A Journal for Those Stuck at Home

Memories and Hidden Treasures: Revisiting the European Travels of an 18 Year Old – 1987

It was dark when we schlepped into a quaint seaside town on the southern coast of the Italian island of Elba. Saddled with our backpacks, we had hiked for hours from the ferry dock on the eastern tip of the island. The year was 1987, and I was 18 years old and backpacking through Western Europe with my friend Karen during the summer between grade 12 and 13.

On the ferry, we had met a few friendly blokes, and it was with them that we had decided to hike away from the docks, following a long winding road into the hills of Elba. We were wise enough to buy a two-litre jug of (cheap) red wine before our departure and took swigs of it as we walked into the falling light.

We were hungry and sweaty when we arrived at our destination, trading the darkness of the road for the ethereal lights of town, where Italian tourists were dressed up and sipping drinks on sidewalk patios. I clearly recall that some looked at us like we were hideous sea creatures emerging from the muck (we were, no doubt, quite disheveled).

We didn’t have a place to stay, and we didn’t have a lot of money, so the four of us headed for the outskirts of town where we found a patch of grass surrounded by the tall shadows of trees. There, we laid out our sleeping sheets, talked and drank wine, before crashing out. Only in the growing light of morning was it revealed that we had found sleep in a farmer’s woodlot.

Sleeping in a Woodlot, Elba, Italy (1987)
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I can’t say with any certainty why I’ve been thinking so much about this trip in recent months. Perhaps it’s the nostalgia that comes with age and stage. Or maybe being locked down in Toronto for a year during the Covid-19 pandemic has chased me back to my memories in search of adventures lived.

It’s difficult to know if we give a false sense of meaning to our memories, as we reflect on them with divine hindsight. Regardless, our experiences do leave an imprint, shaping us, even if we don’t recognize the how or why of it. We are, after all, the sum of our experiences – mixed, of course, with that hard-baked DNA shizel.

Thinking on it now, perhaps the reason this trip holds such meaning lies in the fact that it set me up for a life of travel, particularly of the solo variety. 

After all, I was still a teenager when I scraped together money from various jobs so that I could travel. Once in France, I hopped on a train alone and crossed the country to meet up with Karen, where we hung out for a few days with the larger-than-life Canadian artist and gallery owner Jack Pollack at his home in the ancient hilltop village of Gordes (not far from the Mediterranean Sea). Then, with Eurorail passes in hand, Karen and I boarded a train and headed for Geneva, Innsbruck, and Vienna, then down through Italy. As we made our way overland, we sometimes slept in train corridors to save money.

Pisa, Italy (1987)

After several weeks of exploration, we boarded a ship in Brindisi for the Greek island of Corfu, known for its party scene. There, we lounged, drank too much, and had many plates smashed on our heads (as was the custom). I remember how bright the stars were walking along the beach, and I also remember leaving the island alone and travelling back up through Italy. I met strangers but also spent many hours by myself, staring out the train window at the passing landscapes and contemplating a life that was, in many ways, only just beginning.

At 18, though, I already had a somewhat conflicted mind and some relationship demons I struggled with, so being alone served me well, giving me the space to unpack some of that emotional baggage.  

My solo journey took me to the cobblestoned streets of Salzburg, Austria, the boisterous beer halls of Munich, as well as the canals of Amsterdam, where I hung out with giants (there are some tall folks in the Netherlands). My final stop was a visit with my uncle and cousin in Oslo, Norway, where we went hiking, visited the Viking museum, and went to house parties.

It seems clear to me now that starting out the trip with a friend helped build my confidence to travel alone, which, in turn, built up an important sense of self-reliance and a desire to observe and interact with the world at large. This experience also inspired my next big trip the following year: travelling through Central America for four months after graduating high school.

This pandemic isn’t over yet, and we‘re still some time away from travelling far and wide to soak up new experiences that can inspire and change us.

So my humble advice to all those wanderlusters stuck at home: if you have some travel experiences from your past, don’t be afraid to dust them off and take a deep dive. There’s a good chance you’ll re-discover something about yourself.  And self-knowledge is a beautiful thing.

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