by Desiree Span
With this revelation I took upon my voyage with a new state of mind. I simply owed it to myself to enjoy it. I had to stop thinking about her and concentrate on consciously living this unforgettable journey by soaking up every single moment of it. This trip could possibly be the best way to cure my broken heart, to release me from the pain I constantly felt in my chest and help me to move on from losing my boy and Erica. Using Mike’s words, I was going to see for myself what good shit was going on out there.
I pressed the bridge of my nose and wiped the tears stinging in my eyes and looked back at the screen, but in the reflection of the window across from me I noticed two people standing behind me. I turned around and realized they were actually waiting in line to use the computer. I then looked back at the screen again and it had turned black; it had logged out. My time pondering here was up.
I decided to take a bus to Barcelona, which was about five hours away. I sat next to a short brunette with glasses who introduced herself as Stephanie or Melanie. I can’t recall her name exactly, but I remember she was from Canada, because the whole bus ride she chatted about her country and how similar but then again different it was from mine. She was too busy talking to realize I wasn’t actually involved in the conversation. But I was relieved to not have to swap stories and just listen to her cheerful babbling.
While passing through a smaller town, we suddenly got pulled over by the local police. I had dozed off, but the change of speed and sudden silence of the motor woke me up. Turned out, the bus had a broken taillight that according to the cop needed to be repaired right away. So the bus driver stepped out with a sigh and fixed it. After that we continued without further ado.
Arriving at the Estacio Nord, a bus station in Barcelona, we all stepped out. Stephanie told me she would be staying in Barcelona for a week or so and that it could be fun to meet up somewhere. As I wasn’t sure of where I would be staying, she gave me the address of her hotel and said to look for her there. She then gave me a little hug, said it had been very nice to meet me and then we parted. I never saw her again.
Many people believe backpacking is a lonely adventure, only for those who don’t mind being on their own for long periods of time. The truth is that backpackers form a nomadic community, and while many times you travel alone, you never have to feel alone.
You get to meet many people and in most cases, like with Melanie/Stephanie, your life just brushes against theirs and then you part ways. And while these encounters seem futile and meaningless, I believe those moments actually serve a purpose. Those are encounters that function as a joining of paths where your souls bump into each other, kind of like bumper cars in a fair, with the sole purpose of sending you both in a different direction, physically or emotionally.
Thinking about it, I believe this theory applies to the journey of life itself. People are there for shorter and others for extended periods and usually it isn’t until, for whatever reason, they are no longer there that many of us realize the effect this person has had on our lives.
That being said, I’m pretty sure I’ll never know what the purpose of meeting Melanie/Stephanie was. But who knows? Maybe it was me that in some way had an effect on her life.
Barcelona. I fell in love with this city. I visited all the places I remembered Erica had planned for us to see and I stuck around a couple of days to get to appreciate as much of the culture as I could. I indulged in Gaudi’s brave architectural wonders and felt the excitement of a child at Christmas morning when I discovered the Sagrada Familia Basilica with my own eyes. I made a point of visiting every iconic building Barcelona has treasured. I even took the time to see the maybe lesser known, but just as impressive ones, such as Frank Gehry’s Peix or Fish, a sculpture that resides at the foot of a hotel that was built in the 1992 Olympic Marina.
I strolled in the busy La Boqueria market and let my eyes feast on the bright colors and my palate taste the fresh flavors the vast place had to offer. There were vegetables I had never seen and fruit I had never eaten before and they were all stacked neatly on display. I bought the ripest mangos, most succulent kaki fruit and the reddest pomegranates, and while I explored the market further I enjoyed the sweet fruit as if it were candy.
Here and there I chatted with local vendors, while I used my hands and feet to mime-ask about the exotic food they were selling. The friendly stall holders would let me savor their product, convincing me to buy, all the while slapping away those frantic flies that always seem to be in a hurry for they have only a day or two to live.
* * *
My visit in Barcelona came to an end and I decided I might as well keep on following the “Erica Route,” as I had baptized it, and headed east toward France. I passed through the famous wine-growing region Bordeaux and from there I went to Paris, where I ate my chocolate croissant while watching the Eiffel Tower in all its glory. A few days later I hopped on a bus that took me back down south, through Lyon to Monaco. From there I travelled to Geneva, Rome, Naples, and back north to Venice, where I crossed the border to Vienna and finally ended my journey in Prague.
During this time I encountered quite a few people who left an impression on me for various reasons. People like Boris from Germany, whom I met at an ATM machine in Naples.
After the ATM machine had swallowed up my debit card and refused to spit it out, I stood there somewhat helpless, for it was Sunday, all the banks where closed and I didn’t even have enough money on me to pay for a meal. Boris, who had been standing behind me, had witnessed how the ATM machine had ruined an otherwise perfect day. He offered to buy me a beer and then took me to eat the best pizza I had ever had—the kind that is served in places only the locals know about. Boris’ English was in a state of “intensive care” and my knowledge of German was nonexistent, but somehow we were able to communicate. We mostly talked about music, as he introduced me to the genre of German electronic music and I tried to infect him with my love for Seattle’s finest grunge bands, by swapping headphones.
Later that evening, before heading off to my hostel room, I inquired how I could reach him to pay him back for dinner, but he smiled and patted me on the back. While he walked off he looked over his shoulder and said, “Es ist mein Vergnügen.”
People like Boris restore your faith in human kindness and along the way I was happy to acknowledge that there are still many like him walking around.
* * *
And then, there are people like Sven and Karla. An experience I won’t forget.
I had been traveling for about two and a half months and I don’t recall exactly where I was, but I was on my way to Vienna.
It was late and I arrived exhausted at a little hostel I had finally found. I had not made reservations and unfortunately they didn’t have any rooms vacant. So I stepped out to smoke a cigarette, crossed the street and installed myself on a wooden bench, ready to make it my bed for that night.
It was somewhat toward midnight when the joltingly shaking of my arm woke me up. I slowly opened my eyes and looked into two blue eyes almost hidden under severe, heavy black makeup. I sat up to have a better look.
“Hi, hello. Do you speak English?” Karla asked with heavy East European accent. She smiled friendly.
I nodded, still slightly groggy from my abrupt wake-up call.
“You don’t have a place to sleep?” she asked.
“No, not tonight anyway,” I said, now awake.
“You can sleep with us,” she said.
Behind Karla stood Sven, whom I hadn’t even realized was there.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes, it’s not a problem,” Sven replied. “We have two single beds. You can have one and Karla and I will sleep on the other. “Come,” he said, and they waited for me to grab my backpack and my jacket, which I had been using as a lousy pillow.
Together we crossed the street and headed toward their room.
I had never met a couple like Karla and Sven. Physically they both left an impression. If the saying “
opposites attract” is true, it didn’t apply to them, for they looked like the male/female version of each other. They were both very tall and athletically built and had Slavic features, with high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. Both were very fair, which accentuated their tanned skin, a result of extensive traveling in I supposed mostly sunny regions. Sven had his blond hair twisted into long dreadlocks, which he held together with the use of another lock. And I guessed that half of his body was covered in tribal tattoos.
Karla’s hair was so fair that it appeared almost white, and it was tied with a cloth that she had wrapped around her head. She finished off her exotic look with a silver nose ring, several bracelets and a piercing in her tongue. They were both scarcely dressed. Sven wore a brown sleeveless vest with African print on it, which bared his naked, tattooed torso and underneath he wore baggy harem pants. Karla wore something I guess had to pass for a leather skirt along with a brightly colored tank top. Together they looked like two godlike warriors from some mythical world.
But besides their unique appearance, what I found mostly interesting was their lifestyle. They seemed to live like nomads, always on the move and only settling for short periods to make some money. They weren’t preoccupied with the future, building a career, paying for health insurance, or saving up money for mortgages or pensions. I found their way of living very liberating but also somewhat naïve and unrealistic. Also, they appeared to be what one calls “swingers.” It became apparent that same evening when I was invited to share their room with them.
I was lying on my back on one of the beds when Karla came back from taking a quick shower. She walked across the tiny room and simply dropped her towel on a chair and moved about naked, looking for what next to wear. The whole scene caught me off guard, and I glanced at Sven to see his reaction. But he was looking for something in his backpack and didn’t even notice or care.
“Come and have a look,” Sven said, and he took out an envelope with photographs.
I stood up and walked... well, just one step to reach his bed. I kicked off my biker boots and sat crossed-legged next to him.
He made room and started laying out the photos on the bed. On them were images of him and Karla in what appeared to be an African village or several different villages.
I asked them where they were taken and Sven laid out the whole story of him and Karla traveling for three years across Africa, doing volunteer work in exchange for food and accommodation. They had done about everything to help the less fortunate, from building huts to teaching children how to read.
Sven enthusiastically told me how rewarding their experiences had been, while Karla had decided to wear black underwear and a cropped T-shirt that showed her belly button. She didn’t bother looking for pants. She threw herself on the bed that was supposed to be mine and amicably joined the conversation.
We spent the next hours talking and it was practically dawn when we had gone from talking about Africa to talking about African tribes and the concept of polygamy, and then non-monogamous relationships in general. They were pro non-monogamy and believed it is unnatural to physically be with just one person for the rest of your life. They believed it was actually healthy for their relationship when every now and then one of them brought in a third person or a couple to spice up their sex life.
In the meanwhile Karla had rolled a joint, lit it and inhaled deeply. She handed it over to Sven, who also took a drag and then passed it on to me.
I had actually never smoked weed before but thought, Why the hell not? After a few minutes I started feeling its effects.
Karla had stood up from the bed and was now sitting on the floor in front of Sven with her back toward us. Sven was rubbing her back and her eyes were closed as she enjoyed the massage.
Sven continued giving me his arguments. “Look, there are different forms of polygamy and I completely understand that this choice is not for everyone. If you are jealous, possessive, or insecure, it can definitely do more harm than good. But Karla and I luckily don’t have those feelings.”
Karla opened her eyes and said, “To us monogamy is like committing to eating a sandwich with cheese every single day until you die and depriving yourself from any other sandwich. When in fact sometimes you might feel the need to break the monotony, because you crave to have ham or jelly on your bread. And in our experience, if you give in to those cravings, the moment you eat your bread with cheese again it will taste twice as good. It will still be... special. You get what I mean?”
I chuckled at her analogy and looked at them both with a smile. “I get it, but I don’t necessarily agree,” I said.
Karla turned around to face me. “Why? Why don’t you agree? Why do you have to restrain your natural urges to conform to what society believes a respectable relationship should look like?”
“Many people have those urges at some point and that’s one of the many reasons being in a relationship is so difficult,” I said. “But I believe that in the end a relationship is a commitment between two people and that involves restraint and some sacrifice,” I said.
“Well I think that’s unnatural,” Karla replied. “As humans we are capable of loving several people in different ways and on different levels. It’s the society we live in that has dictated that this is immoral or devious.”
Sven nodded in agreement, then added, “Society is forcing us to choose one single person out of millions to be our lifelong partner. Did you know that researches show that monogamous couples are way more insecure and even more prone to cheating?”
“I had no idea, but then again, I never looked it up,” I said, not too seriously. I couldn’t help but smile at Sven’s attempts to underline his opinion. But he seemed oblivious to me teasing him.
“I’m not saying that Karla and I would choose to have a polygamous marriage... ’cause we don’t believe in marriage to begin with, but that’s another discussion. The point is, Karla and I are swingers, but we love each other enough to know that our relationship is stronger than sex, no matter who we have it with or how fucking hot it is.”
I looked at them and blinked, for I didn’t have a response right away and was too stoned to give up the laid-back feeling to argue or disagree.
“Well,” I finally said shrugging, “if everyone involved is completely comfortable with the situation, who am I to judge?”
“Exactly,” Karla said. She smiled at me, her eyes looking misty due to the joint we had been smoking. She then pulled herself up and leaned in and kissed me. She pushed her tongue in my mouth and it wasn’t until I felt the small metallic ball, pierced through her tongue, slide against mine that I woke up and pulled back, breaking off the kiss.
“Am I making you feel uncomfortable?” she asked.
I was more startled than uncomfortable so I shook my head.
She then turned to Sven and continued the kiss with him.
I sat there slightly numbed by the weed and by the thought that since Erica, this was the first time I had been physical with someone else.
I watched Karla kiss Sven and saw how she had pulled his harem pants down below his knees. The awkwardness of seeing Karla go down on him was overcome by a feeling of immense arousal. It had been over half a year that I had felt the warmth of another body, and my “natural urges,” as Karla had called it, got the better of me.
Without interrupting her pleasing of Sven, she tugged down her underwear, looked up at me and then took my hand and placed it on her crotch. I hesitated and looked at Sven, hoping for some sign of disapproval. Instead he gave me a slight nod, encouraging me to go on. I slipped my fingers in, moving in circular motion and immediately felt her body react to my touch.
And then suddenly I stopped. My body was yelling “go for it,” but I simply couldn’t do it. Memories, guilt and other unresolved emotions withheld me from really enjoying this. I pulled away my hand and slowly stood up.
Karla stopped what she was doing and they both looked at me.
“Everything okay?” Sven a
sked with deepened breath.
“Yeah, it’s fine. I think I need a walk,” I said and grabbed my boots and jacket.
By the time I was back, Sven and Karla were sound asleep.
* * *
And then there are people like Jose. You know when you meet someone new and you hit it off instantly? Well, Jose and I seemed to have known each other from another lifetime or something. When I took the seat next to him on the bus traveling to Prague and we started talking, it was as if we were continuing a conversation we had started just the day before.
Jose was from Spain, Madrid to be exact, and he was studying in Prague for a couple of semesters. He had gone to Madrid by plane for his sister’s wedding, but wasn’t in a hurry, so he had city- hopped his way back to Prague.
Jose was a philosopher, a story teller, a dreamer and sort of a poet. I always thought it was a shame he was born so many centuries late. I believe he would have definitely felt more at home in medieval France, running around reciting poems and tickling on a harp. Jose was an authentic modern-day troubadour. Of course he played guitar and the piano and if one would have said the flute I would have believed it. Anyway, he was the most sensitive, smoothest, coolest guy I had ever met. And of course there was no woman he wanted that he didn’t get. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but his serene and suave demeanor was irresistible to women. He was chivalrous and thoughtful, and when he spoke you would be hanging on his lips, only to realize that he was in fact just describing how he had changed the wheel of a bicycle.
* * *
In Prague, Jose let me crash in his room for about a week or so and during that time he served as my private tour guide.
He had already visited all the tourist places before and seemed to have memorized the city’s incredible history.
I listened attentively as we walked about the complex of historic buildings of Clementinum, which at one time served as a Jesuit college, and its beautiful Baroque library hall and the richly ornamented Mirror Chapel. We passed through the Powder Gate, which can trace its origins back to the eleventh century and derives its name from the fact that it was used to store gunpowder in the seventeenth century. And as we crossed the Vltava River, he told me about its magnificent fourteenth century Charles Bridge, which connects the Old Town side to Lesser Town or Mala Strana, and that legend has it that Charles IV himself lay the first stone in 1375.
