Sometimes a travel experience seems to be heading toward utter disaster – and at first appears so miserable and difficult that you may vow to never leave home again – only to later change so dramatically that over time the experience ranks not only as among the very best travel experiences, but among the best experiences of your life. This happened for me years ago while travelling through Spain, and so this is a story not just of travel hell, but also travel purgatory, and eventually travel paradise.
I had decided to take some time off to work and travel around Europe by train. I had just broken off a difficult relationship, and needed some time to clear my head and try to make a new start. So I jumped on a plane bound for Paris, and without any particular itinerary I began to visit Geneva, Rome, Florence, Venice, and Madrid. I had no fixed plans, so I stayed in hostels or cheap hotels, carrying only what would fit in my shoulder bag or in my pockets. The journey had been pleasant enough, but soon the cathedrals and landmarks began to blur together and I was left wondering why I had come. I began to miss my old girlfriend (which I knew was a mistake), and one lonely night even considered calling her. So I decided instead to jump on an overnight train heading down the coast of Spain.
I was unable to sleep for most of the night in the cramped, crowded compartment, which I shared with a random assortment of other passengers. But I began to feel sleepy, and as I was nodding off I became vaguely aware that two young men seemed to be paying too much attention to whether I was awake or asleep. This thought flickered for a moment as I clutched my shoulder bag, before I feel into a deep, satisfying sleep.
I woke up as the train pulled into the station in the resort town of Alicante, Spain. Before I really was aware of where I was, I saw that my shoulder bag was gone! In it was most of my money, checks, passport and all my clothes. The men also were gone. But at least I still had my wallet. I rampaged around the train trying to find them or my bag and realized how stupid I had been to fall asleep. I got off the train, and still feeling tired and groggy somehow thought that the best thing to do was to register some sort of complaint with the rail authorities. As I was waiting in line, a well-dressed older woman walking through the station noticed that I seemed to be fuming about something and asked what had happened. She seemed very concerned, and as we conversed in my fairly primitive Spanish I at least stopped cursing the corrupt nature of mankind and enjoyed her sympathy. She put her hand on my shoulder and said “Well, it was probably because you are an American.” I laughed. She then repeated with a strange emphasis “Yes, it is because you are American.”
The last exchange seemed odd but I turned back to the line to figure out what to do next. I rested in my hands in my pockets… no wallet! The woman was a pickpocket and hearing how all my possessions had been stolen on the train relieved me of the few Euros I had left. The woman had already melted away into the crowd. I had nothing, no passport, no money, not even any extra clothes. My parents were away and the only other person I could think of calling was my girlfriend, and I would rather die than call her asking for money.
So this was my travel hell.
I spent the whole day meandering around the train station, not knowing what to do or whom to ask for help. I was incredibly hungry, and began to feel like I was beginning to resemble some of the drunken homeless people who lurked in the shadows of the station. I began to wonder if that would be my fate.
The sun was going down and it was starting to grow dark. I was beginning to really panic. Just then, a group of Romanis (gypsies) came into the station for the night. Other passengers by now had boarded their trains or left for their hotels, leaving only myself, the Romanis, the drunken men, and some other lurking figures. To my great surprise, a young man from the Romani group gestured for me to join them. I walked over, and what happened next I will never forget. A blanket was unfolded and we all sat down. Another blanket was unfolded, revealing a veritable feast of bread, cheeses, fruits and other food items. A young woman opened some wine. Another man began strumming a guitar. I didn’t hesitate but profusely thanked my hosts and began to enjoy one of the most delicious meals I had ever eaten (extreme hunger will do that). We couldn’t really speak any common languages, but I was truly having a good time, and I remember enjoying the companionship tremendously. That night I slept in the train station with them huddled together under blankets, and felt as safe as if I were locked in my own home. I was still stuck and had no idea how I would change my circumstances, but now everything didn’t seem so bad.
This was my travel Purgatory.
Over the next couple days I travelled around town with the Romanis, sleeping in the station at night. There was much laughter, music and food, and I even got to go for a swim in the deep blue sea. Staying in this place now didn’t seem so bad, even if I knew that soon I would figure out how to get back home. So when the third morning rolled around, I waited outside an American travel agency in town until I spotted the most American-looking person I could find. His name was Jake and he wore a Hawaiian shirt. He was a large man from Louisiana and sold attack helicopters to the military. These were good times, he said, handing me four hundred dollars in cash. I asked for his address and he said not to worry about paying him back.
I went back to the station and bought a train ticket to Madrid where I could get a new passport at the US embassy. I knew I would be able to soon contact my parents and that they could wire me money so that I would soon be sleeping on a bed, instead of the concrete floor of a station. I saw my Romani hosts back at the station, and began to say goodbye. They hugged me and wished me well. A young woman named Aishe with whom I had shared food and sometimes coyly flirted (though without exchanging any words), asked one of her companions to act as translator and write me a short note. He handed me her “poem.” It read: “I am happy because your eyes are looking at me.” I handed the man with the guitar two hundred dollars, hugged Aishe and left to get on my train.
This was my travel Paradise.
I will never forget my time in that station, first the fear and bewilderment, and then the joy of experiencing the hospitality and companionship of the Romanis.
