Words

Running on Empty: Two Luxurious Weeks along Europe’s Mediterranean Coast on Less than One Dollar a Day

---Some choose to travel simply and economically.
Others have budget travel thrust upon them through drunken stupidity---

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Part II

I hold in my hands two of my few remaining but most prized possessions: the first is my new passport, which replaces the stolen document. This version features a recent picture of a sneering me. A bitter, half-smile, which is the most I could muster up inside the photo booth given the conditions. My hair sticks up and looks almost as surly as my facial expression. Even the t-shirt I sport in the picture is borrowed. The document in my other hand is a nearly expired Eurail Pass. It’s not mine. A last-ditch gift from a departing friend, who felt much pity leaving me alone in Europe with no source of finances, my pass is issued to a Ms. Silvas. So far it has gotten me from Pamplona to Barcelona via Madrid without any problems, despite it being close to expiration and valid only for use by someone whose name is unfortunately preceded by the title Ms.

What am I doing here alone in Barcelona, anyway? The group of friends I was traveling with (and borrowing money from) during July have returned home for work or school. Here is the plan. I am broke until I borrow money from another friend, who is living in Florence, or until I receive a new ATM card in the mail from the US, which could be a month or more. I hear there is under-the-table work at bars on several Greek islands, far out in the Aegean Sea. My passport grants me license to cross international borders. The Eurail provides me with transportation to most of Western Europe – all the way to Greece, in fact. The problem is I only have thirteen dollars in my pocket. My only option is to somehow make my way to Florence, Italy, where my friend is waiting for me with a place to stay and some replacement cash. He is my closest lifeline and Florence my next logical stepping point.

A couple summers previous I rode Eurail trains all over Europe for a month straight, touring cities and trekking mountains by day and taking night trains to my next destination when the sun set. During this process I learned the ins and outs of European rail travel. Most importantly, the nicer the trains I hop onto with my illegitimate pass, the more likely it will be that the conductors will be familiar with its layout and will either kick me off or turn me in. Besides, the express or direct trains often require a seat reservation, only one of which would be more than $13 and would put me out of the game. My best bet is to ride the rails on the local trains. The commuter rails, which run slowly, indirectly and deal mostly with locals, are my one chance to arrive in Italy without conscripting myself first. Without a seat reservation I figure I will generally be able to dodge the conductors by constantly moving through the trains and ducking into bathrooms. And if they do catch up with me the odds are that they will not speak English or won’t be able to figure out what my pass says. Either way, I will feign ignorance.

The plan has worked to a T so far. After replacing my passport and bidding adieu to my friends in Madrid, I chugged along on the slow line all the way to Barcelona – some 16 hours or so – and avoided any confrontation with officials. It’s a dangerous situation, to be sure. Any conductor who may come across my pass is liable to ask me for identification to prove that I am Ms. Silvas. But even if he doesn’t request to view my passport, it doesn’t take an expert to see that I am not a “Ms.” Therefore, it is with utmost importance that I remain alert at all times on these trains, never occupy a seat, and avoid rendezvous with conductors at all times, even if it means long stints in cramped, befouled train car washrooms.

I am not idealist enough to believe my plan is infallible. In fact, family history is not on my side. My own mother found herself in an Austrian women’s prison, not thirty years earlier, for just this type of offense - one difference being that she was traveling on a Eurail pass which was actually issued to her. She was arrested, however, for falsifying the expiration date on her pass. She moved it forward a few days in order to finish her trip. Instead, her vacation ended in a cell she shared with some very tough-looking German-speaking inmates. Fortunately, she appealed to the embassy, which facilitated her release. But only after rotting in the cell for several days. Those who don’t learn from history are bound to...how does that go?

Curiously, the next three days pass in a blur. Perhaps lack of sleep exhausts my mind to such an extent that I am nearly incapable of forming memories. Or all my mental energy is exhausted on avoiding conductors and mentally grasping esoteric train schedules. I spend endless time sitting on train platforms staring at the tracks, watching express trains fly past, or looking down the line wondering if one of my slow-moving friends is approaching. The schedules of the trains which work best for my soon-to-be expired pass are not tailored for long distance travel so I usually step onto a local train for four to six hour spurts - which include endless stops - and move a hundred miles or so east. Then I wait several more hours. Slowly and unsurely.

Fortunately I have no problematic run-ins with any conductors. Although they stop me on several occasions to look at my Eurail they always allow me to proceed, usually donning confused looks when inspecting the pass. It’s obvious that they don’t know the difference between Ms. And Mr. – at least not on these trains. At first I concentrate solely on monitoring the whereabouts and ticket-checking progress of the conductors. But this task quickly becomes overburdening as it leaves me no time for rest. I also struggle to stay alert due to lack of food and water. With only a couple bucks to last me through each day, I can’t afford even the simplest meal. Over time, I fixate on how I can procure my next bite to eat. I wander the train searching for anything at all to eat. While waiting for transfers at small, local stations I scrutinize the selection of food in hopes of coming across a bargain which will satisfy me for the rest of the day. I can’t even afford a bottle of water. In much of Europe this is not a problem; I can fill up at one of the many fountains liberally scattered throughout cities. But I know the drinking water aboard the trains is unclean and I am weary of the stations’ bathroom water. These bathrooms usually require payment anyway, so I am out of luck.

My lack of nutrition induces frequent judgment lapses. Somewhere near the French and Italian border, on day three of my unintentional quasi fast, I encounter water pump on the platform near the tracks. My water bottle has been empty for quite some time and I feel lucky to score a fresh water treat such as this. I fill my bottle to the top, licking my dry lips while watching the water level rise. Just as I bring the bottle up to my lips for a drink an old lady shouts something loudly at me from behind. I turn and she is waving her finger. Without the energy to try to speak whatever language she is yelling to me, I simply shrug my shoulders and say, “What?” My appetite shortens my temper. She points to the pump and says something like, “Non è potabile!” Sure enough, in plain words I would normally notice and understand, is a sign engraved on the pump. It says, “L'acqua non è potabile.” I am endlessly frustrated, thirsty, tired and hungry as I toss my water bottle into the trash.

I transfer to various local lines at least three times. At each stop I endure a long layover. The scenery transforms. After leaving on the local train from Barcelona, I first transfer late at night at a cold, dark and empty station in a mountainous area near the border of France and Spain, at the eastern end of the Pyranees. Even in summer my fellow passengers wear coats, and they speak what I conclude must be Catalán. The next day I chug most of the way across the southern coast of France, bypassing the Riviera and Nice. I hunger for something as simple as a fifteen cent baguette and a fifty cent liter of wine. But to no avail. I make another transfer somewhere near the French border with Italy, catching an early morning train headed toward Genoa.

I cross into Italy as the sun rises, sparkling off white verandas of clean houses piled against the steep hills of the Italian Riviera. The plants seem more green and the flowers more fragrant as my destination inches closer. Out of the window to my right the train car perches and winds along narrow tracks and the hills plunge to the aquamarine sea. To the left, small, unnamed Italian villas flash by. Shallow, bleach-white edifices tower to third and even fourth story heights. Vibrant, lush foliage plummets over balconies or envelops intricate stonework. A morning rain has refreshed the earth. Now the sunlight shimmers off leaves’ water droplets. As the air warms, Italian signore in white cotton dresses step onto their balconies to dry laundry or pick tomatoes. The local train chugs steadily on.

continue to part 3