100 Days

When this post is released I will have been away for one hundred days. Since arriving in Athens in mid-March I have spent one hundred days passing through fourteen countries across central and eastern Europe. I have travelled nine thousand kilometres across land, sea and air in buses, boats, taxis, trams, planes and trains. One hundred days after arriving I find myself less than five hundred kilometres from where I started. In fact, two days ago whilst in Himarë I could see the island of Corfu in Greece, the country where I began this journey. You could say I’ve gone full circle. But if you were to look at the route in which I’ve taken it’s more of a circle drawn by someone who’s suffered a severe wrist injury and has lost the ability to use a pencil.

Reflecting on the past fourteen weeks and looking forward as I prepare to leave Europe in a week’s time, I decided to compile a list of five lessons I have learned along the way. A series of selfies I promised my mum I’d take are presented alongside each lesson.

1. Not everyone you meet is worth getting a meal with

Split, Croatia

In Split, I went on (surprise, surprise) a free tour. Whilst the southern Croatian city has become a mecca for tourists in recent years, visiting in late March meant that the crowds were restrained. On the day I attended, only six people showed up for the free walking tour. Though this was not an imposition on our guide. He happily toured the small group through Diocletian’s Palace providing us with an engaging overview of the sandstone fortification.

Being such a small group, we ended up talking quite a bit. Well at least five of us did. One shy man in his mid-thirties followed the tour intently, though with little engagement with the rest of the group. I asked him where he was from at one point and he responded in a monotone, seemingly without the desire to discuss anything further. Of course, I did not take that personally. Everyone likes to travel in their own way so who am I to judge if someone is a bit quieter or doesn’t feel like chatting?

When the tour ended, and as I began walking away from the group, I received a tap on my shoulder. “So do you want to get some lunch?” It was the man I had not-really talked to earlier. I was a bit surprised but, not wanting to miss an opportunity, I agreed. I asked where we should go. “I’m not sure,” he responded uninterestedly and began walking in one direction. So I guess we were going that way. I tried making small talk. However I was met with apathy and indifference akin to what I had experienced earlier on the tour. I wasn’t sure why he wanted to get lunch with me if he didn’t want to talk. We walked in silence for a few more steps.

We reached one place that the tour guide had recommended for lunch. It was full. We walked around the corner in silence. “How about this one?” I asked. My lunch buddy said it was too expensive. The thing is, we were in the centre of the tourist area so we weren’t going to get anything cheaper. But I thought I should try to be positive. We kept walking around, me trying to make conversation and him unwilling to contribute to what had become my monologue of unintended rhetorical questions.

“Wait here.” He finally spoke. But he was walking into a grocery store. Were we now running errands? Is this the opportunity I was waiting for? Should I make a run for it? In the time it took me to think through my options he had come back out with a drink for himself. I realised that if we eventually found a place to eat it would not be enjoyable so I eventually made an excuse and left. We did not get lunch together.

2. The generosity of others can be expensive

Berat, Albania

In Tirana I had my bag packed and had just handed my keys back to reception. I was heading to the bus station to catch a bus to Berat in inland Albania. Though I had only stayed at the hostel two nights I still managed to acquaint myself with a couple of other travellers. I said goodbye that morning to all the people I had met. Or so I thought. As I began putting my bag on my back a Norwegian girl I had talked to briefly approached me with surprise in her face. She asked, “Are you leaving?” I confirmed that I was on my way and she asked if I could wait a minute.

After checking with her friend, she came back and offered me a lift to Berat with them. They were hiring a car that day and heading further south but would be passing through Berat anyway. I gratefully accepted and put my bag back down. We waited a little longer and then headed out to pick up the car. We took a taxi to a hotel on the other side of the city and at the hotel we were picked up by a woman in a white Volkswagen Polo. We were driven to the car park underneath the hotel. She explained that the company did not yet have an office in Tirana and so she was apologetic that we had to pick up the car at the hotel. Whilst the car hire company did not yet have an office, it’s worth noting that the hotel technically did not yet have a car park. It was still being built. When we got underneath the hotel it was like a scene from a James Bond film. There were a couple of cars lined up in the unfinished car park. It was dark, there were puddles of water everywhere and long rusted metal rods stuck out of the reinforced concrete. There were no barricades at the edges of each floor to stop a car from dropping from one floor to the next. Once the paperwork was done we got in the car and started driving out of Tirana.

The ride itself was pleasant but one thing plagued my mind throughout the journey. How much money should I give them for petrol? I knew the bus ticket for the journey I had planned to take was not expensive. In fact it cost less than the taxi ride we took to pick up the car. Would it be insulting to give that small amount of money to them? But then again they offered to give me a lift. I didn’t owe them anything. But I still felt I needed to contribute.

I had worked out a better solution. I would buy lunch. That way I didn’t have to be judged by the amount I was choosing. It was a much organic way of paying. So when we got to Berat we did a short walk around to find somewhere to eat. We were all quite hungry and disinterested in wandering around for too long so when we saw a pizza place that had plenty of indoor tables to shelter us from the incoming rain, we took up the opportunity. I forgot to check the menu. It was quite a touristy place. It was quite a bit more expensive than most places in town. But it was too late. We all got lunch and at the end I insisted on paying which cost me about four to five times the price a bus ticket would have.

3. Small talk is received differently in different cultures

Assisi, Italy

In Palermo, I had just arrived at my hostel. As I was putting my bags in my room and doing a little bit of unpacking, another traveller walked in. He was a German guy, about my age, reasonably tall with blonde hair. I began with the standard small talk that pervades the start of every interaction of travellers in hostels around the world. Questions such as: Where are you from? Oh, whereabouts in blah are you from? How long have you been travelling for? Where did you just travel from? Where are you going next? What’s been the best places you’ve been to? And eventually: What is your name by the way?

I had gotten to about question three on the prescribed list. I had had the same conversation so many times that at this point I thought I knew exactly what was going to happen next. I was explaining where I had just come from. “I just got in from Agrigento this afternoon. The beach was quite nice...” Suddenly I felt his hands holding my forearms, his eyes were closed and he was leaning in in an attempt to kiss me.

I leaned back and away from him, avoiding his offer. I was still unsure if what was happening had just happened. I had been to Germany before and I was pretty sure this was not how strangers greeted each other. With a sort-of apology he confirmed that I was not crazy and that he had in fact tried to kiss me. I was a bit shocked. I wasn’t even wearing my nice jeans. Needless to say he was much less affected by the failed attempt than I was. Continuing as if nothing had happened he asked, “so where are you travelling to next?”

4. There’s no such thing as a paid lunch

Athens, Greece

In Athens I attended my first free walking tour. I had determined roughly how much I wanted to tip the guide before starting the tour. I knew I would be taking lots of tip-based tours in Europe and wanted to be consistent with my tipping.

We reached the finale of the tour where the guide was wrapping up and giving us information about where to eat and what to do next. I had the money in my hand and was ready to give it to her. “Now we go for lunch.” Throughout the tour the guide had referenced that we could get lunch with her after the tour at her friend’s restaurant. I wasn’t interested in doing that and, despite my dislike for guides advertising their friends’ business on a tour, I was still planning to tip her.

I had the money in my hand ready to give her. “Now we go for lunch.” With that announcement she walked off with almost the entire group. I stood there unsure why she had not allowed me to tip her despite me not wanting to get lunch with her.

5. Hostel staff are just as odd as their guests

Vienna, Austria

In Banska Bystrica I was tired. It was late afternoon, I hadn’t been sleeping well for the past few nights and had missed the opportunity for an afternoon nap. I was going to get some dinner from a takeaway restaurant and get into bed early. Whilst there were limited dining options in the central Slovakian town, I wasn’t fussed. I just wanted food and sleep.

As I exited the small hostel I passed the hostel “receptionist” (he was the only person who worked there so “receptionist” didn’t really encompass his complete responsibilities). He was a Serbian man in his late twenties who talked in a slow, laborious manner that made you unsure of whether the conversation was still going or if it had finished. On the previous night I casually asked him how a Serb ended up managing a hostel in the middle of Slovakia. He responded with a long monologue which included him telling me how he had been addicted to pornography and soft drinks before finding Jesus. It is still unclear to me how this related to him coming to central Slovakia.

Passing him on my way out, he suggested that I go out with him to dinner to try some traditional Slovakian cuisine. As he saw I was heading out, I assumed he meant getting dinner then and there. So I said, “Sure, why not?” It was six o’clock. Over the next three hours the time for dinner was exceedingly pushed out as myself and a Brazilian girl staying at the hostel waited for the receptionist to come. It was mid-week in regional Slovakia. Most places were closed by nine. We eventually left the hostel and got some food.

The conversation throughout the meal was increasingly uncomfortable. At first the Brazilian and I were having to comfort the receptionist because he was annoyed that someone had complained to the owner about a bed not being made. He hadn’t worked in the service industry very long. We talked about artificial intelligence during which time the receptionist made sure to put his phone on a different table because he was sure the Chinese government was listening.

“So Asher, are you a believer?” The topic of religion had come up. That was a bad idea. The receptionist already knew I was Jewish based on a conversation we had had when he saw my passport during check in. I thought he merely wanted to discuss how I engage with my faith, so I was happy to discuss. That was incorrect. Ultimately the receptionist and the Brazilian, who it turned out was also a devout Christian, were very inclined to use the meal as an opportunity to help me find Jesus. I just wanted to find a bed to sleep in. If anything, I related more to Mary when there was no room at the inn. They told me many things about the son of God. Whilst my expression of my faith was met with head nods and smiles, they made it very clear that they were concerned I would not be getting into heaven. If unpunctual meals with awkward conversations were what I had to look forward to in the world to come then I was happy to give it a miss.

Bonus: Hostel staff really are just as odd as their guests

Sarajevo, Bosnia-Herzegovina

In Sarajevo, I arrived at my hostel in the early evening. Immediately after arriving, the hostel owner thrust a can of beer in my hand. He was a Turkish-born Maltese man in his late thirties running a hostel in the capital of Bosnia-Herzegovina. The hostel was small, situated in the centre of the city and consisted of two apartments sitting above the Maltese embassy. With the beer that was handed to me during check in came an invitation to join him and some others staying at the hostel for a drink at a local bar. I had been travelling all day from Belgrade and had had a less-than-social experience in my three nights in Serbia. I was ready to chat.

Despite the hostel’s central location, the hostel owner decided to take us to a bar a bit further away. The four of us walked for about twenty minutes. There was the owner, myself and two other travellers. There was a nineteen year old American girl who spent her time flipping houses in Arizona. This was paying for a trip. She was nineteen. There was another American, this time a man named Jon Smith. He was tall and lanky with stubble surrounding his elongated chin.

Jon Smith was quite odd. He was the type of person who’d respond in a roundabout way to questions to come across as enigmatic. “So your name’s really Jon Smith?” I asked, amazed that his name was so stereotypically conventional. “Yeah that’s the name I go by,” he responded nonchalantly, waiting for me to press him on why he didn't just say “yes.” The unnecessary mysteriousness continued. “Whereabouts in the US are you from?” “I like to say I grew up in Alaska.” I didn't take the bait on that one. He continued, “but I don't want to go back to what I call the ‘USSA’.” I had to take the bait on that one. “What’s the USSA?” “The United Socialist States of America.” “Right...”

At one point Jon Smith asked me how old I was to which I dutifully answered without qualification. I reciprocated the question asking, “And how about you?” “Oh I don’t like to discuss my age;” he said, “age is just a number.” At another point it was revealed that Jon Smith had been on the Netflix series ‘Love is Blind.’ “Yeah I’m famous for being on it and saying that someone sounded African American.” “Right...” As deeply interesting as the conversation was, the at first useless information of Jon Smith being on a Netflix series was beneficial in finding his age. A quick Google by the teen home renovator whilst Jon Smith was in the bathroom revealed that he was forty-one. I wondered if Jon Smith had escaped the USSA after receiving backlash for the things he had said on the reality show.

Jon Smith was relatively tame compared to the hostel owner. On the walk over to the bar we passed the American embassy. The hostel owner said that two of his friends had been detained there recently and had been questioned for hours before being released. It was unclear why the US embassy was holding them hostage.

At the bar the hostel owner told us stories about drug importation and exportation in and out of Malta. He told us how he knew of an American working for the CIA in Malta. He was working at the embassy in Valletta where even the spy’s colleagues were unaware of his exact job. And yet the super spy decided to tell all his secret information about drug busts to the man who would go on to run a twenty bed hostel in Sarajevo. The hostel owner claimed to know the prime minister of the island nation as well as the minister of defence and various other high profile politicians. Malta is a small country so that claim isn’t as far fetched as it sounds. However I have a feeling he may have confused ‘know’ with ‘know of.’

As a final attempt to impress two American tourists and an Australian boy with a failed attempt at facial hair, the hostel owner claimed that American agents had recently stayed at our very hostel. They had occupied the private twin room next to where I was sleeping that night. I was dumbfounded by this claim. It was unbelievable. The CIA was wasting taxpayer money by putting up two agents in a private room in a budget hostel when they could have saved two dollars a night by staying in the shared dormitory. Unbelievable.