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---

map

Part III

After heading a ways inland from the scenic coast for an increasingly industrial progression into big-city Italy, the train pulls into Genoa’s busy station. I am one quick ride away from my friends, food, a couch to sleep on and financial replenishment. The plan seems to have somehow worked! That is, until I mull over the schedule for the Genoa to Florence line. To my dismay, every single train departing seems to be express. This is a nightmare because my destination lies a mere four hours ahead. I am sure I will be caught if I attempt to use my pass on this line, but I have no choice. The money is gone. My stomach cramps for lack of food.

I stumble onto the noon train, noticing immediately the major increase in quality of this car over the cars on the local lines. I have no reservation and therefore no seat. But the fastest way to be caught, I reason, is to stand in the aisle. I flop down onto a two person seat which faces another pair of seats and is divided by a table. If this train is full for any reason, I will be bumped from my seat. Frightened and malnourished to the point of shakiness, I count down the seconds until the train leaves. The seat to my left fills up as does the seat across the table from me. A young beauty takes hear place diagonally to me, but I barely notice her.

The train pulls out and picks up speed rapidly. Just a quick four hours to go and this nonstop journey we will end soon. Likely I will only have to avoid the conductor once. If not, I will need to last as long as possible before I show my illegitimate pass to him. But which direction will he arrive from, my front or back? I alternate looking down the aisle ahead of me and then swivel my head to check behind me. Soon I realize my seatmates are conscious of my nervousness and rapid movements. I slow my pace a little – at least my motions but my heart rate remains high.

“Would you care for a candy?”

I am shocked. I haven’t heard English for at least five days. It comes from the woman who sits diagonally to me.

“Yes, please,” I say. And, “Thanks,” is all I can muster up as she hands me a Ricola. In my famished state, it’s all I can do not to rudely crunch the candy up immediately in my mouth.

Having said only one phrase I don’t even know if she had an accent and recognizes me as a foreigner or if English is her first language. Her hair seems a little on the light brown side for this part of Europe.

Minutes - which seem like days - pass. What used to be a smooth silence, highlighted by the clacking of the fast-moving train now seems like an awkward pause in the action. I am still fidgeting. She asks me, “Are you American?”

“Yes.” Now I can tell she is too and I almost sigh with the relief of finally talking to somebody, after so much time.

We converse. She is a world-class soccer player and marathon runner from New York. She attends Yale and is on a corporate exchange for the summer to translate important business documents from Italian to English. She is an all-star. I am a bum. I immediately fall in love. She wonders why I am acting so nervously. I explain my situation to her, from start to finish. How I was robbed in Spain, pronounced broke, and have been riding the rails with an illicit Eurail pass ever since. She seems semi-intrigued. She lives in Florence and we have plans to meet that evening for drinks.

Hopelessly smitten, I let down my guard.

It’s too late. The conductor is approaching quickly from behind and the chance for a moving escape has passed. Sweat pours and my face reddens. I cringe when he takes my pass. He looks at it, his eyes focusing in on some of the small print. Smirking at me as if to say “I know what you are up to but I will let you slide,” he slowly hands the pass back to me. I am through! The remainder of the ride is a blissful blur.

Florence, Italy: A perfect place to have my heart broken. Replenished financially, physically and emotionally, I charge the city, day and night, with my friends who awaited my arrival. We rent motorbikes and carelessly cruise through the rolling green Tuscan hills to Sienna, sampling endless Chiantis. We guzzle grappa at outdoor markets. We pop spumante over bonfires by the river Arno. We toss down Peroni on the steps of the Duomo. We swallow zambuca while slicing ripe tomatoes, sweet green peppers and fresh basil over baked salmon.

I meet my darling several times throughout the city and attempt to woo her with my experiences and booze. With limited time I attempt to speed up the relationship process by revealing my feelings for her. In my push she becomes less interested. Even our kisses are in vain. I am heartbroken but masochistically elated to be in the most romantic city in the world, swooning with amore and drowning in Italian frizz wine.

But, alas, the wining and dining and revelry must come to an end. I am still broke – now more than ever. Besides, I have two days to make it to Athens before my Eurail pass expires and I am stuck in Europe without an income. Over the course of a week in Florence, my friends unceremoniously depart by rail and plane. I disappear quietly, in the dark, on an overnight train to the southeast of Italy, preferring to leave my love behind for good without a melodramatic adieu.

From Brindisi, on the heel of Italy’s boot, I catch an 18-hour ferry across the Adriatic to Patras, where a mere six hour train ride separates me from Athens. And only a short ferry ride away from the international port in Athens lies my island paradise in the Aegean, where I will find low-wage employment and party away the summer at clubs, restaurants and beaches. At sunset, aboard the ferry to Greece, I slam down my last bottle of zambuca (the time for ouzo has come) and prepare for yet another night of floor sleeping, this time on the open deck of the slowly rocking ferry under the Mediterranean stars. I make a silent promise to myself to watch the sun sink into the blue sea every single day for the remainder of my adventure on the isles of the Greek Cyclades.