1000 Days of Spring: Travelogue of a hitchhiker

by Tomislav Perko

  “What?” I muttered, not opening my eyes.

  “Go to bed, the couch is uncomfortable.”

  Day 794.

  “A thousand days of summer?” Daniela asked.

  “Yes,” I confirmed, “hitchhiking around the world, starting this summer, basically with no money, earning some money on my way...”

  The initial idea was to start the journey with a thousand Euros and travel until I don’t have any money left. Once I’m left without any money, I’ll try to get by in any way possible. I was secretly hoping that another thing would work out – that MasterCard would prolong their sponsorship, even after Bangladesh and Portugal, and sponsor my biggest, longest and most interesting journey.

  “Good luck,” she said as she was signing off, “we’ll try to keep our show running so that when you come back to Croatia, we will host you again in the show.”

  “Fine by me.”

  “Tomislav, thank you a lot.”

  More applause, after which I walked off the stage.

  “A thousand days, ha?” Shale asked me immediately after the interview, “you could get a bit bored.”

  “Well, fuck,” I said, “I need to travel all the continents and the cheapest way to do it is – not going back home.”

  I met with Tanja who was spending a lot of time in Zagreb lately. She was counting down her last days in Croatia. She was waiting for a work permit from the British embassy so she could book a flight to London and move there. That had been her wish from when she was little.

  Our relationship was wonderfully relaxed since we knew that, soon, we’d have to part: her path was leading her to London, while my path would lead me around the world, as soon as I passed my last exam. Our conversations were usually about happy subjects because we didn’t see any point in sad ones.

  “Hello,” she responded to her mobile phone. We were headed for the bus station from where she would go to Split that evening and then proceed to London. This was the call she’d been expecting. The call that would confirm that her visa was ready and that she should start packing straight away and move to another part of Europe. The call that would, inevitably, bring with it the moment when we’d have to say goodbye to each other.

  However, by the tone of her voice, I noticed that there was something wrong.

  “Well?” I asked when she hung up.

  “Oh, don’t ask,” she replied with a sad voice, possibly the saddest I’d ever heard from her, “the employers have screwed something up with the application so I’ll have to wait for another two or three months.”

  “Oh,” I said, “what are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know,” she continued with the same tone, “it’s been like this for months: I live in Split at my parents’ place, waiting for the stupid visa so I can open a new chapter in my life; I do nothing except wait, wait and wait. And now I’ll have to wait some more. I feel like forgetting all about it and moving somewhere else.”

  I got an idea.

  “Come to Portugal with me,” I said without much thinking.

  “What?” her tone of voice was a bit different, “where has this come from?”

  “There, it just came to my mind,” I smiled, “you’ve said yourself that you have nothing to do, and I could use the company.”

  “You know that I don’t have any money.”

  “MasterCard will pay for everything,” I said, “we can arrange everything: you can be the official photographer and camera woman, and instead of being paid for doing it, they could cover your travel expenses. It’s a win-win situation.”

  She stood in front of me and looked me straight into the eyes, checking how sure I was of my decision.

  “Oh, Tom,” she threw herself into my arms.

  Day 855.

  I left the building of the Faculty of Economics, sat on the bench in front of it and started crying.

  After eight years spent at that faculty, I’d finally passed my last exam. I’d finally got such a heavy burden off my chest that I couldn’t do anything other than let it all out and cry.

  “Colleague, congratulations,” my professor from marketing offered me her hand, after signing my index and giving me a B, “I wish you all the luck on your next journeys.”

  “Thank you,” I was too excited, “but, how do you know...?”

  “Do you think that someone else corrects my exams?”

  She simply smiled and gave me back the index.

  “Send a postcard every now and then.”

  I remembered instantly what I’d written at the end of the exam:

  Dear Professor,

  Maybe the theory of marketing isn’t my strongest point, but I’ve had quite a success in the practical part lately. A year ago I started writing about my journeys and promoting myself on the Internet, in the media, and especially on social networks. And I didn’t have to spend anything on it, so I applied the theory you’ve taught me.

  As a result, I’ve appeared on television a couple of times, in the newspapers, on different Internet portals, and I have more than five thousand followers on Facebook.

  If the theory won’t suffice for a D, I hope that, at least, the practice will.

  Since I got a B, I guess the theory was good, too.

  I called my Mom, and Tanja too. I wanted to thank her for forcing me to finally study hard for the exam.

  She was wonderful. The three weeks we’d spent together in Portugal had convinced me that we were an excellent couple, we didn’t have a single argument, we always had something to talk about, she hitchhiked and couchsurfed without complaining about it, she drank with me on benches, ate food bought in supermarkets, cooked – she was everything I was looking for.

  There was only one thing that bothered me every once in a while: an Australian song that kept on playing in my head, even though it was supposed to end two years ago.

  I tried to console myself that, maybe, I needed a bit more time. And when I was with Tanja, time seemed to fly by faster and less painfully.

  I went home and typed a sentence.

  What do you say about joining me on my trip around the world?

  I checked the sentence once again and pressed ENTER. Not even half an hour later, my phone rang.

  “My cake’s just burnt because of you and your e-mail,” she said, “frankly, no one has ever offered me anything more beautiful.”

  She fell silent. I knew the meaning of the silence.

  “But?” I asked.

  “You know how long I’ve been waiting for London,” she finally said, “and you know how much I’m looking forward to it. Now it’s finally here, only a couple of weeks away, and I really don’t know if I could give up on it and join you.”

  “And you know how much I wanted to do it,” she added after a few moments of silence, “if it’d happened earlier or if you could start with the journey later...”

  I understood her completely. When I thought about it, I couldn’t have expected a different answer. She had her dreams, and now I was asking her to give up on them and go on a journey with an unknown man whom she’d met only a few months before. Only a crazy person would do that.

  I would also refuse to follow someone else’s dreams.

  “Still, you can come to London with me,” she suggested at the end. “At least until you start your adventure.”

  Actually, maybe I could.

  Day 942.

  I want to see you before you go! I can come to London. Or Zagreb.

  Chloe

  I punched the pillow on my clean and fresh-smelling bed in the London hotel room where I’d spent the past few weeks planning the details of my upcoming journey, choosing the route and promoting my Facebook page. Tanja was in her office, a few blocks away.

  I should have punched myself and not the innocent pillow. Or maybe even my stupid feelings, which woke up as soon as I saw who the e-mail was from and grew even stronger when I read the content.

  Was she ever going to leave me alone?

  There was
only one way to find out.

  I’ll be in Zagreb in a couple of weeks and I’ll be staying there for a month before I go on my journey. You know where you can find me.

  T.

  I wanted to see her in order to have closure on our story once and for all. I wanted to make sure that during those past years I’d been in love with an imaginary person with whom I’d spent only a few days in Zagreb. The person who was the reason I turned my world upside down and faced the Road. The person who used my heart and took off forgetting to put it back where it belonged. The person who contacted me two years later saying that she wanted to see me.

  Day 219.

  “Come,” she told me as we were taking a stroll down the street in the centre of Zagreb and exploring the Solar system, one of the mysteries of my city that I often explain to the tourists, “take a look at those two girls sitting at that table.”

  She pointed to two attractive girls who were sipping a juice through straws, all dressed up for a Sunday walk in the city. Each of them was looking in the opposite direction. They had serious expressions on their faces, they showed a total lack of interest in everything, they seemed to be lifeless, lost with their thoughts wandering around. They were gorgeous, and still – empty on the inside.

  “And now, take a look at those two,” she pointed to another table.

  At the other table were also two girls, average looking, not wearing any make-up, wearing plain clothes. They were in a world of their own, talking excitedly to each other and laughing carelessly. They didn’t pay attention to the people around them or the opinions these might have about them. They were glowing.

  “Isn’t that nice?” she asked me, all radiant. She didn’t wait for an answer, but she simply walked down the street, in her summer dress, not looking back.

  I stood there, watching her and wondering how it was possible that, after she looked at me with her blue eyes on my doorstep, everything else became so irrelevant...

  When I was with her, time flew by irregularly, following rules of its own. The space surrounding us was foggy and blurry, the sounds were muffled; I felt alive, awake, invincible. And when she’d give me one of her looks, my feeling of being alive would instantly be covered by a feeling of helplessness. I was naked in front of those eyes. I knew that, if she kept her eyes on mine long enough, she would recognize panic, fear and longing. At the same time, I couldn’t take my eyes off of her bright face, loose hair, colourful dress and bare feet.

  She was a few years younger than me, but as far as the spirit was concerned, you could say she was much older. She’d left her home when she was eighteen and started making her way in this world. She’d lived on three different continents, was fluent in three languages, did all kinds of jobs to be able to afford food, had been through different kinds of life challenges trusting only herself. She’d travelled, hitchhiked, slept in parks and on train stations, but she’d always been careless and playful like a child.

  She was good at noticing details and everyday magic as she was conscious that they might not be there tomorrow. She drew, made sculptures, picked up trash from the street and threw it in the rubbish bin, preached about the importance of taking care of the environment; she was always ready to discuss the arguments for being veg(etari)an, to discuss the political bullshit we were fed with every day, and was never afraid to state her opinion loud and clear.

  I was done. Head over heels in love.

  I wanted to have that passion with which she lived her life. I wanted to have her.

  Still, I didn’t dare to take the first step, tell her anything, go for all or nothing. I felt that I wasn’t good enough for her. What did I have to offer her? To a girl who’d been everywhere around the world, who was so experienced, who had a clear opinion about everything that mattered to her. To a girl who could disarm any man with her smile, who could spend the whole night discussing subjects about which I was completely clueless.

  “You’re late for work,” she whispered in my ear as she sneaked into my bed on her last day in Zagreb.

  Her soft voice and the warmth of her body worked as an instant wake-up call. I took a deep breath, inhaling the arousing scent of her skin. My heart was beating heavily in my chest, but I still didn’t want to open my eyes, afraid that the moment would be soon over.

  “I don’t care,” I finally said, “it’s nice here.”

  I put my arms around her waist and finally opened my eyes. I let her see in them everything I’d been hiding from her for the past few days. Fear, love, lust. She could have them and do with them whatever she pleased. Either way, she’d be gone soon.

  She observed them for an eternity. She saw everything that there was to see and finally, with her eyes wide open, she got very close, gently placing her lips on mine.

  In that moment I could die happy.

  “And?” she asked abruptly interrupting the most beautiful kiss, placing her head on my chest. “Now what?”

  “Why are you asking me that?” I asked calmly, although I was anything but calm, “you kissed me. What do you want?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied mischievously. You could never tell if she was playing with you or whether she was being serious. “However, I do know that I like you.”

  That was enough for me. Nothing else mattered. I wanted to see her again and feel what I’d been feeling for the past few days. I wanted to kiss her again and have a re-run of the fireworks I felt then. But I wasn’t sure if that would be possible, being already acquainted with the destiny of travellers – the ones who always leave. They would always leave, no matter how much chaos they left behind.

  “Let’s meet again,” I suggested, after we shared a couple of moments of tenderness. I was completely ready to go after her, wherever she wanted to go, live off of air and her presence, even though I knew, from my own experience, that obsession wasn’t a good start for anything. I couldn’t help myself. I was definitely obsessed.

  “But, how?” she asked sadly, “I’m returning to Berlin today, and in a few months I’ll be off to Australia, and you’re staying here to finish university, find a job, repay the debt... Our lives are going in different directions.”

  “Frankly, I have no idea how,” I wasn’t giving up. “I could pay you a visit in Berlin before you go. It’s not that far away.”

  Australia also didn’t seem that far away at that moment, only if she felt what I felt.

  “You know everything,” I told her that afternoon, on one of the platforms of the main train station, “you know how I feel about you and that I would want to be next to you, anywhere, even for a short period of time, under any condition.”

  “I know,” her answer was short, observing me.

  “When you return to Berlin, think about everything,” I continued, “if you want me to join you there so we could spend some time together, let me know.”

  She gave me a strong hug, and I hugged her even more strongly. In case I wouldn’t have another chance.

  Day 271.

  “Bro!” Filip called me as we were arriving at a gas station somewhere in Slovenia, “remember: minimal risk.”

  “No worries,” I said, taking my backpack from the trunk, “just take care that Mom doesn’t find out I’m hitchhiking. Oh, and if you happen to see Into The Wild running on television, don’t let her watch it.”

  He left, leaving his brother to the mercy of the Road, and it wasn’t easy for him to do it. He didn’t speak much as we were driving to Slovenia, and as he was leaving I noticed his right palm passing over his face.

  In the past twenty days, since she sent me the e-mail that she was expecting me in Berlin, I quickly rearranged some things in my life. I did it in the only way I could – to the extreme. In a short time period I had so many things to do. A situation like that called for extreme actions.

  I knew that I wanted to go to Berlin and spend some time with her. I didn’t know how long it would last. But I knew what was keeping me from doing it.

  “We need to talk,”
I said to Martina and Mongoose as we stood on the same terrace as a couple of months earlier when I started with the first drastic change in my life. Now it seemed to me that that was another life. I loved those two, I loved the bar, I loved the customers I’d served every day, I loved the places we went to after closing the bar.

  “There isn’t an easy way to say this,” I started talking with a tickle in my throat, staring at the floor, “I cannot work here anymore.”

  They became serious; Martina grabbed a pack of cigarettes and lit one.

  “Have we done anything?” she asked, shaken up a bit.

  “You know you haven’t,” I replied quickly, “you know I love you like a brother and sister; you know that I adore this place, but I have to leave this city, I have to find peace. I really have to.”

  Mongoose looked at me as if he’d assumed something like that would happen. He was sad when he heard the news, but he wasn’t surprised.

  “Chloe?” he asked.

  “Chloe,” I answered.

  We got wasted that night like never before. We had to celebrate the new beginning, instead of crying about the end.

  Since I’d lost my job, it was obvious that I wouldn’t have any money to pay the rent and the bills. I told that to my roommate the next day.

  He was really a dream roommate. We’d never had a single argument, let alone a fight, during those three years we lived together. We knew when it was someone’s turn to cook or clean and we knew when to leave the place when the other one was bringing a date. We were born less than 24 hours apart and, in many things, we were like brothers.

  “Chloe?” he asked.

  “Chloe,” I answered.

  I moved my things to my parents’ house, informed them that I would be travelling to Berlin by train to visit a girl, promised to call them every day, put my backpack on for the fourth time and sat in my brother’s car for the lift to Slovenia.