…As we ease ourselves into Paris, we are somehow infused with the romantic atmosphere. It’s really true, that sexy reputation Paris has. There is an atmosphere of repressed passion, especially after dark, when couples stroll together in leather jackets, embracing tightly and kissing long and deep…
Flash back: July 2013.
My wife and I are two inches away from breaking up.
But, we think about it and rather than have an acrimonious split, and finally say all the nasty stuff we’ve been saving up for years, we decide – at my suggestion – we will go on a hitchhiking tour of Europe instead.
Obviously. That will be the perfect combination of constant minor physical irritation and intense psychological challenge that we need to smooth out the wrinkles in our relationship.
(Top picture: equestrian flamenco. My birthday treat.)
We land in The Netherlands, which turns out to be the toughest country in Europe to hitchhike and camp in. My wife, Nia, has only hitchhiked once before. As well as her backpack, she has this whole suitcase of bulky winter clothing, that she is going to deliver to her friend’s place in Den Haag. The suitcase weighs three quarters of a ton, and it’s wheels are busted.
We head out to the burbs of Zaandaam at night to camp somewhere. There are small patches of parkland here and there in Holland.
The thing is; we are struggling through weeds and blackberry vines, trying to find a suitable camp site, and my wife is dragging this suitcase behind her, and I know she is close to tears, and I want to help her but I’m carrying around so much anger and hurt that it takes me an hour to take it from her and carry it.
(Above: Nia on the beach front at Den Haag, Netherlands. Note the suitcase, under pile of towels, etc.)
(Below: our camp at Mers-Les-Baines, in the railway yards behind the beach strip.)
I’m angry and hurt because I know what the suitcase is for. My wife is not coming home from Europe. She is going to stay here through the winter. So she wanted to bring all her jumpers, and jackets, and boots and everything. We have too much baggage.
In December I’m going home. Home is Australia. That’s the other side of the world from Europe. I’m going half way round the planet because on the eighteenth of December my son is turning eighteen. Nia doesn’t want to be there. She and Jonah have never got along.
So. There’s already a space between us you could drive an Airbus through, and we both know in a few months time we will be thousands of miles apart for who knows how long.
After ditching the suitcase in Den Haag, we head south toward France.
Once we get rid of the suitcase things go a bit better. We relax and have fun together. There is often intense passion between us. We seem to oscillate daily between violent resentment and intense attachment.
We arrange a couch surf in Paris. Our host, Vincent, is a really cool guy. His apartment is close to the most beautiful parts of the city. As we ease ourselves into Paris, we are somehow infused with the romantic atmosphere. It’s really true, that sexy reputation Paris has. There is an atmosphere of repressed passion, especially after dark, when couples stroll together in leather jackets, embracing tightly and kissing long and deep.
(Above: now that’s a phallic symbol.)
It’s Thursday. We’re sitting on the lawn beside the massive stanchions of the Eiffel Tower. It’s hard to imagine a more romantic setting. The sunshine is bright and warm. Looming before us is this gargantuan phallic symbol – emblem of romance the world over.
I’m watching a group of people picnicking nearby. The couples look young and happy to my thirty nine year old’s eyes. I feel this welling of emotion. I want Nia and I to be able to go back to that happy place and stay there. I want to love her and be happy.
We kiss. A real kiss, not that husband and wife stuff. A kiss like you mean it – you know?
I’m like, “let’s take a selfie, with the phallic symbol.”
She says, like she’s teasing me, “well, you are mister selfish.”
And there’s this click in my head.
The reason it’s those words that click me, is because of something she said to me once, in one of our worst and dirtiest fights. At this moment, sitting at the foot of the Eifel Tower, I am back at that fight, and feeling how it was. And my feelings just stop.
Nothing happens. I just sit, feeling numb. And I feel a sort of slow grief for the moment that was almost in this space.
My numbness consumes my whole body and mind. Nia and I spend the rest of our time in Paris being polite to each other. It’s so sad, I want to cry. I want to bring back the feelings but I just can’t reach them. I know I’m letting us down.
We follow the autumn sunshine south to Spain.
In Seville, Nia buys me a harmonica. That sounded corny, didn’t it? But it is actually an awesome gift. I had a cheap one that sounded OK, but the one Nia buys me is beautiful. It sings.
I havn’t been playing long, and I know I’m a beginner. But I’m already a better harp player than I have ever been a guitarist. It’s like you have to find the instrument that suits you. Musical instruments are like pants styles I think. You figure out if you’re more kind of a jeans or a cargos person, and you just go with what works.
(Above: cupids groping each other. Seville, Spain.)
(Below: our camp site in the suburbs of Seville. You can buy this picture as a greeting card or framed print in the Raw Safari Print Shop. Click here…)
We camp on a river bank just south of the city. It’s cold, but very pretty. Horses jog past our tent one morning. Another morning a shepherd walks past with his dog and three hundred wooly quadrupeds.
We shop at the delicatessan on the other side of the orchards, and we bathe in the river, at noon, when the sun is warmest.
We sit beside the camp fire at night, scorching sausages on sticks and I play my harmonica.
We can take a ten minute bus ride, and we’re in the centre of Seville. And Seville is a beautiful city. The town is flamenco. The architecture, the food, the music, the fashion.
We are pretty happy.
But, we still stay away from forgiveness. We are both waiting for apologies that are never going to come.
As the days get dramatically shorter, we drift further and further apart. By the time November rolls around, we are like strangers.
She hands me her wedding ring as an early birthday present.
We are in Portugal.
We just turn around and head in opposite directions. I hitchhike east, and she goes west.
(Above: one night I camped beside the road right here, on the edge of the Sahara Desert.)
I need some time alone, so I go to Morocco. I hitchhike, and write, and eat weird cheese.
Hitchhiking east of The Atlas Mountains, I’m having a slow day. I get out my harmonica and play while I wait for traffic.
I think about her. But I tell myself I don’t miss her.
A car finally stops, and I shove my harp in my pocket, jump up, and run.
The driver is going a long way, and I’m happy to get the ride. Two hours later, the landscape is morphing into desert, and I realise the harp is gone. It must have fallen out of my pocket when I ran to get the ride.
Someone will find it and play it.
November twenty-ninth. I’m in Cordoba, Spain, partying with new friends and eating pastry.
My host, Tiffany, takes me to an equestrian flamenco show, in which beautiful women dance classical flamenco, with prancing stallions as partners.
I haven’t told any one that it’s my birthday. I’m forty. I don’t sprout grey hair overnight and my penis still works. Relief!
December eighteenth. I’m in Australia, at my son, Jonah’s, eighteenth birthday party.
After his party, Jonah and I hit the road and hitchhike across Australia, Malaysia, and Thailand together for two months. It’s awesome.
Nia stays in Europe. She seems as happy to be free as I am, if not more so. We stop talking to each other. I tell myself I still don’t miss her.
Next time I’m near a music shop, I buy a full set of harmonicas. I can play in most keys now.
I sometimes have awesome opportunities to jam with incredible musicians as I travel, and I want to make the most of every opportunity. I’m learning new stuff from people all the time, and finding it easy to learn. I feel sometimes like music itself is leading me towards happiness.
Overall, life just seems to go along easier now. I guess I just needed to figure out I was more of a cargos person than a jeans person.
(Below: playing blues with family at Rainbow Gathering.)
>> More stories about my travels with Nia.
>> Learn how to travel in Europe for $11 a day!
