Traveling – or – The Fine Art of Getting Lost

I’m writing in the sweaty, cramped spaces of an overnight bus from Alicante to Seville. Traveling from on the windswept coast of eastern Spain to the western flamenco city. Ten hours in the semi-darkness, hunched over the backlit screen of my computer; head resting on my bundled sweater as I stare aimlessly out the window, at the lights of passing towns. Foreign names that tangle round my tongue for a few fleeting seconds before they fade from mind. On my way to catch a flight to Marrakech, where I hope to escape into the Sahara for a few days, to lose myself amongst the interminable sand dunes; beneath the wheeling glow of the Milky Way.

I have been traveling for almost two months now: a week-long training camp in Croatia; a week backpacking across Italy; a week making my way south through Spain; a week training for the Yachtmaster in Gibraltar; a week partying in Madrid; a week studying in Valencia; a week in Alicante putting together a sailing trip. Seven weeks. Now a week in Morocco. My first visit to Africa. It has been nearly two months since I got on that plane in Toronto, but it feels like far longer. I can barely remember leaving. Too many airport terminals, the repetitions have blurred together in my mind and become indistinguishable.

Tomorrow I will tick a sixth continent off my travel list and – faced with the prospect of yet-another overnight bus, yet-another flight – I remember that it’s not the buses or the planes that stay with you… Not even the soul-crushing, 20 hour ferry rides. It’s the people and the places, the experiences that you share with others; a sprawling lattice of connections you leave like a trail of breadcrumbs, bringing maps to life and turning lists of foreign cities into familiar landmarks.

Firenze cathedral

A blur of memories: my first night in Croatia (back in April), drinking on the pier in Split with a bunch of girls from Toronto. The legendary hostel owner Josko and his tortoise sidekick, Ralph. Hanging out with the other skippers during and after the academy. Trying to sleep during my ferry ride across the Adriatic, while a Catholic priest conducted Easter Mass in Croatian a few feet away. Climbing the steep, winding streets of Perugia to my hostel in the baking sun with a 16 kilo backpack. Eating dinner at a fancy Italian bistro with a skinny, flat-brim toting ginger from White Rock, B.C. Exploring Assisi until my feet were so sore I could barely walk back to the train station. Watching a Champion’s League game in Firenze with a girl from Turkey and a French art historian.

One of the most unexpectedly awesome nights of my life: my last night in Firenze. Went to the Plaza del Michelangelo lookout to get a picture at sunset. Missed sunset. Ended up befriending a local Italian who smoked me up and then gave me a parting “gift”. Met two Canadian girls immediately afterwards, who were couch surfing across Europe. Bonded over our mutual love of travel (and by helping to stand lookout while they peed in the bushes), then wandered through the streets, drinking boxed wine and invading classy hotels. By some miracle, made it back to their host’s apartment, continued drinking until 2am while speaking a bizarre mixture of English, Spanish and Italian with their hosts. I subsequently lost them en route to the club, after detouring to put on a nice sweater. Luck is a fickle mistress.

Cinque Terre

Visited the Leaning Tower of Pisa for the first time (underwhelming). Lost a game of pool to an eight year-old girl. Came back to the tower after midnight with a random group from my hostel and drank on the lawn (much better). Spent a day tramping around the five towns of Cinque Terre, until I was exhausted from picking my jaw off the ground. Took a nap on the pier, as the sun set over the harbor. Ate too much gelato. Didn’t eat enough gelato. Caught a ferry to Barcelona on a rainy Sunday and couldn’t buy any food beforehand. Spent most of the trip starving, but was too paranoid to leave my bags alone for long enough to visit the cafeteria.

Barcelona

Spent three days sightseeing in Barcelona with perfect weather, during which I saw every Gaudi-designed building in the city. Fell in love with Barcelona. Became best friends with a pair of sisters from Bavaria. Got invited to join an association by a west African drug dealer, after a free reggae show. Got harassed by prostitutes walking home at 4am along Las Ramblas. Spent several wild nights in Malaga. Played a lot of pool in the hostel. Perfected my spaghetti boulognaise on a jankity gas stove. Lost my sunglasses diving into the ocean for a frisbee. 

Royal Palace in Madrid

A week of insanity, tapas and red wine in Madrid with the Americans from my Yachtmaster course. Two days of recuperation and planning in Zaragoza. Nearly a full week holed up in a Valencian hostel that was just too good to leave. Pub crawls, bars with flaming shots and disastrous 4am missions to clubs that were closed. Exotic dancers. Free walking tours and frequent visits to local markets. Horchata, takeaway paella and 2 liter bottles of sangria from corner stores. A Russian ex-merchant seaman from Kalinigrad, who called me “boy” every time he saw me. A couple of French Canadian girls. A couple of Austrian guys. Some strange Polish roommates.

Valencia beach

A final week in Alicante, crashing in my friend’s grandmother’s apartment. Days spent in the hostel up the road, nights tiptoeing to the washroom down the hallway. Driving round the city, climbing everything with a view. A semi-impromptu trip to the island of Tabarca with the two Austrians from Valencia, a black guy from Brooklyn, and a Dutchmen who was walking across Europe. My friend – the local – skippering our boat through several days of rain that did nothing to dampen our spirits. Late night games of poker and philosophical discussions about immortality, interstellar travel and the future of the human race. Good company and great sailing.

All the people I have met and all the people I have left behind: the temporary travel companions; the friendly hostel owners; the bunkmates; the drinking buddies; the one night stands; the sightseeing partners; the impromptu hosts; the friends back home; the family supporting me – I am lost without you. I travel to find myself and yet, each time I leave someone behind, I lose part of myself as well. I lose a connection that helps me piece myself together.

Sunset in Pisa

Sometimes I wonder: if I could gather everyone I’ve met together in one place, would I feel some sense of completion? Some fullness never before experienced by a human being? The idea is overwhelming, impossible to imagine… Too many people and places to combine. This world is so big. Instead of trying to condense it or simplify it, it’s easier to lose yourself in it. Travel until your sense of self disappears and you are just another face in the crowd. Somehow, you always find yourself again: an echo in the voice of some passerby; a mirrored gesture; a reflection in the eyes of a smiling stranger. Experiences like these bring their own sense of fullness, more satisfying than any illusory completion. Travel is its own reward.

Keep trying to get lost, keep waiting for the cycle to repeat itself, keep casting yourself on the mercy of other human beings. This is what it means to travel, and this is the mantra of the traveler: I will lose myself to find myself. I will wander until I am un-lost, wander until I stop looking for something; wander forever through the wild, wondrous and beautiful chaos of this world, this always-surprising planet.