Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
road, in the open lake, freed from all the masks and constructs I feared pinned me down at
home.
I slipped off my trousers, remaining in my Union Jack boxer shorts as I dove into the
water, taking one of my whenever-I-can-get-one baths in the majesty of the lake. The sun
dawned just above the surrounding mountains, birds dipping down into the water, singing
out to one another as they flew overhead. The once-busy town was now quiet as I swam in
Lake Como.
I got out of the water, got dressed, and headed east again. I decided to stop off in the
only town in Italy that didn't speak a word of English. This was not on purpose. I had no
idea that the inhabitants of the entire little town of Portogruaro, nestled in the heart of Italy,
have never learned even a word of English.
I decided to try the local police station. Surely they would help me. I was pleasantly sur-
prised to find that the officer on duty spoke English (apparently, the only English speaker
in town). I was less pleasantly surprised to find out that he did not like me.
“I am traveling around the world and need some help,” I explained once I discovered
we shared a language.
“Are you in danger?” the bored man at the front desk asked. It didn't seem like he had
much else to do, so I thought my tale of adventure might pique his interest. I explained my
travels and that I was looking for some gas or food or a place to stay.
“Do we look like a hotel to you?” the police officer curtly responded.
“No, but—”
“No, but nothing, please leave,” the officer concluded. Apparently, he was up to his ears
in British travelers crossing the world on kindness and had no time for me.
I prayed that I wouldn't have to spend another night in Kindness One, careful not to bar-
gain anything I wasn't willing to give. Surely the Italians would save me.
Finally, after pulling into one of many gas stops, I
was
saved. But not by the Italians.
Bertha and Max were a Belgian couple crossing Europe in their RV. Not only did they offer
to fill up my precious yellow bike, but they also let me sleep on the floor of their RV, which
they had nicknamed “The Beast.” Being rejected by the Italian police: embarrassing. The
thought of spending another night in Kindness One: exhausting. Being saved in Italy by
Belgians with a Beast: priceless!
In the morning, I waved good-bye to my Belgian friends after eating a breakfast of pan-
cakes and sausages. Pancakes and sausages? My luck was looking up. I drove through the
green and winding countryside of Italy, heading east from Venice. The Italian Alps jutted
