EuroStory 3: From Copenhagen to Madrid

After an eventful first week in Copenhagen that included a day out in Malmo, it was time to pack and leave; the rest of Europe was waiting. Having attended a total of one and a half lectures, we figured we had learnt enough for the next three months.

My travel buddy is quite fond of supermarkets, especially before any Eurail journey. She introduced me to all kinds of energy bars, and gave me the idea of picking up a delightfully affordable bottle of wine with bread, cheese and chips. A few hours into the journey, the train stopped and there was an announcement that we all need to empty the train, and go onto the deck. Deck?

Me - Relaxation level 99

As it turns out, the Danish-German border crossing is quite fascinating. The Baltic Sea lies between the two borders, between which a ferry shuttles. The entirety of the train moves onto the ferry, and comes out back on the track when the ferry reaches the other border. And while this happens, the passengers of the train have the fortunate luxury to be on the deck of the ferry. The cherry on top for us was that these 45 minutes coincided with the sunset. It was at this sunset, with a little liquid courage from my wine, that I mustered the guts to talk to another passenger for the first time. My friend was away having a smoke, and there was this girl gazing at the sinking sun alone. To my delight she was interested in books, and narrated bits and pieces about Swedish Fantasy fiction.

We dumped our luggage in Frankfurt and began the herculean task of packing for the next two weeks into the limited space of our backpacks. We were to leave for Spain in Vueling, and had another flight scheduled within Spain with RyanAir, an airline that makes up for its cheap prices by charging a penalty for as much as a sneeze inside the flight. Trust me, a 10 kg limit is far from comfortable, and more so if you’re a guy. Some of the clothes packed by the girls in our group could be folded to a point like a tissue, at which we could only longingly gaze. One of us actually ended up packing a hand towel instead of a normal one, to save space. My own compromise was on the gifts/souvenirs I carried, and I hope others don’t make the same mistake.

Eventually, we all made it through the flight and successfully sidestepped the penalty traps, and we checked into a hostel for the first time in Madrid. There aren’t many moments that stand out from the rest and are firmly imbibed into my memory, for two reasons: One, traveling in a group was not working out for me very well. And two, finding good food was quite a struggle for me, and isn’t good food the cornerstone of a great day? It is for me. Then again, the bright and shining moments of my time in Spain are also credit to my compadres.

Utterly famished, when we walked towards the nearest plaza on our first day in Madrid to fill our stomachs, reality hit me in the face. As my friends comfortably settled into one of the food joints, my vegetarian eyes could only look at the menu, squirm, and walk away. From what I saw, the prominence of meat in Spain is more visible than anywhere else I’ve been too. They all decorate almost every restaurant by hanging a countless carcasses like they’re Christmas lights, and every day is Christmas in Spain. But hey, you gotta eat to live. So after a fruitless exploration of the rest of the plaza, I chose a cozy looking café, and decided to get one of those long-thin bread sandwiches on display, called baguettes, or bocadillos in Spanish. The task turned out to be much harder than I thought, as the barista didn’t speak English.

I always thought that the capital city of a country would be the most metropolitan and hence well versed with English – however this isn’t the case with Madrid, as Barcelona pips it in this regard. Anyway, coming back to the café – I was vehemently shaking my head at every kind of meat she was picking out, and muttering ‘no meat’ ‘no meat’. In the end, a woman from a nearby table took pity on my predicament and offered to translate, and voila – I had a bocadillo with tomatoes and cheese. It wasn’t much, and I couldn’t help thinking – two more weeks of this.

Besides the food, Madrid was beautiful. You can be walking across the narrow twisting and turning roads that are a feature of Spain, and next minute you could be on a highway lined with majestic pristine structures and trees. And the cultural combination of sangria and Flamenco was courtesy of my friends, who made the enquiries and plans around it, and we were all left quite awestruck by the passion and energy radiated by the tap-dancers.

Flamenco!

In contrast to the Danish and German folk, the Spanish are a little less bothered about fitness. My own curvilinear paunch is giving me a ‘really, Kishore?’ look, so I’ll explain. It is not an uncommon sight to see an aged woman running through gales and snow in Europe, generally. They could put an average Indian youth to shame on a trek. So at first glance, these Flamenco dancers would appear a bit heavyset. But when the music starts, it’s poetry in motion.

Football was one of the things I was really excited about before going to Spain. If the mere sight of a football stadium gave me goose bumps in Malmo, you can imagine what I was going through on our way to Santiago Bernabeu, home to Real Madrid football club for a stadium tour. From the breathtaking panorama view of the stadium from the top, through the interactive audio-visual halls to the hallowed dressing room of the one and only Cristiano Ronaldo – it was just magical. You cannot help but feel overwhelmed when you realize; this is where the likes of Ronaldo, Zidane and Cristiano have made history. Easily the best 18 euros ever spent.

And yet, despite all this, I felt I was missing out on something. Not that my company was intolerable, but it was evident that whatever the group (and for that matter - any group) decides as a whole, I’m not going to be happy about it every time. And there is little room for randomness when you’re traveling in a group, because you have to stick together. Sure you could say that nobody needs to stick together 24x7, and I am always free to do what I want – it isn’t quite so. This is largely because, our time in Spain was completely tied up beforehand. We had to take flights in and out of Spain from Frankfurt, because the trains for the same routes are both long and expensive. And even within these two weeks, we had a RyanAir flight to Ibiza and back to the Spanish mainland, and three of us had tickets to watch a football match in Barcelona.

This tight schedule greatly undermined the mystique Europe held in the near future for me, as I don’t plan that long ahead for anything. So why did I agree to this? I was hit by a whirlwind of tasks together while this part was being planned, and I just agreed to whatever everyone else had decided.

However, I did see a window of opportunity. While the others had Seville as their next stop, I decided to go on my own to Granada for a day, a city couple of hours away from Seville.

EuroStory 2: Battery & Brains - One percent remaining

Throughout life, we keep on learning – not just about others, but ourselves. Sure, others may not be that obsessive about introspection as I am, but the change before and after a student exchange program is tangible. It might even be true for traveling in general, I don’t know. Everyone I meet seems to be passionate about traveling, as it is with most things nowadays. Things become a fad, and it is hard to tell who speaks with their lips, and who with their hearts.

I agree with the school of thought of putting oneself outside their comfort zones. From whatever I heard from my friends, this is done at varying degrees, and definitely easier said than done.

Traveling alone is one of the ways to do it. I have heard several friends talk about wanting to travel alone. A couple of them, who were going during the same duration as me, shared their fears with me. “I’m afraid I’ll have to travel alone most of the time.” But when push came to shove, neither one of them actually did. Sure, they might have spent the odd day or night by themselves, but I don’t see how that is significant. In what humble little part of the world I’ve witnessed, solo travelling is often spoken of, but seldom done. The nature of year resolutions comes to mind. Sounding high and mighty over people who didn’t travel alone is not my purpose here, tempted as much as I am. I digress.

Coming back to my story, one important thing I learnt about myself was again during the first week.

My friends and I were out drinking, in Copenhagen. Drinking in public gave us a weird sense of satisfaction and independence, as it is prohibited in India. I finished a delicious bottle of wine in no time, and started swaying and over-expressing myself. Not like taking off my clothes or flashing or anything of the sort, but you know. Elevated enthusiasm.

At a supermarket, Copenhagen

Meanwhile, my friends started talking to some locals outside a club. This upset me for a weird reason as I look back in retrospect. Now I take my time to interact with new people. And my introvert-ness stood out in stark contrast to my set of friends there. So watching them talk to those locals was like watching them enjoying a roller coaster while I was standing outside because I wasn’t tall enough for the ride.

So my brilliantly drunk mind told me to get another bottle of wine. And in my temper, I didn’t inform anyone where I was going. It was around midnight, and I slipped away without anyone’s notice.

Twenty minutes later when I came back to the scene, I found myself exchanging loud yells with one of my friends.

Oh and by the way, there was no way for them to contact me as I didn’t have a working SIM card. Neither were we death eaters to be summoned by the dark mark. So really, what I did was pretty stupid.

“WHERE THE F WERE YOU DUDE? ARE YOU INSANE?”

“WHAT? IT WAS JUST 15 MINUTES! AND I’M NOT 5 YEARS OLD!”

Not exactly the wittiest of defenses, but a bottle of wine has a way of its own. And so the yelling continued for a minute or so, and then my friend turned away in disgust. I remember expressing my angst over not wanting to go clubbing and dancing and talking to Europeans and chilling and this and that. You get the picture.

It all ended with me asking for the keys, so that I could go home, to our Airbnb apartment. And I’ve debated this part of the story often, because they gave me the keys in a second. Wait, what? It’s a problem when I’ve disappeared on foot for 15 minutes, but it’s not a problem if I’m going back drunk to my apartment, with a second bottle of wine, which is 6-7 kms away?

I didn’t see how I was in any less danger by merely informing them that I was going home. My phone was still SIM-less, and I was still drunk.

Anyway, I trotted away in anger towards the nearest bus-stop, with the wine bottle under my jacket. It didn’t really need to be concealed, but old habits die hard.

Now I had no idea how to get back home. The direct bus was no longer in service, as it was around 1 am. So I looked over the running routes and looked for any familiar sounding station names. Ridiculously spelled, and even more absurdly pronounced, they are a real pain for the unaccustomed. I did manage to find one vaguely familiar, and took a shot. Once I got off the bus, the task was now to use Google Maps and find my way home. The battery in my phone to my utter dismay was one percent. One. Excellent timing, you useless chunk of trash.

It didn’t however give in, having learnt a thing or two apparently from its stubbornly determined owner, and I found my way home after a mile-long walk or so.

All other things aside, I was pretty impressed with making my way home in the predicament I described. I have since then realized that alcohol cannot affect me beyond a point. That once my fierce urge for control takes over, alcohol cowers like an animal from fire.

What is this, if not discovering yourself? Wandering drunk on unknown streets in a new city takes courage. And that day I knew I’m made of stronger stuff than I thought, and when such situations and worse presented themselves later, I knew I could take it.

EuroStory 1: Malmö

It's an exciting feeling to wake up and know you're doing something for the first time that day; which in my case was exploring a new city on my own.

There was no ground work I did before I left. I had no agenda for the day. I just googled for a minute, and saw that there was a huge park called Kungsparken, and I made a mental note to visit that place.

 

As I passed silently by the rest of my party deep in sleep, into the Copenhagen railway station, exchanged euros for some Swedish currency and activated my Eurail pass – there was an obvious tingling of excitement. In fact I was so pumped when I sat in my first European train, that I took out my notepad, wrote:

“I’m sitting on my first Eurail, and good lord am I excited! The moment has finally come!”

There was a 20 minute delay, so the moment didn’t come quite then.

The first Eurail!

 From that moment on, every breath, sight and step was a song that did not end till the return journey that evening. In a parallel universe, a dog would’ve smiled at the sight of me leaning against, and staring out the window with such wonder in my eyes. 

The moment I stepped out of the Malmö central station into the city, I was hit by a ferocious wind. You’d never expect a geography to change much within half an hour of train travel, but it was a strong, biting cold wind. And it was clear by the general unfazed nature of people’s walk that this wasn’t exactly new to them.

Kungsparken was the only destination in my mind for starters, and it was at a walkable distance. The term walkable is interesting actually, going by what it means to different people. Back in India, the tendency is to think of those going to Europe as wealthy folk. If they saw the way most of us spend in Europe, they’d take back their words in a heartbeat. Let me explain.

Usually, public transport is quite efficient and convenient throughout Europe. Of course, it was designed for the average European, who happens to have a heavier wallet than the average Indian. So when 2 or 3 euros are to be shelled out for a single point to point journey, we start to think – “Hmm, I could have a slice of margarita and/or a coffee for that much. Is 3 kilometers really that much? If I start paying for every 3 km walk, I’m going to be broke pretty soon.”

This of course is the conversation in my head, and I can’t really speak for other heads. But as far as I’ve observed, our definition of walkable is quite adaptable to the cost of a single journey.

Let this not however tarnish my love for walking at all. There is a definite sense of pleasure, and somewhat of achievement, when I reach my destination on foot. It feels like you’ve earned the sight at the end of a long walk. This is something I’ve realized gradually over the length of the trip.

So with a somewhat empty stomach and a backpack, I stand on the edge of Kungsparken. A few steps in and my jaw dropped. A seemingly never ending canopy of trees lay ahead on each side of a plush brown pathway laid out like a red carpet for its visitors. The trees weren’t as thick as I expected; they were tall, thin and looked to have withstood the torment of the winds for many a year.

The beauty called Kungsparken

 A picture I had in my head was of me walking amidst such a dreamy setting. People often think of loneliness as a bad thing. But in the lap of nature, I have never felt alone. The rustling of the leaves, the chirping of birds, the sound of ripples from the lake – as clichéd as they all might sound, rarely are we ever in an environment where these sounds can be isolated.

I spent hours walking around, taking pictures. There were a couple of lakes I came across, such was the size of the park. For a while I sat by the lake, with ducks swimming as well as sitting by my side – they couldn’t care less about my presence, which was new and comforting. I recall an Indian woman who was passing by at that time on her own, clicking away. Our eyes met for a couple of seconds, in which we both became conscious of the fact that we are both, well…Indian. Before I could consider saying hi, or making any kind of decision, she continued walking ahead, much like the ducks in the lake.

After exiting the park I also remembered that Malmo is the name of a football club, and was respectable because it was playing in the Champions League that year. Again, the distance was walkable. And upon reaching there, words cannot express how thrilled I was feeling to witness a football club stadium for real, even though it was one I’d never seen on TV. The eagerness is visible in the selfies I’ve taken.

So, selfies – this is how they began. After sending my mom the first batch of pictures from Europe on Whatsapp, her reaction was – “But where are you? You are not in these pictures.” Gee, thanks mom. I thought you had seen enough of me for 26 years, so had a crazy thought of sending pictures from Europe for a change. Mothers.

And so started a series of pictures with my giant head loosely sprawled across Europe’s finest sceneries. And with the sheer amount of solo travel I did, you can imagine how evolved my selfie powers must be now.

The stadium was closed, but I got a glimpse inside through the fences, and also saw a couple of training grounds for kids.

Evening was setting in, and it was time to walk back to the train station. It wasn’t a walkable distance, but I had no interest in making the effort to figure out the easier way. And with earphones plugged in, I had a chance to walk on the periphery of another park, littered beautifully with autumn leaves. A moment stands out here, when a track from Lord of the Rings was playing – and it resonated with how happily tired I was feeling, and tears welled up in my eyes. It’s hard to describe that feeling. 

Everything from the morning that day was perfect. I felt as if I’d found a long lost treasure within me, this creature with an incredible power to keep on moving, walking, exploring. Despite my many layers of clothing to protect against that wind, I felt vulnerable and naked. My legs were close to giving in. My body was in submission, to nature.

In the middle of my walk back to the station, there was a green pasture – right in the middle of an intersection. It seemed to be strategically placed for me to rest, like that lone restaurant on highways for buses to stop. The ground was strewn with the golden hue of autumn leaves. The trees here had thick, deep-rooted trunks. An accomplished writer or someone with above-average knowledge of trees would’ve given a more sophisticated description, but I specialize in second-grade level descriptions, it seems.

When you see such a place with the Lord of the Rings soundtrack playing, the Shire comes to mind effortlessly. One of my umpteen favorite shots from the movie is of Frodo’s first in the movie, where he is sitting by a tree with his back to its trunk, reading. I call it the quintessential Frodo Baggins shot. And so I whipped out my camera, set the timer on it, and took out the next best thing to a book – a kindle.

It took ten shots and about half an hour at least I think, but I was able to successfully reproduce it – a 21^st century tall Indian Frodo Baggins.

The funny and unfortunate part here is that I didn’t actually sit and read there. I just posed for the picture, and set sail soon after for the station. I don’t think I actually read a page on my kindle for the first couple of weeks, though I did fall asleep on trains with a kindle in my hands.

The act of reading is not as simple as I thought it is. With the sheer amount of distractions that our species has manufactured, it is little wonder that fewer and fewer people are found with a book in their hands. “I love books”, and “Reading is my passion” are more loosely thrown around than cigarette butts in Delhi.

As the sun set on my magical first solo sojourn, it became clear to me that I needed to do this a lot more in the next three months.

Have you ever seen an autumn leaf fall? The trajectory they follow before they hit the ground is most wondrous. Every leaf falls differently. Some will fall like a baby being rocked from side to side, and others get carried with the wind.

I felt like a golden autumn leaf that day, caressed by a breeze, dancing into the sunset.