Seoulscapade

My first European adventure began early in December, 1985, after a brief stopover in Bombay. I stayed in Paris for 2 months during the winter, when the tourist quota was low, and which I recommend if you can take the cold. The picture above and below were taken on New Year’s Eve.

For me, the cliches about the French didn’t apply; I encountered none of the rudeness they have been noted for. But perhaps that is reserved for peak tourist season. I also felt completely safe walking around the streets of Paris late at night. The only issue I had was with the price of beer! It was made up for by how trim, taut and terrific the Parisian women were. I guessed that this was due to the wine and light meals. There was a shock awaiting in London, land of ale, lard and fish and chips, as far as women were concerned. I’d say that eighty percent of women in Paris were slim and shapely while the converse statistic was true for London.

With money running out, I flew to London to become yet another Australian in London, feeling like a walking cliche. If Paris was electric, London was dull. I mean this in terms of atmosphere or the kind of gut feeling I had. Don’t get me wrong, though, London really was an adventurous time.

I found work when I was down to my last 20 pounds, not behind a bar like many do but as a labourer, and stayed for around 3.5 months. The labouring job was hellish, mostly in bitter cold and often outdoors. It was so cold that there were times I had to use a blow torch to thaw and prise bricks apart from stacks. The nights made up for the days. A couple of guys I met—one of them the bosses step son (the boss lived across the road)—would come over and we would sit around the pot belly drinking and smoking. Meeting these guys and their friends made it all worth while.

Where I stayed, in a disused basement, was a complete dive, and I mean derelict. Some furniture was scrounged for me, like a lounge suite, and I ended up slowly taking it apart and burning it for warmth until there was nothing left. Eventually I took to collecting other items and what wood I could find to feed the potbelly. I threw butts on a floor I rarely swept; covered with wood chips and dirt, it just didn’t matter. I cooked elaborate meals in a single frying pan on a camping gas cooker. I slept in a sleeping bag. Of a night, I had to go over the road for a shower, and if I had to go to the toilet, I needed to go outside and upstairs into my buildings communal toilet. I learned one night, after noting soundless ablutions, that people should never leave toilet windows open during London winters.

Another tip for unwary travellers . . . There we were, me and the guys, trudging up the peaks of the Cumbrian Lake District; I was traipsing about wearing some old gloves, Levis, a beanie, various pullovers, an armless jacket, and a pair of running shoes—plus, I had a Marlboro hanging out of my mouth. We passed seasoned hikers heading down the slopes, decked out in survivalist gear. I thought they were over doing it, but they glanced at us perhaps wondering if we would live. They knew what I only discovered later: how quickly the weather changed at these heights.

I got separated from the others in a white haze at one stage and found myself alone, unable to see in front of me. I followed a narrow path for a while and eventually came upon the other guys resting by some rocks. Eventually, the haze cleared, and I looked back down the trail I’d followed. It was then I saw that no more than a few feet from the little track I just taken was a cliff face and a sheer drop from a great height. Had I strayed left a few feet in the fog, I would have been dead.

With the arrival of summer, I set off from London for mainland Europe. I travelled very light and didn’t even have a proper backpack (it was more like a canvas school kid’s backpack) or the funds to make things reasonably comfortable. I travelled for a few more months, taking in more of France—the Cote d’Azur and Mt. Blanc, Spain, including a visit to Pamplona, and Italy, doing the standard Venice, Florence, Rome run.

My first stop was to see summer in Paris before heading off to Barcelona, where I stayed at a backpackers full of wastrels, with a view overlooking a small square and its prostitutes and drug dealers. In Barcelona, I heard word of the running of the bulls and so I caught an overnight train to Pamplona, getting there at 6 in the morning, which from the drunks, crowds and noise, seemed more like 11 in the evening. That little adventure lasted 3 days.

It was extremely uncomfortable in Pamplona, and I saw very little of running bulls due to the crowds. I did, however, see someone dying in the street, fights in the streets, plenty of punks, drug heads and thieves, all of which made things interesting but difficult to tolerate over an extended period. It was as if all of Europe’s riff-raff had descended on the town to party. Nor was there any so-called romance about the place, which you might think existed after reading Hemingway. Put it this way, I didn’t detect it, and if you ever plan to go there, make sure you book a hotel room well in advance.

From here I went to San Sebastian then toured the Cote d’Azur before heading up to Mt Blanc. This stage, the south of France, was probably the most enjoyable part of the journey, and I met some great people along the way at youth hostels. After this I went to Italy and, as mentioned, visited Venice, Florence, and Rome. I was running out of money at this stage. Rome was not allot of fun because of this and because it was too hot. I was down to one meal of bread and cheese a day and spent my last night out on the street. I flew home without a cent to my name.

But once I did get home, it took some time to adjust to the humdrum routines of life off the road and to get the travel bug out of my system. One thing is for sure, I’ll never travel again without sufficient funds to do it properly.