Detours to Milan

England

We stuffed our panniers with spare clothes, snacks, and camping gear. The next morning, we attached the gear to our bikes and started for the train station, winding through the narrow, brick-paved streets of Cambridge.

The train brought us to King’s Cross, where we walked next-door to St. Pancras Station. We boarded the next train to Canterbury, the old English capital of the Catholic Church, famous for religious pilgrimages during the Middle Ages. Our plan was to loosely follow the EuroVelo 5 cycling route from Canterbury to the coastal Italian city of Brindisi, ending the trip early at Milan.

Weaving through crowds of people on the cobbled streets, we made our way to a pub in the center of town. We sat outside under a roof of grape vines, overlooking the river, and had meat pies with beer. “This might be our last decent meal for a few days,” said Bret.

At five o’clock, we returned to the bikes, which were chained together behind a shop, to start the journey. Bret led with the GPS on his phone. Our first goal was to ride to Dover for the ferry to Calais by the next afternoon.

The roads leaving Canterbury were mostly unpaved and difficult to traverse with the heavy gear. Eventually, we reached the countryside with well-maintained roads and cycled past 18th century cottages boasting BMWs and Aston Martins out front.

After the sun set, we continued with Bret’s headlight for another few miles, but once it started to drizzle, we decided to find a place to set up camp. A few miles farther, we found a walking trail around a bend in the road with a trail that led into the dark forest.

The wind started to pick up. Bret and I walked into the woods, found a clearing, and set up the tent for the very first time. Bad idea. Darkness, wind blowing, light rain, an unfamiliar place.

After twenty minutes of fumbling, we managed to erect the tent and climbed inside with our bags tucked underneath the side flaps. We immediately climbed into our sleeping bags and tried to ignore the damp cold. After a half hour of tossing, I felt something push against the side of the tent, brushing up against my face.

“You hear that?” I said. “What?” “I felt something push up against the tent.” “You sure it wasn’t the wind?” “No, it felt like the snout of some animal.”

After several minutes of quiet, we both fell back asleep. Then, abruptly, Bret startles and sits up in his sleeping bag.

“Luke, the dog’s back. I just felt him push against my side of the tent.”

Somehow, we managed to fall asleep again, and this time didn’t wake till morning.

Back on the road with rolling hills and green pastures. As we neared Dover, though, the roads became increasingly steeper. Was this still England, I wondered? The rain got heavier. Still England.

Before boarding the ferry, we chained our bikes and climbed the cliffs to look out across the Channel. stopped to look out over the English Channel from the cliffs, then road our bikes to the loading dock, presented our passports, and boarded the ferry. In no time, both of us fell asleep at the front of the ship looking out toward France. One day into the trip and already we were exhausted.

France

Calais was not how you imagine the French countryside. Most of the buildings surrounding the harbor were cement cubes. It looked depressing in the rain.

We cycled down a ramp from the boat and followed a patrol car to the exit. Within a few minutes we were riding alongside farmland. The sun began to set, but we were low on food. Fortunately, an Aldi appeared, and we bought food minutes before closing.

“Can customers use the restroom?” I asked the cashier in French.

She shook her head.

I rushed outside, passed the groceries to Bret and ran behind the building to a cornfield. Nature provides an unlimited supply of toilet paper, but my dumb ass grabbed a fistful of nettles. Instantly, my hand went numb. Here I was stranded in rural France, crouching in a field behind a supermarket with a numb hand. How many days were left?

Bret and I figured that if we averaged 50 miles per day, we would reach Milan in approximately three weeks, obviously counting several rest days. That first day in France we covered over 40 miles before the sun set.

“We should look for a campsite,” said Bret. “Are there any close by on the map?”

“Up ahead there is some kind of national park with a few options.”

Signs appeared with the symbol of a camping tent, which we followed down random streets to a white house.

“You think it’s a hostel?” I said.

“Maybe it’s an admin building with the camping grounds out back,” said Bret.

“Should we knock or walk around?” “Let’s check out this dirt path then make a call.”

The path led to an old sign written in French. We decided to try another site a half mile away, but when we arrived, there were only camper vans and mobile homes. Bret walked up to one of the homes with flashing lights in the windows. A man appeared, opening the front door but keeping the screen shut between them. Bret asked about renting a campsite using slow English. The man responded in French, waved his hands in the air, and retreated inside.

“Guess this isn’t a campsite,” Bret said, grinning. “What should we do?”

“I think our only option is to set up camp on one of the surrounding farms, but we should move fast because the rain might pick up.”

“None of these farms have any cover. Passing cars would easily spot us from the road.”

“We’ll find something. After all, this was the plan from the start.”

A short distance away I spotted a dirt road with a tall embankment.

“Bret,” I called. “This looks fine up here,” I said, pointing. “You think it has enough cover?”

“I don’t think cars would be able to see us. Plus, no one will be looking closely in the middle of the night.”

We pushed the bikes to the top of the embankment and walked on the uneven dirt to the far corner of the plot. Off in the distance were spotlights shining over a barn and tractor. Quickly, we pitched the tent and threw our panniers underneath the rain trap.

“Bret, can you throw me some of the toilet paper you took before?”

“You have to go again?” “I was too shy in the open cornfield before.”

I walked a few yards away, my sneakers sinking into the soft dirt. Bret popped his head out of the tent.

“Is that your silhouette I see crouched over there?” “No,” I said, but Bret started to laugh.

“How great would it be,” I thought, “if the farmer suddenly appeared with a flashlight and shotgun, and I died crouched over in the rain.”

The rooster crowed at four o’clock, with no sunlight. “Son of a bitch,” Bret mumbled from his sleeping bag.

We tried to sleep for another hour but were too afraid that the farmer would come out with his tractor. This time we packed and dressed in under twenty minutes. Before getting back on the road, we ate some yogurt from Aldi, mixed with honey and bottled in a glass jar. Two hours of cycling brought us to the city of Saint Omer. Stopping in the town center, we reorganized our gear and, being too early for cafes, ate some peanut butter.

We reached the next town at ten o’clock with empty stomachs. We locked the bikes in the main square and walked around to the nearby cafes, which were all still closed.

“I know the French are laid-back,” I said, “but don’t people need to eat?”

“Google says that restaurants won’t open till noon, but if we stay that long we won’t reach our fifty miles before nightfall,” said Bret.

“I’m starving and all we have left is peanut butter. How far is the next town?”

“Looks to be another twenty miles.”

Back on the road, we cycled onto the highway and continued southeast toward the French-Belgium border. Before reaching the next town, we spotted a few restaurant franchises, including a McDonald’s, along the highway. We stopped, bought some discounted pizzas, refilled our bottles, and sat in the shade.

“Maybe we should pick a campsite at the beginning of the day,” said Bret.

“I guess that sounds reasonable.”

Bret studied the map and located a large clearing along the route that seemed to border a manufacturing plant. Twenty miles later, this turned out to be the perfect location: secluded from view and far enough from the highway to dull the sound of passing cars. We were also relieved to find a relatively even surface to set up the tent.

By our third attempt, Bret and I had become experts at setting up camp. We each had jobs for the tent, which took less than five minutes to assemble. Gear was reorganized and tucked underneath the rain flaps; bikes were hidden and chained together. We even finished with sunlight remaining for Bret to shoot photography.

“How’s your hand?” Bret said after crawling into the tent.

“It’s still numb, but I’ve recovered some feeling in my thumb and index finger.

I think some of the nettles got lodged underneath my skin,” I said.

“Does it bother you on the bike?”

“No not really. I think it’ll be fine by tomorrow or the next day.”

At last, the next day we found our rhythm. From that point on there were only clear skies. We settled into a comfortable routine: wake up at seven to pack camp and eat a snack; cycle for about twenty-five to thirty miles; break for lunch; cycle for another twenty to thirty miles to the “campsite.” We took short breaks whenever we felt tired, and usually stopped at a grocery store to restock once per day.

We were also able to veer off the highway onto country roads. Cars became infrequent and the views unbeatable: rolling hills of farmland with horses and grazing cattle. Some downhills sloped for a half-mile or longer, allowing us to reach speeds approaching forty miles per hour. We learned how to tune the bikes and pack our gear so that important items were easily accessible, and nothing slipped on bumpy roads.

On this day, the GPS led through a kind of nature reserve. We cycled along dirt and rock trails that passed under tree canopies of intense green. I felt strong, standing on the pedals while we turned onto a paved road and started climbing another hill. We swapped leaders so that Bret could rest in my slipstream.

The next few miles stretched through farmland with intermittent countryside towns. All the streets were quiet, we hardly saw a single person walking. Up ahead we saw a sign with “Strawberries” written in French. We looked at each other, and without a single word spoken, turned around and headed down the side street for the fruit stand.

The sign had instructions, which were practically useless for us. After a mile we couldn’t find any kind of fruit stand and decided to give up. Bret pulled up alongside me on the shoulder. I pulled out a jar of Nutella from my pack and started eating from the container with a plastic spoon leftover from a previous meal. I think I washed it by licking it clean. I finished and wiped the chocolate from my face with my bare arm.

The next town was the last before the Belgian border. There seemed to be more activity in this town, as well as a restaurant and tavern in the center. We entered, said hello, and asked for the menu in French. The waitress flashed a look of confusion and motioned for us to follow her. No one spoke any English.

We sat outside under an umbrella at noon. Around the seating area was farm equipment and a worn-out tractor.

“This place reminds me a little of home,” I said.

“What the hell are those people eating?” Bret said, looking at the table next to us.

“Looks like clams. I think those are pots of clams.”

Somehow we managed to order beers and burgers with fries. Or at least we hoped. More than food, I was happy to be resting under some shade.

Belgium

Less than five minutes after leaving the restaurant we crossed a small bridge and saw the Belgian flag waving in the air. The GPS directed us onto a path that ran alongside a canal. Over the next few miles, we saw a few cyclists and cows, but Bret and I were mostly alone.

The canal led us directly to Mons, a small historic city made entirely of grey stone, including the streets. There was not one patch of grass and it looked as if the streets and buildings had been sourced from the same quarry. Unlike the Belgian countryside, the streets of Mons were slanted on violent inclines, which we had to climb several times while searching for accommodation. On our third attempt, we found a hotel with an available room and who was willing to store our bikes in a utility room across from the kitchen.

Our first showers since Cambridge. We rinsed our clothes in the sink and hung them around the bathroom to dry overnight. Then we walked around the city, which was filled with bars and food trucks, reminiscent of a classic American college town back home. Somehow we decided to eat at a Chinese restaurant before returning back to the hotel. In the morning, we collected our bikes, found a bagel shop, bought some chocolates, and departed for the road.

The cobbled streets continued through miles of corn fields. Bret bungeed his second pair of bike shorts—still damp—to his panniers to help them air dry. Our routine continued: between 10 and 20 miles, we stopped for coffee; around midday we took an extended lunch break; close to evening we located a grocery store to restock. Setting up camp was easy once we found a suitable campsite.

Our next major stop was Luxembourg City, which happened to also be plagued by steep roads. The city is pitched on a mountain and overlooks the valley beneath. An ancient wall surrounds the old part of the city to protect against invaders. Bret took some pictures of the wall and then we walked over to the modern section to find a restaurant. Even though there was a McDonald’s, we opted for a tavern and sat outside across from two women. After a few minutes, both women started looking at us and whispering, but not in the way one might expect.

“Bret, you think we smell bad?” “Probably. We’ve been riding for two days without a shower.”

We explored the modern section but didn’t want to stay too long—we had plans to camp outside the city to make up some distance. Once we were a few miles away from the city, Bret pulled off to the side of the road and started rummaging in his pack.

“Are you going to fly the drone? I’m surprised you didn’t shoot any video in the city,” I said.

“All these countries have different drone laws. Most places won’t let you fly around major public areas. I think Belgium and Luxembourg have strict policies.”

He launched the drone and started down the road, looking at the controls on his phone. I took the opportunity to call a friend from home while Bret took the next 15 minutes to cover the surrounding landscape. He landed the drone in the nearby field. Just as he picked it up from the ground, a police car drove around the corner and caught Bret frozen with drone in hand. I think in that moment Bret completely shit himself, but the cop continued past us without so much as an inquisitive look.

As the sun was setting, we searched for someplace to camp that would provide enough cover from drivers. We eventually settled on a clearing in the forest that was about 50 yards from the road. Other than moss, the ground had hardly any vegetation because of the tree canopy. We cleared an area on the ground for the tent—removing all the sticks and large rocks. Bret noticed a small log cabin concealed in the woods about 100 yards away.

“We should leave real early in case those people wake up,” he said.

“I don’t think they would see us, and if so, I doubt they’d care much.”

Back on the road, we followed a canal that led across the German border. For hours, we stayed on a paved pathway that ran alongside the canal. Every once in a while, we passed other cyclists or the occasional cargo boat. We crossed a construction zone and had to lift our bikes over a fence to get back onto the pathway. Eventually, we reached a city called Saarbrücken, where the canals continued through the center, and found a cheap Ibis hotel. We chained the bikes together and stashed them behind some bushes next to the parking lot.

“How’s your hand feeling?” Bret asked.

“Worse from the long ride today,” I replied. “Even though I keep trying to readjust my hand positioning, I feel that I’m putting too much weight onto the handlebars.”

“Do you want to see a doctor or go to a pharmacist?”

“I’m not sure how we’d find a doctor, but maybe we can get some topical treatment from a pharmacy. How about we go in the morning before heading out?”

That evening, we repeated our laundry routine: rinsing our clothes in the sink and hanging them all over the bathroom to dry. In the morning, we quickly packed and searched for a pharmacy in Google Maps. Bret checked out and paid for the room at a kiosk near the parking lot—there wasn’t even a person managing the hotel. Throwing our panniers onto the rear support frame, we hopped onto the bikes and rode down the street to the pharmacy. Bret stayed to watch the bikes outside.

Entering the pharmacy, I walked to the front and greeted the woman at the counter. Immediately, she understood that my German was limited and, after I tried explaining the situation by motioning to my hand, she went into the back and retrieved an older man who, presumably, ran the shop.

Even though he only spoke a few words in English, with the help of Google, I managed to translate some key phrases—bike, injury to the hand, numbness—and he seemed to understand enough to give me a topical cream with a painkiller. He tried to warn me to be careful—that the painkiller would help with the sensation but that I should see a doctor.

Our next destination was Strasbourg, a French-German city that is apparently known as one of the major centers for European political assemblies. On the way, we crossed the Régional des Vosges du Nord, a nature reserve in Eastern France. At this point, I felt a general fatigue, but one where my body seemed to accept the daily punishment. I was confident that Bret and I could maintain our daily mileage of 50-60 miles, though the mountainous roads in Switzerland loomed in the back of my mind.

From the road, we turned onto a narrow walkway that cut through acres of farmland. Horses looked up to stare at us while the cows barely seemed to notice. The daylight was starting to wane, so we tried to spot an area with enough cover for the tent. Even though we were around the area of the nature reserve, most of the land was open fields with small patches of trees that were densely populated with bushes. Maybe we had built up a sense of confidence, but we were no longer concerned about angry Europeans attacking us in the night. We road over to the end of one of the fields and set up the tent alongside a row of trees. People who were walking their dogs on the path looked over to stare at us.

After setting up camp, Bret walked around the field with his drone, and I sat to watch other people walk past.

“How does your hand feel today? Any improvement with the stuff from the pharmacy?” Bret asked when we were inside the tent.

“It helps a little, but half of it is still numb.” “I think it’s time we stopped to see a doctor.”

“How the hell are we going to manage to find a doctor who can understand us?”

“Doctors are well educated people. I’m sure we can find one who speaks a little English.”

Despite my reluctance, I knew Bret was right and that the numbness probably wasn’t related to the nettles I had grabbed at the start of our trip. I suspected it was a nerve injury related to the pressure exerted on the handlebars. Maybe after I had initially lost some sensation, I unintentionally started gripping the handlebars tighter. Whatever the case, I knew that any doctor would recommend we stop our trip.

Back to France

Strasbourg was an eclectic city built around the meeting of two rivers. Most of the streets in the historic section were closed off to motor vehicles. We locked up the bikes on a bike rack along the river and started walking around aimlessly. Bret spotted a breakfast restaurant that served crêpes, which we ate with coffee seated at a small table outside. Then we retrieved the bikes and followed signs for the Hôpital Civil.

Somehow in this large hospital lobby we located the nursing station.

“Excuse me,” I said in French. “Do you speak any English?”

The nurse looked confused. She tried to communicate with us in slow French. I used every word I remembered from French class to describe my issue. Eventually, when it became obvious that we were getting nowhere, the woman motioned to one of her colleagues. The woman walked over, spoke briefly to the first nurse, then looked at us and started listing languages: “French?” We shook our heads. “German?” No. “Italian?” No. “Española?”

“Spanish!” exclaimed Bret. “Yes, we speak a little Spanish.” The nurse looked excited and motioned over yet another colleague, one who presumably spoke Spanish. Once again, the nurses explained the situation to the newcomer, who proceeded to look at Bret and I and fire off a montage of Spanish. As she spoke, she pointed along the corridor and motioned the directions.

Bret and I were dumbfounded. The nurse, seeing our expressions, turned to her colleagues, and said, “No habla espanol.”

That we understood.

Somehow, the nurses managed to communicate that we should try the emergency center next door. This ended up being the highlight of our day because the nurse at the reception was a total knockout. For the first time, I considered this hand injury a stroke of good fortune.

“You believe this?” said Bret after we tried to explain the situation. “She’s even sexier not knowing any English.”

“I don’t want to leave this place,” I said. Just then, the head nurse appeared, and we lost our muse to the next patient inline. Yet, just as our disappointment reached new heights, we learned that this nurse understood English.

“Please excuse me, I haven’t spoken English since I learned it in school,” said the nurse.

“You speak very well,” I said. “Better than our French or…Spanish.”

After learning about my injury, the nurse directed us to an orthopedic hospital that was located on the city outskirts. She went back to her desk, then returned with a map and the address. We followed her instructions to the hospital, our first time using a printed map in years. The path followed another canal that led outside the city.

The orthopedic hospital looked like an abandoned warehouse. There were barely any cars in the parking lot, no reception at the entrance, and the hallway was dimly lit. We kept walking down the hallway and eventually pushed through a set of doors to the waiting room, full of very depressed-looking people.

The nursing station was enclosed in clear acrylic panels. The nurse sitting at the desk understood about ten words in English, as I understood about ten words in French, but, somehow, we managed to piece together my symptoms. She was very kind and patient—it didn’t matter that I was a foreigner.

A few minutes later, the doctor entered the waiting room and motioned to me. Bret and I walked to the patient room while the rest of the depressed patients watched. While I re-explained my hand injury, the doctor kept his arms folded and refused to smile. I repeated the words “hand” and “bike” in French while pointing to my right palm. He took my hand, examined it, and sent me to another room for X-rays.

“You cannot bike anymore,” he said in English, waving his hands. “If you continue, the damage may become permanent.”

“Is there anything I could do to reduce the pressure and continue cycling?”

“No. If you continue, it will get worse. It’s already possible that you don’t recover all of the feeling.”

“How long will it take to get better?” “Six months.”

Damn. I had expected this prognosis, but I felt bad for Bret: no matter how much I insisted, I knew he would refuse to go on without me.

As we were leaving the hospital, the nurse approached us: “Doctor said to rest hand,” she said while pointing to her hand. “Here is document of treatment.”

“Thank you for your help. How much do I owe?”

“Bill will be sent to your address,” she said. She looked away then back: “Maybe it will, maybe it won’t.”

“No wonder why the European healthcare system is failing,” said Bret once we were outside.

“What should we do now? You can’t ride to the hostel that we reserved for tonight.”

“Go on without me,” I said, dead serious. “I’ll find a way to sell the bike and catch up to you.”

“I’m not going to leave you.” “What about the Swiss Alps?” “I guess we’ll have to come back to Europe for some hiking.”

We cycled to the nearest train station and boarded a train to Offenburg, Germany. From there, we cycled to the Schloss Ortenberg hostel in the neighboring town. The hostel was a converted castle that stood on a mountain overlooking the Black Forest. The slope of the mountain was covered in grape vines. Bret stayed with out gear while I went inside to check in. When I returned, Bret was chatting up a girl on the lookout.

“This is Luke,” Bret said when I approached. “Nice to meet you,” I said.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” she said. “I wish I’d met you two earlier—I would’ve offered you to stay at my place.”

“You’re not staying at the hostel?”

“No, I live nearby in Offenburg. I come here sometimes to look at the view. I used to come here for summer camps as a kid.”

“Do you work in Offenburg?”

“No, it’s my parents’ home. I just left university to start an environmental sustainability program in the Philippines.”

“Well, we might be here until we figure out our next move,” said Bret. “Maybe we could meet up tomorrow?”

“Message me and we can meet up for lunch or dinner.” When she left, I punched Bret in the arm. “Nice going stud. She was cute.” “Calm yourself, Luke.”

That night, we sat in our room on the third floor of the castle, contemplating our next move: Would we stay in Germany for the next few days? Should we end the trip and fly home? If we continued, how would we sell the bikes? I sat by the window overlooking the sandy courtyard where a group of kids were gathered around a fire pit. In the circle was a counselor, about our age, who played guitar while the kids sang a German campfire song.

“What we need to do is find a bike shop,” I said in the morning. “They would at least know how to ship bikes and can probably give us boxes in the correct size.”

“I think we should first find a post office,” said Bret. “They would know more about shipping large packages between countries.”

We checked Google Maps and, to our surprise, found a post office and bike shop next-door to one another, about a mile from the hostel. We locked our gear in one of the castle spires and rode down the mountain to the town, zigzagging along the jagged road.

When we arrived, all we saw was the front door to the bike shop. But when we entered, we saw a post office counter stuffed away in the back corner of the store. A woman stood at the counter while her coworker, presumably, was speaking to a customer interested in one of the bikes.

“Excuse me,” I said to the woman. “Are you able to ship bikes internationally?”

“Speak to him,” she said, pointing.

When the salesman finished, he turned toward us. “I see we have some Brits in town,” he said.

“We’re actually American,” I said. “We’re on a bike trip across Europe, with our destination being Milan.”

“Americans? You’re far from home. I’m surprised you’re here and not building that wall above Mexico.”

Bret and I laughed and then introduced ourselves. The man was named Barney and the woman behind the counter was his wife. What were the chances that someone would open a shop for both bikes and post? I explained our situation and asked if we could ship the bikes to the UK or US.

“The UK is fine,” said Barney. “Only problem is that I only have one leftover box. You’ll have to find another box large enough to fit the bike but not exceed the dimensional limit.”

“Is there another bike shop nearby?” said Bret.

“Not in Ortenberg. You have to go over to the next town, Offenburg.”

“I’ll get another box,” Bret said, turning to me. “You stay here, take apart your bike and package it.”

With that settled, I had to ask Barney one more question: “Barney, why did you open a post office inside your bike shop?”

Barney laughed. “My business started to slow once online shopping became popular, so we opened up a post office to draw in people. When they’re waiting in line, they start looking at the bikes and I’m able to chat with them.”

“You’re smart.”

“And good-looking too. My wife is lucky.” He smiled at her, but she didn’t understand what he said.

Bret cycled to Offenburg while I disassembled my bike in the lot behind Barney’s store. Barney lent me some tools. I layered the frame and wheels into a compact square and covered it with bubble wrap. Just when I finished, Bret came parading through the lot, cycling with one hand while dragging the box along the ground.

“Get me on video,” he said. “How did you manage that?”

“Some homeless guy saw me struggling to hold the box while walking the bike. He said to ride with the thing hanging off the back. People gave me some weird looks.”

We packed Bret’s bike, paid Barney €150, and threw the boxes onto a mail truck just as it started to rain.

“What do we do now?” said Bret. “Call that girl from yesterday.”

“I think it’d be weird asking her to let two strangers stay at her place.”

“I don’t think we have many options. The hostel doesn’t have any rooms available tonight. Either we crash with her or camp in the rain.”

Bret messaged K. and, fortunately, she agreed to let us stay the night—the catch being we had to meet her in half an hour at the train station in Offenburg, where she was picking up a friend from university. It didn’t seem like there were any buses or taxis, and to walk to the hostel, collect our bags, and then walk to the station would require at least an hour.

We started jogging up the mountain.

“We should hitchhike,” Bret said after we rounded the first corner.

“Who would be crazy enough to stop for us?”

“It’s our best chance. I don’t think she’ll wait if we’re running late.”

We grabbed our bags from the castle, returned the key, and ran back down to the street. Once we reached the town center, Bret turned to face the oncoming traffic and stuck out his thumb. It only took about five minutes before a car pulled off onto the sidewalk. When we opened the back door, the driver started speaking to us in German.

“Do you know English?” I asked. He stared at us blankly through the rearview mirror.

“Train station?” Bret said. He nodded, we sat down, and he started driving away. Within ten minutes we reached Offenburg. Our driver parked in the gas station across the street. We said our thanks and exited the car. Off to the side stood a young woman staring at us with a strange look on her face. As we walked away, she went up and hugged the driver, then stepped into the passenger seat.

Neither Bret nor I had phone service at the station. “How are we going to find her?” I said. “She’ll be in a BMW…but there are lots of BMWs in Germany.”

We stood there looking in all directions for several minutes until we noticed someone waving at us from up the road. We walked over to the car to meet K. and her friend, M., both of whom spoke excellent English.

The plan was to stop at a supermarket along the way for groceries to cook at K.’s house. M. was an engineering student studying renewable engineering technology. He and K. had grown up together around the area just north of the Black Forest. The reason for his visit was to see K. before she left in two weeks for a study-abroad program in the Philippines.

“Have either of you been on the autobahn before?” asked K. “I haven’t,” I said. “Me neither,” confirmed Bret. “Do either of you know how to drive manual?” said K.

Bret and I looked at each other in the backseat. “I do,” I said after a moment.

“Do you want to drive?” “You’d let me drive your BMW?”

“Well, it’s actually my parents’ car, but they’re out of town this week.”

“If you’re sure about it,” I said.

K. took the next exit and pulled onto the shoulder. Both of us stepped out of the car. K. exchanged seats with M., who joined Bret in the backseat. I sat down and revved the engine a few times, then put the car into first and drove onto the ramp. Climbing through the gears, I entered the highway in third and weaved through traffic to the leftmost lane. I shifted to fourth and then fifth, watching the speedometer rise to 200 km/h. At that point, I was nearing the car ahead and decided to slow down, exit the highway, and switch back with K., who proceeded to drive the rest of the way to the supermarket.

“Have you ever heard of flame pie?” M. asked upon entering the store.

“No, what is it?” I asked.

“It’s sort of a German pizza that we make often at university. Traditionally, it’s made with bacon and onions, and usually accompanied with white wine.”

“That sounds good to us,” Bret said.

We collected the pizza ingredients along with a two-liter jug of white wine. K. and M. cooked while Bret and I each showered. We shared stories over pizza and drank all the wine. We started laughing as if the four of us had been friends for a long time.

In the morning, Bret and I collected our bags and said goodbye. We took a bus to the train station where we bought tickets to Milan. The train wound through the parts of Switzerland that had been part of our original itinerary. I looked out the window to watch the steep hills and lakes pass by as we entered Zurich. How strange it was to ponder the many changes of our journey.

“Imagine cycling up that,” I said, pointing at the mountain. “At least we got to see Switzerland,” Bret said. “Do you think you’ll come back to see Switzerland properly?”

“I don’t know. Now that we’ve traveled through a large part of Europe, I think my next trip will be somewhere different, maybe Asia or South America.”

After passing Zurich, we fell asleep for the last hour before arriving in Milan.

Italy

With much less gear than before, we walked the streets of the eastern district, which was quieter than expected. We reached the hostel, which had a 1980’s neon sign on its façade. A heavy Italian man, wearing a sleeveless shirt and gold chain, with slicked-back hair and a frown that spread across his whole face, sat at the reception. He checked our reservation and handed us the key.

After we placed our bags on the bunk beds in the shared room, Bret and I headed to the main square with the Duomo di Milano. The square was filled with people and street performers, and when the sun set, the entire city became lit by streetlamps.

We headed down one of the side streets to find somewhere to eat. As we passed various restaurants, hosts would approach us from the entrance and proclaim, in broken English, that their restaurant was the most authentic dining experience in Milan. Some of these encounters felt a bit aggressive. Eventually we discovered an affordable option with outdoor seating, where we ordered, of all things, wine and pasta.

In the morning, Bret left to shoot photos of the city while I retrieved the rental car. The cheapest option we could find was a black, four-door Smart car, about the size of a small SUV in the States. I maneuvered through the city to our hostel, where Bret was waiting outside with the bags.

Our first destination east would be Verona, the city famous for being the home of the characters who inspired Romeo & Juliet. Though tiny, Verona had its own coliseum with mascot-esque gladiators standing outside to pose for pictures, similar to the Sesame Street characters in Times Square.

Bret and I walked through the crowded streets searching for Juliet’s balcony, which ended up being hidden in a courtyard with a huge mass of people shuffling their way through the entrance. The walls of the passageway were graffitied with the names of hundreds of lovers.

Our next stop was Lake Garda at the foot of the Dolomites. Swimming in the lake felt calming, with the massive bodies of mountains obscured in the distance. Even more enjoyable than the water was driving around the lake perimeter, passing through small villages sandwiched between the shore and mountain base. We stopped at one of the makeshift stone docks that protruded into the water. Bret flew the drone while I surveyed the area: there were a bunch of families nearby, as well as one older couple in the nude.

With the night approaching, Bret and I decided to search for a place to camp. I turned onto a switchback road that climbed one of the mountains, with the engine struggling against the incline. Despite there being few houses, we couldn’t find a large clearing protected from the road. In the end, we decided to sleep in the car, parked along the shoulder with a great view of the lake. Dinner was peanut butter with bread and fruit.

Feeling cramped, halfway through the night I left the car and chanced sleeping along the roadside. In the morning, we drove down the mountain into one of the villages, stopped for groceries, and continued to the country roads leading to Venice. For most of the trip, our view was primarily sun-bleached farms. Bret searched for hostels with open beds.

Since the car wasn’t allowed in the city, we found parking along the outskirts and trained to the walking bridge that served the main entrance. Venice was a stark contrast from the other Italian cities, not just because of the canals, but because while the other cities had an intentional, cohesive architecture, the houses and restaurants that lined the streets of Venice were seemingly built haphazardly, with random buildings joined together and slanting into the narrow alleyways. Even the interior of the hostel appeared to be a hodgepodge of different designs.

That night, Bret and I shared a room with two young eastern Asian women. Not too many words were exchanged—the two were friends touring Italy like Bret and myself. Once again, Bret left early to photograph the Bridge of Sighs before the crowds amassed. Similarly, I wanted to see St. Mark’s Square.

On the way, I stopped at a café and ordered a croissant egg sandwich. For whatever reason, I decided to take a picture of the sandwich with the basilica in the background. However, just as I raised the sandwich in the air, a bird swooped down and grabbed it from my hand. As the sandwich fell apart in midair, flocks of birds swarmed the ground and, within moments, my breakfast disappeared.

Later that day, Bret and I wandered over to Liberia Acqua Alta, a bookshop which once had its entire inventory damaged during a flood. To prevent a second catastrophe, the shop owners placed all the books inside tubs and basins, or crates lifted from the ground. Stray cats roamed the floor and shelves.

We left Venice and entered Slovenia en route to Lake Bled. Nighttime arrived as we swerved along the winding roads searching for a hotel or secluded area to sleep. On Google Maps, Bret spotted a sideroad that led deep into the woods. With no better option, we turned onto the unpaved road and drove between tall trees until the forest opened to unveil a riverbank.

With the moonlight, we could see the fast-flowing, shallow river, a cliff rising from the other bank, and the shale rock that comprised the beach. In the altitude, the temperature had dropped to near zero degrees. Bret and I reclined the front seats and awkwardly wrapped ourselves in the sleeping bags, which barely helped protect us from the cold.

Despite having barely slept, Bret and I welcomed the rising sun a few hours later. We started the car and blasted the heat, then returned to the main road and drove another hour to Lake Bled.

We had coffees at a small café situated on one end of the lake. In the middle of the lake was a small island with a castle. We hiked one of the nearby trails to a lookout over the mountains. Bret flew the drone and caught a picture of a hot air balloon floating above the castle.

In the afternoon, Bret and I returned to the lakeshore and stripped down to our running shorts. We waded into the water and swam out to the island. A tourist boat passed nearby, and the occupants looked over to inspect us. Bret and I briefly walked around the island, but the cold breeze motivated us to return to shore.

Once dry and clothed, we walked over to the car and decided to drive to Ljubljana for dinner.

“Do you want to drive?” I asked Bret. “Sure, I can try.”

Bret sat nervous behind the wheel while I provided a quick tutorial on operating the clutch.

“When in doubt, push in the clutch and press the brake.”

Bret started the car, compressed the clutch, shifted into first, gently pressed the gas pedal…and stalled. He restarted the engine and managed to drive to the entrance of the lot, which had a small incline leading to the road. Again, he stalled. And again. A few cars started to queue behind us. One man leaned out his window from the road.

“Americans?” he shouted. We switched seats and I drove to Ljubljana.

We briefly stopped at the Slovenian capital to explore the downtown area. At a tavern, we met another English-speaking traveler who, as we learned, had quit his job about three months prior to tour the world on a shoestring budget.

From Ljubljana, we drove south along the highway to cross into Croatia. I forget where we slept that night, but I remember driving for hours to reach Dubrovnik at the bottom of the narrow country. Besides the beach, the main attraction was the Old Town, surrounded by a castle wall to protect from ancient invasions. Bret and I walked through the streets, past the antique stores and tourist traps, to the wall perimeter. In the distance, I saw a small entryway that led to an outcrop on the Adriatic Sea. Several people were sunbathing on the rocks, just outside the imposing wall, with a small stand nearby selling alcohol. Others were jumping from the edge into the water.

From the rock ledge, I could see the bottom of the sea floor, about 20 feet from the surface. Bret and I jumped into the water, and I tried to swim deep, but the buoyancy from the high salt content made it impossible. Back on the rocks, we sunbathed for a while and peered out at the neighboring beach. Bret bought a bottle of white wine, which we passed back-and-forth until the bottle was empty.

Walking back through the streets of the Old Town, I suddenly felt an intense urge. “Bret,” I said, “we need to find a bathroom fast.” We crisscrossed different alleys, but many shops were closing and there were no signs for public restrooms. With the sensation growing stronger every minute, I remembered the empty wine bottle, rushed to a corner out of sight, and yelled to Bret to be my lookout. After finishing, I capped the bottle and turned around just as someone was passing by. Bret saw that the bottle was filled…

We made our way to the hostel, which was a white