España. Hitch-hiking was so difficult here, I nearly abandoned the practice altogether. From now on, it was only a combination of perambulation and ferrocarrile that would get me to the Tangiers ferry in Algeciras. The trains were very old and the cheap tickets I bought had me standing the entire way. The approaches into large cities were always heralded by drab concrete apartment complexes, a few stray goats and dusty children playing on any vacant space. Overhead, from the balconies of the housing projects waved the colourful laundry of the working poor.
In the train stations, children sold snacks through the open windows of the rail cars. To leave the train was not an option for the long hauler. I stood packed tight between two big Swedish girls and their massive rucksacks. They had just been in Morocco and had scary stories of narrowly escaping being sold as slaves by a Bedouin farmer and his sons. They had been camping outdoors in the Atlas Mountains and were forewarned by the one of the man's wives only hours before their impending capture.
We standees leaned out the windows, smoked and talked as the dry landscape slid by like a spaghetti Western movie set. I was headed to the East coast and then South to Algeciras for the boat to Morocco. The landscape began to green up as we approached the sea. When we stopped in Barcelona, the två skön svensk flikarna bid me farewell and good luck. I had picked a smaller town as my destination. Tarragona. I'd try hitch-hiking again once I was on the coast. In those days, I didn't have much use for big cities anywhere in the world.
It was still daylight when I disembarked the train. I had been standing for many an hour and my legs wanted some action. I walked far away to a beautiful beach. There were many people swimming in the Mediterranean surf After a moment, I realized that something was different about the scene I was enjoying. All the women and girls were topless! Even the grandmas. It was a blessed relief from the usual beach-going fat men in fluorescent orange thongs.
I saw some small mountains above the shelf of the beach and began to climb up. As I hiked along in the heat, watching for snakes, I paused from time to time to check my back-trail, so I could find the beach again. I reached the first plateau and was treated to a sight that I celebrated with an extra long pull on my wine-skin. It was a genuine ancient Roman aqueduct. It was a series of beautiful arches done in red uniform brick. It appeared to have carried water to the town over the valley I now saw in front of me.
Not having anticipated it was half the enjoyment of finding it. I knew nothing of Tarragona nor its history, but this structure told me much. I surveyed the harbour and also noticed a large amphitheatre. Evidently, this was going to be an interesting place. I hiked along to the North of town until I reached some cliffs overlooking the windswept sea. I scouted around and found a very unique camping spot.
It was on top of a yellowish sandstone cliff. The wind had worn it smooth and clean. A few small sticks and bunches of grass were the only growth. As I walked to the edge of the cliff I felt increasing vibrations from the waves pounding the cliff face. About thirty feet away from the precipice, there was a lozenge-shaped hole in the rock. The hole was about ten feet by five feet. Every seventh wave or so, the spume would rise up to the top of the hole. Beyond the void was another twelve feet of cliff. This section was worn down to two or three inches thickness by the eons of wave action.
That roof vibrated like a war drum with every wave when the water met the main cliff many feet behind where a cave was forming. I sat on the wafer of stone as waves rushed at me from the endless blue, disappeared under my feet and crashed behind me with the sound of Thor. I set up my small tent on this natural feature and anchored it with stones against the incessant wind. When I lay in my bed I could see only water and I could feel every swell of that restless deep. I gathered some dry twigs from the hills and made a small cheerful fire. That night I was witness to a sunset that I described thus:
The water went
turquoise to gold
and then to ink
as my thoughts
Awakened to
a beautiful rose
just visible over
the Mediterranean
I lit a fire as
the magic orb
changed hues
before my tired eyes
Wanting only
for those I love
to share and to know
these unique moments
The night was black but the sky was punctuated by brilliant silver stars and a moon of many colours. Out at sea I could hear boat motors and occasionally see their pilot lights.
The sun woke me just before, I heard the voices. I had been invaded by German tourists! As I tugged on my jeans and wiped the sand from my eyes I saw a big, red smiling face in my window.
A Teutonic voice said, “Können wir ein Bild Ihres Lagers nehmen?”
I staggered out to face my foes. It was a group of two ladies and two men. As soon as I cleared the door of the pup tent, three of them rushed in to pose for the fourth to photograph.
This was repeated to exclamations of, “Was eine glänzende Lage!”
All hands clapped me on the back and merrily went on their way.
I stayed three days and three nights. I had a long trek to get my supplies, but my possessions were safe in the tent. I played on the cliffs watching the octopus hunters snorkel in front of the cave with their tridents. I tried some of this local specialty fried in olive oil and it was addictive. I found an ancient woman far up in the dry hills behind, who laundered all my jeans and tee shirts for a reasonable fee. She used cakes of blue soap that was locally hand-made and smelled like fresh cut limes.
I noticed a strange lone figure who showed up on the second day and took up a position on a rock about sixty yards away and sat until I ate supper at night. He would then wander off in the direction of the town. Next day he would reappear and patiently sit and watch every move I made until sundown. If I went away to the beach, he would be there when I returned.
One day at the beach, I saw a man cooking paella. I was fairly starved and figured I could polish off a whole batch. I had conserved so much money by sleeping out and walking, I reckoned I could splurge. I approached him and ordered some. The man looked at me with great irritation and told me no. He continued in Spanish to inform me that paella was for a couple of people at the minimum. I assured him that I was as hungry as at least three Spaniards and would not waste a speck.
He adamantly reiterated his negative response. I stood watching the fresh prawns, scallops and octopus chunks browning in his great pan of steaming tomato, rice, garlic, olives and spices known only to the Phoenicians who first made the harbour here. All around me laughing ladies with bronzed breasts filled their glowing lips with spoon after spoon of the pelagic delicacy.
I walked several miles to a beach restaurant and after telling my sad food story to an old Dutch man, he bought me a big fish dinner and a schooner of ale. We visited for hours and I walked the long way back. This way led through the town and took one along a street called the Rambla. After descending the steps at the end of this ancient road, it was a bushwhack back up the cliff and along to my tent. I arrived in good spirits.
When I got in the tent, I checked my possessions as I always did. My precious Scarpa boots were fine as was the balance of my meagre gear. Only one thing was missing. My cheap Instamatic camera! Inside it had held a single cartridge of 36 exposures. Only half used, it had documented my trip from North Vancouver to where I stood. I was consumed with anger. I stood outside the tent with the waves spuming behind and looked for the mystery man. He was nowhere in sight.
Spewing a string of curses that encompassed every malediction I had ever heard or read in any language, I directed my voice toward the land behind. I yelled into the salt spray until I was spent. I made my evening fire and settled for still being alive and having my fifty dollar boots. The next morning I was up early. I waited for the lone man to take up his position on his rock. I lit a smoke and walked briskly over to him.
I asked him in Spanish if I could be of any assistance to him. I pointed out that he had been staring at me for three days. I asked him if he had taken my camera or had seen anyone else lurking near the tent. He was very polite and polished in his speech and assured me that he was not the culprit, nor had he witnessed any thief. His explanation for watching me was a thin cover story of how amazed he was, being a Spaniard, to see a man that was happy to travel alone.
He said it boggled his mind and he kept returning to see when my wife or my girlfriend or family might appear to join me. I assured him that I liked my own company most of the time, although I occasionally suffered loneliness, the same as any Spaniard. We talked philosophy awhile and I decided to leave town that afternoon. The magic was gone from the place. Before returning to town, the man gave me the address of a bar I could visit on the Rambla before departing Tarragona.
I loaded my gear in minutes and headed on in to town. I had saved some crispy clean lime smelling jeans and a snow white tee shirt for my departure clothes. I found the Whisky Bar Angel. It was near to a guitar shop, so I took about an hour in the latter before taking a seat in the former. Once inside, I found a nice stool with a view of the palms on the golden beach.
An attractively lithe Señorita sat nearby and I lit her cigarette when the time came. We were the only two people in the bar and so we began to chat in Spanish. She had an ethereal beauty draped over a permanent sadness. She was like a statue of a beautiful woman carved out of the wrong kind of stone. Rather than spoiling her looks, her dolor was an accessory to her overall charm. I suggested we take a small table by a window.
She was elegantly dressed, as most of the ladies I had seen in town were. She didn't seem to mind my large rucksack and dusty Guatemalan cowboy hat. I asked her if she would like to eat some tapas with me and have a drink. She said yes so I asked her what was a good cocktail as she didn't look much like a beer drinker in her floral print cotton dress.
She replied that the house had a specialty that was delicious. She told me they were called Angel's Tits so I ordered two of those aptly named drinks. I giggled over the name and she caught and stopped herself just before she would have cracked smile. A man with a guitar approached a small stage and tapped the microphone. He introduced himself as José Canada.
I told him I was from Canada and I bought him an Angel’s Tit. He played beautifully that night. The lady and I talked of many, many things. It was so wonderful to have conversation with a refined, intelligent young woman.
When I took the little umbrella out of my third Angel's Tit, she mentioned her unhappy marriage to an insanely jealous, alcoholic, psychopathic, Catalonian, rugby playing, bull running, sword fighting, black belted, cocaine addicted, wife beating, stevedore husband who she reckoned should be just about finished his shift at the docks and would be wanting his supper.
I listened to her every word with adrenal sobriety while signalling the waiter for la cuenta. As far as I could tell she was sincere. I told her she should consider getting herself free and then I put on my hat.
As I paid our waiter, the Señora summed up our predicament, “Soy como un pájaro sin alas. No puedo volar contigo. Miguel, eres como un pájaro sin patas. No puedes quedarte aquí conmigo. "
(I am like a bird with no wings. I cannot fly with you. Miguel, you are like a bird with no feet. You cannot stay here with me.)
She slipped on a wedding ring pulled from her dress pocket and looked nervously towards the door. I kissed her hand and took my first step into the rest of my life.
fin