1000 Days of Spring: Travelogue of a hitchhiker

by Tomislav Perko

  It was the eleventh town I found myself in during my journey and each of those towns I had a host through the CouchSurfing site. All those months of hosting people in Zagreb truly paid off.

  My hosts lived in the suburbs of Barcelona, in a large villa with a pool and a tennis court. They would normally rent their villa to tourists, but when there weren’t too many tourists, out of the peak tourist season, they would host CouchSurfers. The CouchSurfers, to repay them, would help around the house, wash the dirty clothes and help themselves to the remains in the fridge – nearly for free.

  Fair exchange.

  Since my hosts were pretty occupied, they didn’t have time for the most important thing when you come to visit someone – taking them to see the city, taking them to have a drink with their friends, in other words, making them feel like a local, and not just another tourist who had come to visit the famous Spanish city.

  I wandered around Barcelona, just like in Paris not long before. I listened to the street musicians, took a walk to the sea, admired the crane above Sagrada Familia and the entrance fee to the House of God. I took a walk around the markets in the open, Gaudí’s park, laid around the tourist beach with a bottle of beer.

  I liked the city, but I didn’t like being there on my own.

  When I returned to the villa, just like many times before, I threw a glance at the map of Europe and chose my next destination – Valencia.

  I had only a month left before I returned home because that was when my exam session started and I was sure that I would find a cheap flight from Spain or Portugal to central Europe. After all, Maaike had paid 24 Euros for the plane ticket from Brussels to Barcelona, luggage and taxes included.

  While I was making a plan to return home I received a reply from my potential host in Valencia. It was negative. It was only the second negative reply I got since I started my adventure, the first one being the one from Copenhagen and that one took me to Amsterdam, which was the reason why I was where I was. Still, I didn’t feel like changing my route this time. I sent another request to the same city and went for a drink with the hosts and their guests.

  The following morning there was a reply waiting for me:

  I’ve just returned from my hitchhiking adventure in Scandinavia, so how could I say ‘no’ to a fellow hitchhiker? I don’t have a couch in my apartment, but I’ve got space on the floor and, somehow I’m sure you’re not looking for comfort. Try to be here as soon as possible because tomorrow I’m going with my friends on a trip to the mountains nearby where we will do some rock climbing, so it would be great if you could come with us.

  See you soon in Montpellier, B.

  Wait a minute. Montpellier? It’s in the south of France. And I’d sent an e-mail to Valencia the previous night.

  I dug through my e-mails and remembered everything. The previous night, after having a few drinks with the hosts, I came to my room and saw that I got another negative reply from Valencia. Feeling quite disappointed and hurt since two people from the same city obviously didn’t want me as their guest, I impulsively threw a glance at the map and chose the complete opposite direction – the south of France. I sent a drunk e-mail to the first person in the first city I came across and that was it.

  Now I had a place to stay in Montpellier. And not only that, I was invited to go rock climbing, that is if I managed to get there by the following day, after all, it was only three hundred kilometres away. I knew it would be difficult because it would take me at least five or six hours to get there.

  Unless I went straight away. In that way I would definitely arrive there in time. It’s not like I had any other plan or reservation. I packed my backpack, said goodbye to my hosts, caught the train to leave the city and found a perfect place to start hitchhiking, a gas station on the road going eastward.

  Oh, the freedom of making decisions.

  The very same evening, after five hours on the road and with three rides behind me, I was drinking wine with my new French friends.

  Day 309.

  “Being a man is a huge advantage,” Caroline said to me as we were walking to the nearby mountain where we were supposed to go rock climbing. She had thick curly red-brown hair, a face covered with freckles and gorgeous brown eyes. I’d met her at the welcome party where we’d exchanged a couple of glances. As opposed to the previous evening, she wasn’t wearing any makeup now, which made her at least twice as beautiful.

  “I would never dare to travel on my own, being a girl and all that.”

  “I wouldn’t either, if I was cute as you,” I tried to be funny, seductive and not sleazy, all at the same time, “but you’re only alone while you’re waiting for someone to give you a ride. Once somebody picks you up, you’re in the company of the driver, and once you arrive to your destination you’re with your hosts and their friends. Just like you’re keeping me company now.”

  “Have you ever had any awkward experiences?” she wanted to know.

  “Not a single one,” I answered readily, “but hey, who knows, I’m only starting.”

  “And you’re not afraid?” she was curious.

  “Not really,” I said self-assuredly, “before I met people who travelled like this I also thought that it’s impossible not to be afraid, that you have to be the bravest person in the world. But each and every person whom I hosted kept on explaining to me that I needed courage just to get myself going. Later all the pieces fall into place. And I really have to say that it’s totally true. Also, I believe that the fact that I’m completely reckless, that I didn’t think about the negative situations I could find myself in, helped quite a bit. Negative thoughts normally don’t lead you anywhere, they only discourage you.”

  She kept on listening, and I kept on talking. I told her about the most interesting situations from my trips, leaving out only one. I enjoyed it, and she seemed to be enjoying it, too.

  While I was hosting people in my apartment, for most of the time, I was the one listening carefully, absorbing all the stories and fantasizing about embarking on a similar adventure one day myself. And look at me now: I was the one travelling around, staying at other people’s places and sharing incredible stories with an interested audience who saw me in the same light as I’d seen those who would spend a couple of days on my shabby blue sofa. Stimulation. Encouragement. Inspiration. And, in return, I got so many things: their time, their attention and their company. I made friendships wherever I went, as if I’d always belonged there.

  The same thing happened during that afternoon we spent together rock climbing, laughing, having fun. I spent most of the time with Caroline, both because the instant closeness we felt and because her English was the best.

  However, she was the worst with the climbing rope. She nearly killed me on one occasion since she hadn’t fastened my rope tight enough. I was only left with a small cut on my right shin that will remain there for the rest of my life.

  “Thank you for that.” I was mocking her on our way back showing her the cut she caused. “Scars are my favourite souvenirs, they don’t cost me anything and they save me the space in my backpack.”

  “I’m really sorry,” she said humbly, “you can come over to my place for dinner so I can make it up to you. If you want to, you can also spend the night on my couch.”

  It took me only a second to imagine how that evening could turn out. And it was a very tempting image.

  “Thanks for the invitation, but I will have to turn it down,” I replied gently not wanting to start something that would be over soon. “Tomorrow morning I have to head off early and get on the road.”

  “Well, good luck then,” she said giving me a firm, warm and long hug.

  “If you ever find yourself in Zagreb, give me a call,” I said, giving her a kiss on her left cheek, “if I’m home, I’d be pleased if you made me dinner.”

  “Be careful what you wish for, it may come true.” She smiled at me in a French way, giving me a kiss on my right cheek.

  Day 318.

&n
bsp; The longest part of the journey was ahead of me. 830 kilometres from Draguignan to Zürich. The route through Italy was, indeed, a bit shorter by about one hundred kilometres, but I’d decided to avoid the country known for drivers who don’t show much understanding of poor hitchhikers.

  Still, I had a wonderful tour around the south of France behind me. After Montpellier I’d visited Marseille, Aix-en-Provence and Nice, after which I’d spent a few days camping in the middle of a forest near Draguignan.

  Apart from wonderful people and cute places, that period was marked by a thought: I was ready to go back home.

  So many things had happened in the previous couple of weeks since I left Zagreb. I needed some time to work it all out in my head, to analyze and to realize what I could learn from everything. Several times I caught myself thinking more about everything that had happened than about the adventures that lay ahead of me. And that was always a good sign to take a break. Take a break from everything, not only from travelling.

  I was low in energy, not only because I had so many kilometres behind me, but also because the bunch of new people I’d met and the amount of stories I’d shared with them, and also because of those talks I’d had with the drivers who had given me a ride. Add to that the fact that I’d lost over twenty pounds. When you’re on the road all the time and when you’re on a budget, the pounds seem to melt away.

  I planned my route for the following ten days, across Switzerland, Austria, and then to Slovenia where I had a couple of friends whom I’d hosted in Zagreb. I decided to pay them a visit. I would be back home just in time to start studying for my final exams.

  I started hitchhiking early in the morning and got on really well with good drivers, so I was hoping I’d manage to arrive in Zürich the same day. However, all hope was gone when I lost two hours for the simple reason that I forgot to tell one driver where I would be getting out.

  So, I arrived to French-Swiss border during the evening with a lot of kilometres ahead of me. And the night was one of the greatest enemies of every hitchhiker. My messy appearance didn’t help me a lot thanks to my stupid decision that I wouldn’t be shaving until I got back home. Also, the weather condition wasn't very good – it was freezing cold.

  During November, Switzerland is very cold. I learned that while I was walking to the border along the highway when I had to put on the warmest clothes I had. I crossed the border without any problem, but the policeman who was on duty showed me the way to a by-road explaining to me that I couldn’t hitchhike at the actual border, even though that was the place where everyone would slow down, which was exactly what I needed to resurrect my hope of making it to my destination in time. That way, my chances were slim to none.

  Unexpectedly, the Swiss drivers showed mercy to the bearded hitchhiker and a couple of them gave me rides of a few kilometres. I was finally on the road back to Zürich. Still, it was 9 pm and I was in Nyon with more than two hundred kilometres of road with not so much traffic on it ahead of me.

  Soon I had to make a decision: would I spend the night somewhere along the road in my summer sleeping bag, with the temperature approaching zero, or would I go to the highway, on foot, and try to walk to the first gas station. There I would actually have a chance of finding a car going in my direction, or of finding a restaurant where I could spend the night. However, in that case, I would be taking the risk of having a close encounter with the Swiss police.

  Backpack on my back, headphones in my ears and straight to the highway.

  I was walking fast along the road, on the grass, hoping to be invisible to the drivers. I wasn’t that surprised when, after only a hundred metres, I heard a police siren behind me.

  “Get in!” he ordered in English with a strong French accent.

  I did so without hesitating, trying to see the bright side – I wasn’t cold anymore and we would be going in the direction I had to go if I wanted to arrive in Zürich. Maybe, just as at the beginning of my journey in Austria, they would leave me at the first gas station and forgive me for breaking the law.

  “Are you insane?” the policeman sitting on the driver seat asked looking at me, “walking like that along the highway with headphones in your ears. Do you have any idea about how dangerous it is?”

  “I know,” I replied amiably, “but I had no choice. I was hitchhiking and a man left me here so I was forced to keep on walking looking for a refuge.”

  “I don’t care,” he said sharply and shut up. He started the car and started driving eastward.

  “We’ll have to write you a ticket for disruption of traffic,” the other policeman said after a while. “Do you have any money?”

  I reached in my pocket and took out one Euro and twenty cents.

  “It’s all I’ve got.”

  “Well, are you some kind of a thief?” he started shouting. “Where do you sleep, what do you eat?”

  “You know, there’s this web page called CouchSurfing...”

  “I don’t care,” he interrupted, obviously very frustrated. “Do you have any money on your credit card?”

  “I have a debit card, but I’m not sure whether it works in Switzerland,” I replied quietly.

  Everyone in the car kept quiet for the rest of the ride.

  I’ve never been in an official police car before, at least not on duty. They forgot all about me and did their job. They were checking the speed of the other drivers, turning a light on vehicles, checking for any suspicious activities; they made a few radio calls in which they explained something to central, or whatever.

  We passed a gas station. I was hoping that they would kick me out of the car warning me not to do it ever again, but they simply passed it without changing direction.

  After tens of kilometres the highway was closed. All traffic was diverted through a small village and there were, even in the middle of the night, tons of cars trailing in a long line. My drivers drove me to an ATM and told me to try and withdraw twenty francs to pay the ticket.

  I thought of two things: I could do what they wanted me to do and try to hitchhike from there while all those cars were still there, or I could take a risk and pretend that my card doesn’t work, risking ending up in a police station. That wouldn’t be so bad: I would have a place to spend the night, maybe even a warm meal, but while I was walking to the ATM I remembered that I had a souvenir from Amsterdam in my backpack – ten seeds of certain plant and if they caught me with it I don’t think they would accept my explanation that it was my cure for stomach-ache.

  I withdrew money, took the piece of paper with my ticket, listened to their well-intended advice to go to a nearby train station, happily headed off to the road and, with a smile on my face, stuck out my thumb.

  The cars were passing by and so were the minutes. Finally, there were only a couple of cars left. If only I had shaved.

  It was 1 a.m. A feeling of total helplessness crept over me. The cold remained my faithful companion. The smile directed at the drivers who were passing became more and more artificial.

  At that very same moment, as usually happens at the moment of greatest need, a few meters away from me a car pulled over. Its licence plates said Bern. Okay, it wasn’t Zürich, but it was half way there. I ran to the car while the driver opened the passenger door.

  “Sprechen Sie Deutch?” my saviour asked me.

  “Nein,” I replied wondering what I had been doing in high school during my German lessons, which I had three times a week, “English?”

  “Yes, okay,” he said “where are you from?”

  “From Croatia.”

  “From Croatia?” he asked, in my mother tongue, “I studied in Zagreb back in the seventies.”

  What were the odds?

  So we talked a bit in a language which, despite all the years that had passed, he still hadn’t forgotten. He told me that he had studied Slavic languages. He could still easily remember the student protests of ’71. Well, my good man, I thought to myself, the students weren’t like that anymore. They wo
uldn’t fight for their own rights, let alone those of their colleagues, or because of the situation in the country. Luc was a French man working in Switzerland as a cultural attaché at the French embassy.

  As we were approaching Bern, driving down an almost empty road, I started thinking about what I should do next. I only had some one hundred kilometres to my destination, but even if I made it to Zürich, my host Tom, cool guy I hosted in Zagreb, would probably be sleeping. It was two a.m.

  As if my driver was reading my mind, he asked me where I was planning to sleep.

  “Most probably somewhere by the road; I have a sleeping bag so I’ll wait till the morning and carry on,” I said, hoping that...

  “No way,” he interrupted me, making my unspoken wish come true, “you’ll be my guest tonight.”

  And so, after twenty hours on the road, I ended up in the apartment of the French cultural attaché working in Switzerland. He gave me a room, a comfortable bed and a towel, apologizing for having to wake me up early the following morning because he would have to go to work.

  “Luc, my friend, don’t apologize,” I said looking at him as if he was my best friend, “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me.”

  The following morning he woke me up, prepared me breakfast, gave me his business card and, in addition, gave me a ride to the city suburbs. As a salute he wished me luck, but I knew I wouldn’t need it, as long there were people like him in this world.

  Day 331.

  “What’s that shit on your face?” Those were Filip’s first words when he picked me up in the centre of Zagreb, after which we sat in the car and he dropped me off at my parents’ house. It’d been exactly sixty days since we’d seen each other. I’d travelled nine countries with a budget of three hundred Euros, couchsurfed in every city I’d been to, hitchhiked for more than six thousand kilometres, but the first thing I had to explain was why my face was covered by a two-month beard.