Thumb out in Croatia

HITCH HIKING TO ITALY

On the side of the road in Croatia, hot sun and blue skies, hitchhiking. One moment I was there, waving vigorously at passing cars, feeling quite frustrated and sweaty; the next moment I was inside airconditioning with two Italians, driving at high speed towards the border. The blessed fortunes had struck. Not only were they glad to drive me all the way to Venice (my hoped for destination), but these fiery people went further , offering me work at their family restaurant. Perhaps what appealed really was my proposal : free labor in exhange for food and shelter. After 3 weeks scrounging about in Croatia, being drilled by mosquitos at night, rides in trucks and cars of all sorts, long walks with my thumb out and a heavy pack, I was terribly excited to eat fresh Italian pasta, and working for free seemed a reasonable exchange.

That car ride, with Martino and Laura, was the start of a wonderful week in the Italian village of Sant’Anna Morisina, one hour away from Venice ; this is where the Pettenuzzo family runs a traditional Venetian restaurant, their specialty being roast duck, fresh from the backyard pond ( !). The father, Giovanni, the classic patriarch, shouting violently at times to maintain order ; the mother a plump lady with constant smile, non-stop washing clothes and setting tables. I labored with the stockpile of firewood, to help ready for winter. I also peeled many potatoes.

At night, long hours were spent with the crew of friends – os cavalieros de Sant’Anna – and I was soon adopted as the quizzical, cosmopolitan foreigner, being taken around everywhere. From a ‘buskers festival’ in the old town of Ferrara, where musicians/artists line the cobblestone streets for a week of flamenco, African dance, fire-jugglers, spray painting, and rock&roll…. To a wild bachelor party in the southern Alps, where the scenery of rocky beauty contrasted nicely with the constant pranks on the groom… and finally to an inspiring day with Martino’s uncle in Venice, a magical island city of art and culture… the Italians’ hospitality was unwavering. Soon though, I was boarding the train to the French Riviera, spending a sunny day in Nice ; then finally to Biarritz, where I am now, re-evaluating what is happening.

The speed at which things occur is puzzling; constanly I ask myself, where am I ? what is this place ? as I walk through strange hallways, awake in a strange bed. Dwelling on why these things happen becomes a forfeited luxury, it is no longer worth that philosophical effort. Not trying to make sense of life may prove, however, to be a blessing in disguise. The perceived logic and order in our life is comforting, albeit just a jumbled distortion of the moment. It takes a genuinely jumbled voyage, ironically, to focus more on the moment, as my Bosnian hitchhiking companion taught. He’d sporadically ask, with a rhetorical smirk : where am I ? as we walked along random stretches of highway on Croatia’s coastline. On such moments it was obvious that the answer was irrelevant, secondary to our immediate needs : get the next ride, wherever it goes, because its probably a better destination than this corn field.

I must credit Saleh, for I met him at a fortuitous time ; were it not for this encounter, I probably would not have pursued hitchhiking any further , and never have met the kind Italians and the Pettenuzzo family. I was alone, standing on (what I believed was) a strategic corner, with a polite sign marked ‘North’ in hand ; I was stagnating, cars flying by … when Saleh walks up, and after brief greetings in broken english, his eyes loose, shifting around strangely, he announces he will walk down the street a little ways and get us a ride. I am skeptical but admiring as he forcefully waves at cars, halfway into the street ; then a large truck pulls over, probably in shock at this bloke flailing his arms uncontrollably.

And we’re off, sipping beers in what turns out to be a Croatian beer truck . After being dropped off , with boosted confidence we pursue the next ride, so aggressively that a cop pulls over to check our passports. But fear not, we are not hindered ; and aboard a variety of vehicles several hundred kilometers pass by, and we arrive at a crossroad in our journeys. Saleh left Sarajevo with no money, zero, so I lend him $2 for the ferry accross to his friend’s house. Without money, he merely drank water, ate nothing, and indeed his pace of travel left me without appetite. He had only trust things would come together, and find his way to a friend’s house 600 kms away. It reminded me of a story by Satish Kumar, editor of Resurgence magazine, of how he walked from India to Britain in the name of peace. His guru had advised : take no money. So through trust in people’s kindness, and faith in hard times, he arrived in Britain 6 months later. No world peace, perhaps, but Satish brought peace of mind to himself and others, perhaps.

Saleh and I parted, and I continued on the road north to Italy, now a proud & solo hitchhiker…