Small World After All

At 18, I signed up for my high school’s European trip. This endeavor gave us one month to explore Northern Europe, a dream come true so early in my life, or so I thought. Being monitored by our instructors, the expedition that was supposed to be life-changing seemed dull and uneventful. Our chaperones kept us in line, eliminating any solo exploring, possibilities for mischief, or extra-curricular fun.

We longed for the chance to explore what Europe had to offer, to investigate our interests, and find all we could see. At the end of that month, I felt like my time had been wasted, my money thrown away and a month of my life lost, never to be given back. Don’t get me wrong, London was amazing, Edinburgh stunning. I relished the smells of Amsterdam, photographed the windmills and tulips. Sweden was warmer than I expected and Norway rockier. Germany was more fascinating than I ever would have thought.

But when I arrived home, I hadn’t created the memories I thought Europe would inspire. Each day involved a history lesson, an extended moment for learning. I’m not opposed to education and aspire to learn all I can but hold the belief it should be fun. I was back in my piece of reality for one whole week when I knew I needed to return.

The following year a friend and I set out with backpacks, my camera, our passports, and our wits. We landed in Paris after fourteen hours, jet-lagged but too excited to sleep. Walking the streets, we tasted freshly baked bread, drank more wine than water, and navigated the banks of the Seine. Our first night as tourists found us at a hostel, a hand full of cards and a pocket full of coins.

Our stay in Paris was brief, we had much to see. Feeling underdressed and overwhelmed we left the Musée De Louvre behind and set out on foot, the Alps guiding our way. The hostels we stayed at allowed us to meet people from all over the world. With a deck of cards, we made enough cash each night to make it to our next location.

Our travels would take us through France, Switzerland, and eventually Italy. A climb of over 10000 ft, the descent no less. We witnessed sheepherders and vineyards, rows of lavender, and orchards of fruit trees. Viewed mountains that dwarfed the Rockies we were used to seeing, and lakes of such clarity it seemed like they were crystalline. The weather was mostly good, except for one day while crossing the Alps. A farmer took mercy on us, allowing us to use the loft of his barn to stay dry. The only thing he asked for as payment; that we help with the sheep the following morning. Being Canadian we were not afraid of a bit of farm work.

When we finally arrived in Italy, we were tired, hungry, and reevaluating our choice. We had enough money to continue and a plane ticket home, but the journey was more arduous than we had at first thought. Traveling Europe by foot took perseverance I never imagined. More than once we thought about calling it quits, but we had come to complete a quest. So, with a bit of grumbling and a lot of mutual encouragement, we continued.

Our wandering led us south where we would stop in Genoa to take in the sea, dipping our feet into the salty water. Here I would meet a young Italian man named Guillelmo, I called him Gill. He, like me, had a yearning for travel, but unlike me, hadn’t been given the chance. My friend and I decided to stay in Genoa for longer than usual. Somehow, we were a week ahead of schedule and agreed the break would be nice. We spend our time enjoying Gill’s company and the history he was able to bestow on us. Gill and I became close. While I knew that we would never be able to have something long term, the connection we had seemed like he had always been there.

On our last night in Genoa, Gill asked me to meet him at the beach, and I did. We were out at sea, lingering in each other’s arms, talking as if the morning wouldn’t be our parting. As our lips joined in a mimic of our bodies, I wasn’t paying attention to the incoming tide. I had left my bag on a rocky area but when we returned to shore, it was gone. No one had been nearby that we had seen, so we assumed it had been washed out to sea. Thankfully, I had left my passport and airline tickets in a separate bag, back at our room. I had only lost my camera and all the photos I had taken along the way. While sad, the important things were still there.

The next morning, we left Genoa, our trip almost complete. We had just over two weeks left in Europe. With our return date to Canada growing close, we decided we’d better make the most of it. I said a tearful goodbye to Gill, exchanged numbers with promises left unkept, and away we went, one bag lighter.

The day came when we finally arrived in Rome. Our Journey had thus far been the better part of two months, over 1300 km. Our shoes were worn thin, our legs toned from endless days of hitching rides and steady uphill climbs. The occasional train ride gave us a brief reprieve in between towns, time for a nap, and some needed sustenance. In the distance we could see the great city laid out in front of us, inviting and tantalizing.

We walked the streets and toured the Colosseum, visited St.Peter’s Basilica, followed in the steps of those before us, young and old. We filled our bellies with Roman cuisine and enjoyed full-bodied red wines, danced on the streets. After a week, we started to know our way around, after the second, we had picked up enough Italian to ask a fluent question. As our journey came to an end, we discussed all the places we’d seen, the people we’d met. This was the trip we had hoped for. Even though it was hard and trying. Even though it pushed us to the point where home seemed like the only next step, we had conquered our quest.

I arrived back in Canada and thought back to Gill. I had safely tucked his number in a pocket in my bag, but when I went to find it, discovered it too was gone. Thinking that some things aren’t meant to be, I put thoughts of him aside and as it does, life went on. At 19 years old, I had just returned from a trip that I would talk and reminisce about for years to come. That would have to be enough.

Five years later, I was visiting the City of Boston. I had flown 4000 km to see a man who I thought I may marry. He had left Canada about 6 months previously and in a last attempt to show him that I was his one, I went to see him. We had a great time, but at the end of our week together, it was clear that I was in it for us, and he was in it for him. He dropped me at the Logan International airport and as I passed through customs and made my way to my gate, I heard someone calling my name.

Being in a foreign country I was shocked to have someone know me, but when I turned around, I was even more surprised. Standing across the terminal was Gill. His smile was radiant and took me back to those days in Italy. We embraced and since we both had international flights, had some time before departure. We had a moment to catch up and I learned that Gill finally got his chance to travel and was finishing a North American Tour. He was inspired by mine and my friends’ European journey and thought backpacking was a great way to see the world.

Gill had walked through the Jungles of Mexico and the Deserts of the Southern United States, finishing by walking up the Atlantic Coast. He had hoped to come back to explore Canada. Before we went our separate ways, we once again exchanged numbers and curiously he also asked for my mailing address. I arrived back in Western Canada the following day, returned to work later that week, and put the whole event out of my head. Gill was old news, no point of dwelling on might have been’s.

A month later I was awakened by a knock on my door. On the other side was a delivery man, he had a package and needed a signature. Opening it, I found a camera, one I had thought lost, and seven rolls of film. Gill had found my bag containing the camera, the tide hadn’t taken it after all. At the bottom of the box were some sand and a vial of seawater.

The images are a nice reminder of an adventurous journey. The tokens a stark reminder that the world isn’t so big after all.

To see who else is Trotting the Globe for #wickedwednesday, hit the bullseye. Or hop on over to Mrs. Fever’s page, where you’ll take a walk down memory lane.

For more stories like this see Meant to Be, Remembering Grandpa or Hot for Teacher.