When Traveling Overseas, Expect the Unexpected

Reading Time: 7 minutes

Guest Post by Al Coffman

I was about to embark on a camping tour of Spain and France with my friend Jennifer. Her core mission was to seek out wilderness areas in Spain, and she asked if I’d like to join her. We decided to travel together for a good part of October. My only hesitation was an injury to my second toe which had been slow to heal. I swapped out my hiking boots for socks and Teva sandals (product placement); this allowed me to lift my sore toe and walk without pain. I moved like a turtle, but a happy turtle.  

Jennifer drove west from Barcelona and picked me up in Bilbao. From the airport we made our way to a local market and stocked up on travel food. Now we set sail for Portugal to see what we could see—and ran into torrential rains. Humbled by nature, we reversed course and headed toward France. Our trip was a study in such contrasts: our intentions and the results didn’t always line up. At times this was humorous, at others, perilous. 

Our new itinerary allowed for a leisurely pace through the rolling foothills and mountains of the Basque country, which spreads across high provinces of Spain and France. This kept us in warm, sunny weather. A typical day began with a drive along scenic country roads, headed toward an area that intrigued us.

In Spain, the mid-day meal is only served between 12 and 2 pm. We had to plan our day around that, or go without. We would stop in a small town and look for a cheap buffet—we ate a lot of Paella and Flan (custard). At last came the featured event. We would explore, hike, and sightsee into early evening. Each day was capped off with a late and leisurely continental dinner that lasted well past nightfall. 

Our quest for a camping spot each night was an exercise in random grace. We would leave our restaurant and continue along the main road. After a reasonable distance, we turned onto a promising secondary road, and then sought out smaller and smaller roads until we were moseying down unlit country tracks past unseen woodlots, farms, and fields. When we got a good feeling about a spot, we searched for a patch of level ground and pitched the tent.

If we saw a farmhouse with lights on, we would ask permission. Most often, though, we would quietly make camp, pack up at dawn, and leave nary a trace—what I came to call guerrilla camping. My favorite part of this routine was the sunrise reveal of an often beautiful vista which greeted us in the morning. 

One night the wind was gusting at over 70 kilometers per hour (45 mph), which would blow our little tent over in a Madrid minute. We drove through a curvy maze of one-lane dirt roads until we spotted a stone outbuilding. Then we set up the tent on the lee side, fully sheltered from the gale. We tucked ourselves in, warm and cozy, while the whistling wind rushed around the hillsides. 

You learn a lot about a friend when you travel across Europe in a subcompact car. Jennifer was fluent in Spanish, but she expected me to earn my own way. We knew each other from housing co-operatives in Wisconsin, yet she refused to translate for me, even for a tour of the Basque co-operative mecca of Mondragon, Spain.

I relied on a pocket version of travel Spanish to order food and find my way to the bathroom. When came my first opportunity to dust off my French, she took over the conversation and spoke to the waiter in Spanish. I was definitely tagging along on her trip. In times of trouble, however, Jennifer always came to my aid. 

On our third day we found promising “wild” territory in the foothills of the Pyrenees. We got the green light to camp on the generous front lawn of a country bar, got up early, and hiked up a rocky slope toward the entrance of a cave. There we would eat our breakfast. As usual I lagged behind. We met up at the cave—which turned out to be a favorite place for local sheep to relieve themselves. Piled high and deep, yessir. A fortunate breeze brought just enough fresh air so we could enjoy our food. 

Jennifer, impatient with my lumbering pace, was ready to get moving. I wanted to do my morning contemplation, so she headed out without me. After half an hour I set off toward the car, but soon lost the trail. After a bit the terrain got steeper. I needed careful foot placement to proceed, then hand holds as well. I hated to backtrack, so I stubbornly pressed on—there’s a lesson in there somewhere. Then I lost my footing and my hand holds at the same time. 

I found myself free-falling down the side of a cliff. I bounced off a sheer vertical rock wall with my chest a couple of times, and then hit something that flipped me around so I was facing outward. I bounced a couple more times off my back, accelerating downward. I started to worry about my angle of descent toward the planet’s surface. 

Then I landed. I didn’t end up on a pile of rocks, or in a stream bed, or hung up in a tree. I landed squarely on a patch of soft green turf two feet square, with my legs dangling comfortably over the edge. No sticks, no rocks, and no sheep leavings. I leaned back and felt the rock face support my sore ribs. The hand of God had reached out and caught me up in a grassy armchair. 

Moments earlier, Jennifer remembered a cardinal rule of wilderness hiking: always stay within visual distance of the person leading—and following—you. She turned to see how I was doing and caught sight of me, a hundred yards away, in mid-air. I touched down below her line of sight, and with panic in her voice, she called out to see if I was alright. The fall knocked the wind out of me and I couldn’t answer—and pretty soon she was yelling at me. It took a minute to regain my breath, which I spent marveling at her expansive vocabulary. 

It ended well. We backtracked to a town we had passed the night before and found a government clinic. After waiting for 30 long seconds, they ushered me in for X-rays, and soon assured me that nothing was broken. Just a few bruised ribs. Even better, there was no charge for the good news. Government health care, even for foreigners, saved the day. 

I did, however, walk even…more…slowly. I couldn’t rotate my ribcage, so I had to turn my entire upper body at the same time. I moved like the robot from the 60’s TV show Lost in Space, arms dangling from a rigid torso. I’m sure the sight of me getting in and out of our tiny car was high entertainment. All the same, there was no rest for the foolhardy. I still had to pull my shifts behind the wheel; two more weeks of fun and adventure lay ahead. 

As it turned out, wilderness in Spain is a rare commodity. When it became clear that montane goat and sheep grazing was the closest we were likely to get to the wild unknown, Jennifer relented, and on occasion we drove into large cities for urban adventures. 

Jennifer wanted to hike in the foothills, but would not put up with my slow pace. We each went our own way. I got tired and lay down for a nap by the side of the dirt road. Just as I closed my eyes I heard a loud crash nearby. A cow had broken through the wooden fence and was making its way slowly down the road. Now I had a mission: to find the farmer and let them know.

The farmer turned out to be the woman of the house, and she was very friendly—but she spoke only Spanish. And I didn’t. I tried the French word for cow, vache, but as closely related as the two languages are, vache sounded nothing like the Spanish word, vaca—pronounced with a hard ‘C.’ 

In desperation I got out my Spanish phrase book, and we conversed by using the book as our translator. We took turns looking things up in the glossaries, finding the words and phrases we wanted, and showing them to each other. What a hoot. Then she gave me a gift for my gallant act: a dozen unripe peaches. They rolled around in the back window of our little car for ten days, like fragrant rocks, never ripening—but they did alert us when we took a curve too sharply. 

We ventured into the city of Toulouse, my namesake city from high school French. I stepped in to shop for a beret and the storekeeper was very kind to me. While I began the conversation in French, he responded in English. Contrary to what “they say,” I always found the French to be very hospitable—as long as I behaved like a Canadian. 

We spent a day wandering around the fabled healing springs at Lourdes, where I visited at least five chapels. We hit the coast at Perpignan, and caught the Salvador Dali museum in his home town of Figueres. When we reached Jennifer’s apartment in Barcelona, I spent a day climbing the high, ornate towers of Gaudi’s cathedral, the Sagrada Familia, while she hung out with her boyfriend. 

The ups and downs of our travel together provided lessons in grace and co-operation. It was a treat to experience life in other cultures, and I was happy for the adventures. When I strayed too far from safety and took a flying leap, I experienced the miraculous protection of Holy Spirit. It caught me up in its loving arms and protected me from serious injury. For all of these things I was incredibly grateful. 

   

Al Coffman has a long-time interest in researching the spiritual teachings of the world and discovering how they are related on the family tree of the Holy Spirit. How can they make our lives better and increase our capacity for love?  

His current passion is capturing the events of daily life in writing and uncovering the insights they have to offer. Al is an aspiring author, avid reader, and international event coordinator. He loves to travel when given half a chance.