Hitchhiking
in Spain is a bit like fighting in the Spanish Civil War. Ok, it’s not, but if you happen to be reading
Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls
and recently hitched from Madrid to Barcelona, you could be forgiven for
thinking so. You’ll see what I mean
later.
When
I made my decision that I was going to hitch, I was literally seconds away from
buying a damn 45 euro bus ticket from Madrid to Barcelona, when I thought, and
remembered a quote on a hitchhiking forum saying simply, “Hitchhiking in Europe
is fun.” ‘Why would I pay 45 euros to
have less fun?’ I thought. And then I
also thought, “This fucking line is taking forever, I’ll just buy the damn
thing later.”
So
it was/was to be decided, I was going to hitch from Madrid to Barcelona, a 600
km journey that, according to my research would take me about six hours to
complete. With this new plan, I had to
ask Cristina to put me up for one more night and then I’d piss off. She was happy to host me, but uneasy about me
hitching. Despite her reservations and
best intentions, I told her it was something I felt I had to do, at least once
(but maybe more) in my life and I could see that she understood that. “I’ll text you when I get to Barcelona” I
said.
She also suggested
that if I planned on making hitchhiking a frequent hobby of mine, it might be
worth me considering dying my hair.
Apparently my flowing blonde locks would make me a more expensive sex
slave, thus more sought after along the side of road to perverts and underlords
… not that I’m trying to brag or anything.
I
researched hitchhiking from Madrid to Barcelona a bit, and by “research” I mean
I read hitchhike forums, and by “a bit” I mean two of them. Each writer had their own route. Both authors stated, and every other
hitchhike advisor on the web confirmed, that getting out of the immediate city
was best for finding a ride. They both
agreed that in hitching from inner city A) it is unlikely that anyone would
pick you up and B) it is more unlikely that they could take you any helpful
distance. So, with this in mind, the
first author suggested to a hitch point in San Fernando, by the airport, just
outside inner city Madrid and on the highway leading from Madrid to
Barcelona. The second suggested taking a
bus to Guadalajara (the next city-ish municipality along the line to Barcelona,
45 km away) and then a second bus to a small town named Taracena where I would
be right on the highway in a rural area.
I opted for the second. The
hitch-point at the airport seemed too close to Madrid. I was willing and wanted to commit an entire day
to this hitch, successful or not. I did
not want (or want to have the option) to spend 2 hours standing at San Fernando,
then give up and catch a metro to the bus station and cop out. I either wanted to spend the six hours of a
successful hitch to Barcelona that my guides wrote about or spend the entire
day not getting there and then … well, then I’d finish that sentence later.
So
I got up at 8 o’clock and scrounged up what food I could from Cristina’s fridge
without looking like I raided it to pieces and gave Cristina a hug goodbye as
she woke up shortly before I headed out.
From Cristina’s place, I took the metro to the bus station, bussed to
Guadalajara, and approached the ticket office for a ticket to Tarecena.
“Necessito
comprar un boleto para Taracena.” I said, sounding like an idiot, of course,
but it wasn’t my Spanish that incited the ticket attendant’s bewildered look.
“Taracena?”
He asked.
“Si,
Taracena,” I replied back.
“Taracena?” he kept re-confirming.
“Si,
Taracena,” I re-confirmed. I was even
doing the weird ‘th’ sound with my ‘c’ in the word
, but as this merry-go-round kept spinning,
I soon realized Taracena is another word for “The middle of fucking nowhere,
Spain” and that I didn’t exactly look like I live there. But, despite not being a local, he sold me
the ticket. On the bus, I asked if the
driver could give me a shout when we got to Taracena and he said, ‘do you want
me to just drop you off at a petrol station along the highway,’ to which I
immediately said ‘Si’ and then wondered why the ticket attendant wasn’t this
helpful. After thirty minutes, I hopped
off the bus at the petrol station and found what I was looking for, miles of
highway in the middle of fucking nowhere, Spain. Not bad, considering it was already 12:30,
and here I was thinking that I would be in Barcelona in an hour and a half.
The
petrol station was pretty much empty and with no one to ask for a ride, so I
took to the highway, backpack on my back, thumb stretched freely outward and my
feet stalking backward as I crept down the highway, if only at a couple feet at
a time towards Barcelona. I remember I
had a song stuck in my head the entire hitch.
It was “Wagon Wheel” by Old Crow Medicine Show, a classic tune about
hitching, but I substituted the words of “Heyy, mamma rock me,” “Heyy, Barcelona.” Witty, I know, but it helped kill the 45
minutes it took to catch my first ride.
That wait felt long, longer than expected, but I was so enthusiastic and
committed to the hitch that turning back never crossed my mind. A Spanish man of Indian descent pulled up in
a white van and told me to hop in. He
looked honest, kind and when I first looked in the car, I saw a backpack and a
djembe drum resting his back seat. ‘He’s
one of us’ I thought, and I hopped in.
Raul,
his name, was going as far in my direction as Zaragoza, which marked evenly the
halfway point of my journey to Barcelona.
As we were driving, Raul and I talked.
He spoke no English, so I had to hold up my end of the conversation in
my poor Spanish. We talked about Spain,
travelling (‘mi adventura’ as he called it), music (he was in a band) and
literature (I mentioned my writing ... yeah, I know, but, to my credit I didn’t
talk about Gulliver’s Travels). He was
my first ever hitch-ee (well, second if you count Italy 3 years ago, but that’s
another story). I thought about
something I read in For Whom the Bell
Tolls just days ago: “You had to
trust the people you worked with completely or not at all and you had to make
decisions about the trusting.” Now, I’m
not Jordan, but I still had to either trust this guy completely or not at all,
and I trusted Raul. I’m not saying I
would have given him my kidney, but I trusted him not to murder me and drop my dead
body off in the middle of fucking nowhere, Spain. Because, in order to do that, he’d have to
turn around to get back to Taracena and that would have made him late for his
band practice.
After awhile, I
grew tired and fell asleep. When I
awoke, I found the van driving steady on the highway, about 30 km from
Zaragoza. It was then where Raul was
headed due north to Huesco and I was headed due east to Barcelona. He pulled the van to the side of the road and
gave me a small piece of quartz, pointing the one hanging around his neck and
started an eloquent (or it sounded eloquent) speech in Spanish. I did not decipher the words correctly, but I
got the gist. ‘When you are at a
crossroads, hold the quartz in your hand, do not worry about the direction, just
go forward.’ I picked up my backpack out
of the back seat and slammed the door, but not before an “adios” and a
“gracias” up to Raul in the front seat.
I
was back on the road, and not in a very good spot. With Zaragoza being a relatively major city, the
section of highway was far busier than the spot where Raul picked me up at
around Taracena. Also, it was about three thirty, getting near four, i.e.
getting near rush hour. I got out my
thumb, but in vain. I saw truck drivers make eye contact with me and give an
exaggerated shrug through their windshields:
“What the fuck am I supposed to do?”
There was six lanes of traffic, speeding by fast. I would not be getting a ride anywhere near
the place I was standing, so I started walking quicker, and just moving further
down the road, getting to a better spot became my main goal. I just hoped that a better spot would come
before Zaragoza. As I walked, my Old
Crow Medicine Show tuned I hummed in my head did nothing to hide the very real
possibility that I might be un-pick-up-able until after I passed Zaragoza.
In a mixed process
of walking forwards with my thumb out, tracking backwards with my thumb out and
standing with my thumb out, I sluggishly moved towards Barcelona at an almost
negligible pace. I looked at the
kilometre markers at the side of the road, just for something to read other
than the faces of disinterested drivers, shaking their heads or something just
being downright impolite in their refusal.
I walked a good long time along that road. I passed bridges, I passed construction
sites, I passed road signs and mile markers and I watched traffic congest and
decongest in front of my eyes with no sign of a “hop in” from anybody. I was probably into my second hour, when I
came up to another construction site, by a bridge, with a road sign in the
distance, or the ultimate in scenery of my hike, and I stopped asked the one of
the construction workers, “Is this the E-90?” but that wasn’t my question, it
was just all I knew how to say. What I
really asked was, “Hey man, look, do you know what I should do?”
He could see how
tired and non-local I was and he answered my real question with “Si, es la E-90,”
or, translated, “Sorry brother, no.”
Three hours, three
motherfucking hours. 10 kilometers, 10 of those bitches. And I’m still on the goddamn road! That’s what I would have named my book if I
was Kerouac. It’s fucking 6:30. I walked more and I see a road sing
signalling a highway rest stop, 5 km away.
I will make that before dark, I thought to myself, I’ll still have a
couple of hours to figure out what to do before it gets dark. So my plan became to reach the rest stop and
ask where the nearest bus stop that would get me to a place that could get me
to Barcelona was. And then of course, I
would need a ride from someone, and of course, I’d be in the same boat I’m in
now, but still, at least I wouldn’t be walking anymore. And who knows, maybe someone would take me to
Barcelona from there. More walking, walking,
walking and thinking “No, fuck it, I hate Old Crow Medicine Show” and I’m only
2 km from my rest stop haven.
But
then, lightning strikes my thumb. I
forgot I even had it out. I mean what
was the point? But sure enough, I looked
up and saw a large, rickety, dirty white van with spots all over it sat parked
along the side of the road in front of me.
As I tried to run up to the driver, but instead realizing I could not do
such things anymore today, I walked and peered into the back of the van. There was a mattress, a couple of lawn
chairs, a large, long plank of plywood and some food. The dude did not own a house.
“Adonde vas?” the
driver asked as I reached the passenger window.
“Barcelona” I
replied. He looked apologetic, as well
as scruffy, bearded and as dirty as the van.
He kind of looked like Saddam Hussein, but, despite being a rampant
conspiracy theorist, the thought of him actually being Saddam, never crossed my
mind.
“I’m only going 25
kilometers further,” he said in broken English, which surprised me a bit. I
hopped in. I didn’t even think about
it. Hemingway’s maxim seemed irrelevant
now. It simply did not matter if I trusted
him or not. Sitting now was a hell of a
lot better than sitting in thirty or forty five minutes. As we pulled away, I realized I had forsaken
my rest stop in my fatigue and who knows how close the next one would be in 25
kilometers. I guess, I made a decision
about the trusting and I guess I trusted him a lot. I guess trusted him completely.
We
drove down the road and talked. It had
an odd beat to it. He kept talking in
his broken English, and I continued in my poor Spanish. I think we each understood each other better
this way. And we talked about things
heavy things. We only had twenty-five
kilometres, so it was as if we both knew we had to delve into the deep shit
right away. Maybe that’s just what you
do with hitchers. We covered things like
the meaning of life, we each gave our spiel, the unimportance of money (this he
led, but I agreed), literature, the problems with the world and why drivers
were scared to pick up hitchers and the importance of living abroad (he had
lived in Portugal, Brazil, Venezula, France and Spain). He was right on my wavelength. And I became grateful to have hopped, despite
now coming to realize that once I would hop out, I wouldn’t know what the hell
to do from that point.
But
that’s not what happened. It was after about
a half hour of driving and conversation when I did not exit the car, and
instead I became worried. My driver took
an exit from the E-90. He was not
driving towards Barcelona any more.
“Voy a Barcelona,”
I said twice. He sensed the panic in my
voice as he continued driving. He did
not tell me he would be exiting the E-90.
“No comprendo” I said even more
times.
“Cinco minutos” he
said replied, “Cinco minutos.” This guy
was up to something, and I guess in five minutes I’d find out what. I tried to calm down. Maybe he forgot he needed to drop me off on
the highway and he’s turning back now, which will take about five minutes and
then I’m on the E-90 again. But I was
still nervous. I made a second separate
attempt to calm down with marginal success.
I remembered my second Hemingway For
Whom the Bell Tolls maxim: “To worry
was as bad as to be afraid. It simply
made things more difficult.” “Well,
fuck, I’m worried and afraid, Ernie! I’ve got five minutes until I either find out
this guy is cool, or if Cristina was right about my blonde hair!” The van kept cruising over new and different
roads, with no sign of turning around, back to the E-90.
It was in five
minutes time, I saw a sign pointing to the direction of Lleida, but benath it
was Barcelona, and the driver turned and we were on it. “This road,” he said pointing, making sure I
saw the Barcelona under Leida, “better for autostop” and he gestured with his
outstectched thumb. As we carried on
along the road, and as I recalled my hitchhiking “research,” I could easily see
he was right. The road lead all the way
to Barcelona and it was a two-lane highway with dirt areas on each side where
cars could easily pull off. My fears
melted instantly. Looking back at the
miserable three hours spent on the E-90, I had so much gratitude for the tip
and for this man going out of his way to help me out. Though he only took me 25
km, this Saddam Hussein lookalike served as undoubtedly the biggest help in the
process of getting me to Barcelona. He
pulled in at the first gas station, got out a pen and paper and wrote down a
name of a book and its author, suggesting I might like it.
“Leyera este
verano” I said. “Muchas gracias, adios,”
and I shut the door. Saddam turned
around in the gas station parking lot and headed back down the highway in the
direction he came.
And
I was back on the road. But, as the man stated
accurately, the road was great for hitching.
Many trucks passed and their only possible destination from this point
was Barcelona. After less than ten
minutes, a driver took note of my thumb and gave me a “get in” head nod to his
left and pulled to the side of the road ahead of me. I ran after it.
“Adonde vas?”
Iasked.
“Barcelona” he
said.
“Barcelona!” I shouted enthusiastically and jumped in.
We
took off down the regional highway, at a slower pace than on the E-90, but I
didn’t care. I had a passage to,
“Heyyyy, Barcelona!” The driver seemed
nice enough and the thought of a part-time truck driver part-time serial killer
seemed ludicrous, but honestly, through the whole journey my safety was never a
major concern. We chit-chatted in
Spanish, and I noticed a significant difference in my ability in speaking to
when I talked to Raul at the beginning of the day. It was heartening, getting back into the
Spanish language a bit. I made him laugh
even. As this is usually my goal when
conversing in English, I told of couple of anecdotes and said a couple funny
things in Spanish and he laughed at them.
“From Lisbon, I bought a ticket to Madrid. 12 hours overnight. With bed, 85 euros. Without bed, 40 euros. So, I bought the ticket for 45 euros and I
bought a litre of beer for 1 euro and I slept better than anyone on the train.”
After
a couple hours driving, he said he had to stop for dinner for an hour. Not wanting to be an annoyance and knowing of
truck driver’s legal obligations to take a stop every so many hours, I found no
objections, “Esta bien” I said. At this
point, I realized again that I was starving. The prospect of a gas station bag of crisps
seemed appealing to me and the thought of going back on the road with my thumb
out did not.
When
we pulled in at the truck stop, I got out of the truck, and headed for the gas
station shop, when he said, “un momento.”
He took out a baguette, gave me half, and then two sausages. Then he produced a container of gispatcho and
poured half of it into a bowl. I chomped
down the bread and lapped up the gispatcho eagerly. As I ate, I thought about some things I saw
throughout that day. I thought about my
impression of people. For the most part
my misanthropy prevailed. I probably
spent a lot of time thinking, “People are in general stupid, apathetic and
stubborn.” And I thought about when you
pass someone like me, while concealed in your frame of steel and glass you
think about that person for two seconds and about the reasons why you are not
going to pick them up. Then you speed
passed them and your thoughts go back to the fine leather interior of your Audi
and it makes you feel secure once again.
But, when you meet someone, when someone takes chance on you, not
because they are obligated, or have anything to gain, but just because you are
a person in this world and so are they, that is people are at their
finest. And what became so compelling
was the one act of Daniel, or Raul or Saddam was enough to cancel out the
hundreds or thousands that passed on me.
It’s a rigged game, I suppose, even for the cynical, bordering on misanthropic, American junior studying abroad. As I finished the gispatcho and bread with vigor,
feeling contented and sated, I thought about how this was the single most
bizarre and astounding day of my life.
Then, Daniel gave me a nudge, winked and handed me a beer. “Salud” I said as we clinked cans and then we
were off.
As
we drove, it grew dark and Daniel drove faster.
The remaining 145 km to Barcelona passed in under an hour. He pulled to a rest stop on the outskirts of
Barcelona, we shook hands and parted company.
“What a guy,” I thought. I went
into the rest stop to ask for directions to a bus stop. I saw three policemen, and I asked them. This was evidently a complicated question,
for they consulted each other for a couple minutes. “Come with us” they said and led me to their
car. Evidently, the nearby train station
was an hour walk away, and closed in thirty minutes. They drove me there, talked to the man at the
train station about getting me a train into the station. They were so nice and helpful. I bet if I said I didn’t have any money they
would have paid for my ticket.
I
took the train into el centro and from there, I relied on my tried and true
method of finding a hostel. I walked
into the nicest hotel I could find, approached the receptionist and said: “I don’t have nearly enough money to stay in
your hotel, but do you know where I can find a hostel?” He took out a map, drew where I needed to go
and minutes later I was walking down Barcelona’s La Rambla towards the hostel
area the receptionist indicated and I was approached by Red. Red was a 19 year-old Australian, “bumming around”
Europe for the past year and ran the Stoke Hostel, or its unofficial nickname
of “G-Spot,” and is probably the most naturally charismatic person I had ever
met. I said I was interested in staying
anywhere, just needed to get my back off my back. He told me not to get my hopes up about the
hostel and walked me to it.
I
followed Red into the hostel, and it was a piece of shit. I mean, it was a fucking dump. There was a filthy kitchen, a cluttered room
of 4 bunk-beds (seriously that is the entire size of the hostel), a common room
(equally dirty as the others) and an uninviting bathroom. “The thing is,” Red said, “it’s not
everyone’s cup of tea, but the G-Spot is so shitty that only cool people will
ever stay here.” I loved it and said I’d
stay. “Great!” he said and with one
swoop of his arm, he cleared a bunch of things lying on a top bunk off of the
bed and onto the floor, “check-in complete.
Where are you coming from, by the way?”
“Madrid” I
replied.
“You take a bus,
or what?”
“No, I
hitched. It took all day.”
“Oh shit! Then you could probably drink a couple of
beers tonight then” he said.
“Yes, that would
be an accurate statement” I laughed.
“Well, my mate runs
this bar crawl and I work for it too. It
costs fifteen euros, but since you’re staying at the G-Spot, I can probably get
you in for free.”
I
dumped my shit amongst all the other shit lying on the floor of the hostel and
headed back out the door. After the thirteen hours it took to get to Barcelona, it felt like I had a beer in my hand within seconds of being in the city. And at the first bar, Red introduced me to Daniel, Jessica, Matt, Mikel, Ramono, shit everyone
that worked with them. All travellers bumming
around like me, and I was one of them after two beers. I was just in. And I had a job working with them the next
night if I wanted.
I forget who it
was, but when someone asked me how long I was staying in Barcelona,
“Indefinitely” was my answer ... LW
