A Spanish Home

I was surprised to hear that my mother had been getting the same familiar questions. “Where is she now, and most importantly, when is she coming home?”

Apparently her response is a shrug of the shoulders and “Well, first of all, I’m not sure this is home anymore, and second of all, I don’t think even Lily knows the answer to that one”.

She’s right on both counts, and yet it was home I was looking for when I stumbled up the 7 flights of stairs to 17 Nou de la Rambla, Barcelona.  I’d been on the road almost 8 months, non-stop, and was in dire need of some familiar surroundings. Continuous travelling builds important connections, but it is also invariably a constant re-hash of stories and events, a re-building of your identity with every new meeting.

My sister had moved into her new flat no less than a day before my arrival, so when her sweaty, cycle-touring hermana scrambled through the door – bike and all – it was with some explanation to the new housemates.

I was welcomed with unwavering hospitality into an amazingly beautiful, though modest, Spanish Apartment. Big bay windows, a colourful paintjob and fairytale wall-poetry filled the rooms. Mosaic tables and floors, archways leading to the bathroom and renaissance style chairs – it was a dreamy delight.

The first week or two I couch-surfed around, trying hard not to overstay my welcome anywhere. I met as many bike fanatics as I could, saw gigs and cabarets, drank copious amounts of tea and went looking for friends.

Pretty soon, I settled down. Not quite the 9-5-husband-and-kids scenario, but I did get myself a phone, go to the same local store everyday for my mandatory baguette and even began paying rent for the first time in 3 years, when a room in my sisters place became available.

I’m not really in love with Barcelona, and I doubt I ever will be… but I grew very fond of her.  She became the meeting point of almost all the dear friends I’d made through my journeys in Europe and there was rarely a night spent alone. The 1 euro Pakistani cervezas, bike lanes along the beach, street festivals and amazing little tea corners made the days pass swiftly. This city would prove to be my last before setting sail across the ocean, and I used my time wisely, taking my own space when I needed it.

It’s true it had been several years since I’d had a room I could stand up in, but it had been almost double that since Ella and I had shared a city. My sister and I have always been close, despite our seemingly vast differences, but neither of us could have imagined how much we would need each other over the next couple of months.

We listened to one-another for long hours, gossiped over red wine, lent a shoulder or two and supported each other into sanity. On weekdays we would lunch together, on weekends, party together.  I remembered our similarities. I remembered her optimism and level-headedness. I remembered how fun she was to dance away the night with and I remembered her humble questioning to seek the truth. She reminded me of my old self and eagerly discovered my new. She taught me forgotten lessons and together we developed unrelenting respect for the bonds of sisterhood.

The sun and the city helped… the friends, old and new, built the foundations… but really, it was Ella who brought me home.

Charlie

Hungary

Slovakia

Austria

Austria

Amsterdam, where it all began

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We first met on a cold rainy night in Amsterdam. I stumbled into casarobino, hair askew, holes in my shorts, soaked from hitching in the wet. He was sitting in a chair in the corner. Robino introduced me by a long series of flattering labels, most of which surprised me as much as anyone else. Charlie was introduced as Charlie.

Later that night, I discovered he was much more than just ‘Charlie’ when I was told he was CYCLING AROUND THE WORLD.  Needless to say, as any newcomer to the bike touring philosophy, I was impressed. The next two months were spent in the same vain, impressing the other when it was your turn. We dumpster dived plenty, we snuck picnics into libraries, we slept in a bike by the beach… we fell in love.

Since then, I’ve heard him recount his ‘worldbiketour’ story over a thousand times and it’s lost a little spark. The impressed feeling has moved and morphed into a deep rooted respect. The lover he is, the friend he is, the man he is – shake me much more now than any mission label. He’ll bake you bread, fix your bike, fold you origami, sew your pants, build you a ladder, cut you a stencil. His talents still make an impression. But it’s more than that too. As any two hearts intertwined, what sooths the soul is the space between. No writing could describe the fluttering, the understanding, the inspiration.

I often wondered if any relationship could really reach equality. I mean where both people feel equally empowered, connected yet independent, simultaneously. I had experienced this, in fluctuation, where first one and then the other feels free… but at the same time? Was that even possible?

After struggles, ups and downs, thousands of kms cycled and a billion different scenarios played and then replayed… I realised it was possible and I was living it. Our roads often seperated, our physical selves countries apart, but somehow our souls stayed bound. We always had fresh stories, new lovers and new frienships to recount over a campfire by the bikes somewhere. Our random roads always crossed again.

Every goodbye (and there have been a lot!) was temperary, both of us blowing in the wind and free to float by again when it seemed fitting. Now though, he is going east and I west. This time there will be a big wide ocean between and no motorised vehicles to turn back the clock, flying into yesterday.

10 months later, Charlie has left. It’s getting cold again and I’ll be caught in the rain soon.

Buzz.

I couldn’t sleep. It was three am in Madrid, I had to be up at six, but i couldn’t sleep. Had i remembered everything? Was I missing anything? What questions would they ask, what would I answer? Every time I diverted my attention away to more peaceful thoughts, they would creep through and lead me write back to my pending visa application.

Finally, after checking the clock every hour, it was time. A couple of metro’s and a brisk walk later, I saw the American flag whispering in the wind. I was early. Very early. It was still dark. A breeze was blowing, goosebumps raising the hairs on my bare arms.

At a quarter past 8, they let me in. I took my ticket and then a seat. I was number 19. I watched 18 people get up, walk to the booth, speak for 5 minutes, then sit down again. At my call, I did the same, handing over my passport and proof of the 90 euro payment. Another excruciating hour, each number slowly passing by, until number 19 came around again. A different booth this time. They wanted fingerprints. Left, Right, both thumbs – take a seat please.

Still clasping the folder full of letters, statements, certificates… my palms sweating, time ticked on. The room was full by now. Booth number 1 was calling ticket number 50 something. Two windows opened up to the left, a woman in one, a man in the other, with signs that read ‘interviews’. The next turn would be it. Every time they buzzed someone else through, I’d jump three feet, heart in my throat, eyes scanning the electronic screen. 16, 17, 18… I was next. That meant the man. He looked nice, he was smiling often. A good sign I thought, trying to stay calm.

Buzz. Number 23.

Oh. “Numbers will be called out of sequence” read a poster above my head. Ok, so the woman then. Was that better or worse? I couldn’t judge from her demeanor. Finally, another buzz.

Number 19.

That’s me, remember?

On shaky legs I walked up to the desk. In a strong American accent she said “Lily, I’m going to ask you a few questions”. I was trying to swallow the lump in my throat. “You’re the same age as my daughter, and you’re travelling around the world”.

Could she hear my heart beating? It was so loud.

“Thank you for that”, she said with a smile. I’m suddenly in love with this woman. She takes on a motherly air to me, calm, nurturing. She’s making chit-chat, joking as she files through my papers. Then, taking the front form, scribbles notes in the ‘for office use only’ box.

“I’m issuing you the visa. Go and have fun!”

Walking out the Embassy, my feet didn’t touch the ground. I was floating on clouds. I felt like the blind man in the film “Amelie”, the whole world opening up, the sky clearing. Colours were brighter, people more beautiful. A true, honest, ecstatic smile spread form cheek to cheek. I’m sure I looked mad. I felt like doing unexpected acts of kindness to every stranger passing by. I skipped home, singing, dancing, meeting every eye and beaming. A sweet syrup trickled through my blood.

I could enter that ‘promised land’. And now, finally, I can sleep again.

I'm ready!

V-Day

In a little over 12 hours, I’ll know my fate. I’ll know if i’ve been liberated… and welcomed to the land of the free.

I have over 30 printed pages explaining my existence. I have spent days staring at a screen and running back and forth from the copy shop. I have senators backing me, doctors, former AP presidents, mothers, lawyers… I’ve got it all. If my hoboism shines through despite this, then at least I’ll know it runs deep.

From here on, it feels out of my hands. I’ve done the best I can. Tomorrow I will stand forth in front of the American Consulate (in shiny business clothes) and be judged. Either way, I’m reminding myself whatever happens is meant to be. My options aren’t so bad. It’s either the Caribbean/Central America, or the freight trains of Southern U.S.A. As always though, I’d like to have it all.

Soon, I’ll sail away on “Ramble”. Whichever land it is i’ll be bound for, I’m sure I could call it homeward. It’s all in the journey right?

Closed

Its a sunny day outside. Ive closed the shutters and drawn the blinds.
I’ve tried to resurect myself today, tried to walk out the door and face it, but tears are flowing and I’m not sure i’d make a good impression.

In a month, on an island close by, Menorca, there will be a boat waiting for me. A beautiful old wooden sailing boat, capable of crossing an ocean, with a crewlist and my name on it. The excitement I can generate from that potential adventure seems so easily thwarted by bureaucracy and practicalities. Leaving my community and secure friendships here, would be half as hard if I werent denied entry to them over there.

I’m looking in the eye of an amazing opportunity, the perfect crossing crew, a dream finally coming true… and arrival on a land minus one bike and one language, without North as a way forward – towards that network I know is waiting for me. The United States of America is still closed for visiting hours.

Adventures in Northern Italy

Friends and Family for Fun:

totally joined the bicycle revolution!

charlie at work

An old friend made a meet, on his hitch through

Lightfoot love letters

we set up a lightfoot box in Vicenza... get writing guys!

three bicycles in love

Even a sister to see! And she rode 40kms this day! woot!

Solo Stories…

hitching home

Back on the road - SOLO... feeling good!

baked bread! Pasta madre! Thanks robin!

Romanian truck drivers brought me home

Italy

we had to go to venice...

An open door, a friendly welcome - from Davide our host in Padova, Veneto.

two bums on the run

but i prefered Padova!

they make vegan pizza - marinara, with no cheese...

but i had to have non-vegan gelato... its a cultural experience!

the flying lion in the middle of Padova

no cars... but plenty of motor boats... especially for the policia

they've made it THIS far!??

and gondolas that cost 100's of euros

there are levels left to ruin, when the water wins...

climb over the water to get home

Slovenia

a campsite in the forbidden national park ... thanks to Grga for inspiring this journey!

yeeeha, and then we go DOOOOWWWWNNN

wooo, here we go!

a night's rest by the clearest river I have EVER seen

muckin' around

what lay ahead

thanks for the hammock bapsi!

Six months ago, my friend Mandy and I had decided on a trip to Slovenia. We imagined walking up snowy mountains, chasing eachother through forests, climbing trees and playing in the leaves. She contacted a host through Couchsurfing, and we made plans. A day before leaving though, things changed and we never made it to Slovenia.

Half a year later, now in summer, I was finally going to get to this little European country. Having decided that a hop across from Rijeka to Trieste was just too little of Slovenia (20kms) for either of us, we set our sights towards Ljubljana. First, I learnt how to spell it. We had been staying with an amazing host, Grga, in the north of Croatia, who with the help of google earth, convinced us a mountain pass through the Alps was where we should be heading. I figured the best way to cure my hilly phobia, was to tackle the highest stuff around – so I agreed, a worried smile across my face.

We mounted our bikes for one final farewell to the Croatian Coast. Crossing the border into Slovenia, everything changed. Suddenly, I realised we had left the Balkans. Little perfect houses popped up, with little perfect flowers on their little perfect window sills. Lawns were well manicured, roads pothole free and even lots of little perfect bike lanes! It was quite a marked change from this years travels. On either side of us rolled green hills, neh, mountains, and we could see the Alps nearing in the distance.

15kms outside of the the capital, we met another cyclist. A young Irish guy, Cillian, who had biked all the way from home. Charlie began recounting his debarkle (a broken foot and 3 months of recovery) only to be cut short by Cillian, who had seen the story in the newspaper and recognised Charlie as his bicycle inspiration. Moments later, we were discussing how to survive on few funds, and hence, dumpster diving. I dug out a copy of my dvd, and was about to hand it to him, when he says:
“Oh hangon, you’re on couch surfing right?? Didnt you make a documentary about dumpster diving? Yeah yeah, I’ve already seen it.”

It really is a small world sometimes. Comforting to know that our little community spreads so far and wide.

We spent a few days in and around Slovenia’s capital with great hosts and good adventures. Live music on a mountain top, a squat in an old Bike Factory, a silly drunken night that ended in bathtubs… it was a lot of fun! Finally though, the time came to head out. We peddled a couple of days, through some beautiful lakes and up into the foot of the Alps. I lost my wallet and had to hitchhike back for it (to no avail). We met two french cyclists who inspired us to get to Lyon, and a touring family with the youngest age 5, carrying his sleeping bag on the back of his little bicycle! Beautiful!

Then the climb. Vrsic Mountain Pass is the highest in Slovenia, and had been well threatened to us by locals. By now it was the only way through though, so of course we set to tackle it. Up early in the morning to avoid midday sun, a quick snack and off we went.

It was steep. I knew it would be long (a few hours climbing) but didnt imagine an incline so great. Although in my lowest gear, I wasnt able to just keep pushing – several breaks were taken along the way. Even some of the cars meandering past didnt sound like they would make it up. Together we trugged along though, and I truly enjoyed the challenge. It was definitely tough, the toughest climb yet, but every minute was relished. It was really fun. Like some great impossible feat (in my mind it had doubled in height), accomplishing it would be bitter sweet.

200 metres from the top, I caught up with Charlie and we peddled over the pass. On top at last. Motorists clapped, other cyclists (none fully loaded!) smiled and cheered. And the view – the view was spectacular. Looking out over Slovenia, Austria, and even Italy, my bike and I were pretty proud to have done what their President has said – “Every Slovenian should do at least once”.

Lief Knopje still having fun 🙂 Thanks mandy!

i rock

soooo blue, or green, or clear... intense! River Soca

it rained. A lot!

One last Croatia

mmmm an HUGE watermelon in one sitting!

The fortress

The land that was fought over and where the battles took place

our super cool host Grga in Rijeka

Finding Friends

I got off the bus an hour to midnight. Waving goodbye to Bapsi through the glass, a chapter felt finished. Cycling into town the moonlight shone over a sign that read “Zadar”. The temperature was perfect, a warm summers day had left a heat in the air.
I peddled around for an hour or so, looking for Charlie, but enjoying the friday’s festive atmosphere too. Meandering down the coastal boulevard, I could hear the sea organs, a musical sculpture which hums and bellows as the waves lap at the land. Past the streams of tourists, up against the park wall, lay two loaded tourers, asleep. Still no Charlie and ready for some slumber myself, I join the line and lean my bicycle beside theirs.
At 3 am the sprinklers wake us with a cold wet welcome, but allow me the chance to meet these two wanderers. We spend the early hours swapping maps and stories in excitement. They had travelled from Barcelona to Croatia then onto Athens and I was about to set off on the same journey, in reverse. We whispered until 6, the darkness hushing our voices. At dawn the two left on a ferry, and I finally got some shut-eye, a couple of friends richer.
By 5 that afternoon I had met up with Charlie. A sparkling smile under his still rough beard, but a shorter haircut… he looked more beautiful than ever. We shakely held eachother under the clock tower in the mainsquare. His smell the same, his hug the same, his voice a well-known tune. A close heart, on a long road, home felt nearer just by his presence. Two months of history untold, we set straight to story-telling, our adventures recounted over beer at a local cafe. A swim in the sun, a dry in the shade, our eyes continued their discourse as we cycled on towards our host Iva’s house.

No one around, we nestled into the couch and carried on our tales, the beer adding to our giddyness. We remembered. How close we could be, how much love there was, how fun flowed when together. It’s a hard thing to say no to, and indeed, we couldn’t. Our bikes would find company in eachother on the road to Barcelona.