts.

Jean-Pascal, opera singer

Jean-Pascal was born to Italian parents, but for some reason he was fluent in French and only spoke Italian well. He told me he was an opera singer and that his favorite composer was Mozart. He has sung in German, Italian, French, and Russian.

I mentioned my musical, "Ginger," inspired by the faery tale Little Red Riding Hood, in which a redheaded girl is chased into the forest by village tormentors and disappears for 12 years. She survives by becoming a wolf. When she returns to the village as a beautiful 25-year-old whom everybody decides they love, she must decide whether to eat her childhood tormentors or forgive them.

Jean-Pascal said he had seen wolves in Les Alberts. They came toward the houses when it got cold.

As we were winding our way down a steep mountain slope, a red-gray canine ran out in front of us and crossed the road and ran partway up the slope. "Coyote?" I said. "Dog?" . . . "Wolf," he replied. He stopped the car and backed up. The wolf (he thought it was female) looked back at us unafraid, perhaps forlorn, probably cold. Finally, she continued up the slope at a methodical walk.

He said he had never seen a wolf "in nature."

The wolf is protected by the government in this area, he told me the next morning. If a farmer loses a sheep to a wolf, the government simply pays him the value of the sheep.

Jean-Pascal invited me to sleep at his house, where he showed me pictures of his two daughters and two ex-wives. We ate wonderful pasta and listened to 78's of amazing singers on his ancient record player, and it was fine.

The Tao of Cha-Ching

I went to an Italian bank, this morning, to cash a cashiers check for $200.

Like the banks in Bosnia and Croatia, however, the banks in Italy do not cash cashiers checks. Nor do they exchange money for Croatian money (kuna). Nor in fact do they exchange money for American silver dollars. To the banks in Italy, a silver dollar is a dollar. The fact that it is silver (that is, worth over forty dollars) is irrelevant. I might be able to get half a Euro for a silver dollar that is worth about 20 Euros.

Here is how it went:

The first bank that I approached here in Bergamo, Credito Popolare, said that I should "go to the tobacconist" to get my cashiers check cashed.

At the tobacconist, the kind gentleman said that I should go to Credito Popolare to get my cashiers check cashed. This made sense to me, but I explained that I had just been there and that Credito Popolare had said to come here. The tobacconist got on the internet and said that I should to Banca Popolare, a bit farther down the road, and they would cash my cashiers check.

At Banca Popolare, they informed me that their particular branch would not cash my cashiers check, but that their other, bigger, branch would, and that the bigger branch would also exchange money for my kuna and possibly for my silver dollar.

Colorful Croatian kuna.

U.S. silver dollar, worth over forty dollars.

At the bigger branch, a few blocks down the road, the kind lady informed me that in fact they don't exchange money for cashiers checks, or for kuna, or for silver dollars.

I thanked her very much and went back to the bed and breakfast, where I am staying for three nights thanks to the generosity of Nenad Djurdjevic, who, like me, believes in pyramids, people, and even fate, but not banks.

Nenad Djurdjevic, with the Bosnian Pyramid of the Sun in the background.

Tomorrow, the adventure continues.

Such Unsorrowful Sweetness

Liz and I decided to take separate routes on our hitchhiking journey. Right now I'm in Bergamo, Italy, and she is in Lublijana, Croatia.

Our last night together was in an olive grove in Slovenia, just over the border from Croatia. It got below freezing, that night, and we didn't have a tent, as her tent was stolen in Visoko, Bosnia and mine was sold on Craigs List two years ago. :) She woke up with frozen feet and I woke up with an urgency to get off the property of whoever's olive grove it was. We had a tiff about shampoo at around 6:30 a.m., and about three hours later, after failing to get rides in the beautiful morning sun at the Croatia-Slovenia border, we decided, in the most amicable way possible, to part ways.

We didn't take any photos, that day.

Our last photos are from the beach at Opatija, near Rijeka, Croatia, the day before.

The photo below is from the Esoteric Fair in Opatija, on our first of two trips there.

Liz and I spent about two months together, 24/7 (sometimes she went running:) under very stressful (low-money) circumstances. I'm proud of how we conducted ourselves. I'm happy with the relationship we had. I learned a lot from her and I hope I was a positive influence in her life.

I don't have a crystal ball, but I think we will be great friends.

In Zagreb, Croatia

Liz and I arrived in Zagreb, Croatia, three days ago.

cacao powder drink in the morning

Liz in the morning

We have been in Zagreb for two full days.

Liz in front of Croatian mural at the squat where we're staying

It's a truly beautiful town: quite a welcome after the relatively dreary Bosnian burgs. 

We are on our way to Bergamo, Italy, and then on to France and Spain. We hope to get some work house sitting or pet sitting or picking fruit on the way to the Canary Islands.  


My previous blog, "An American in Bosnia," is here:
http://anamericaninbosnia.blogspot.com/