Pilgrimage without a smartphone! Ciao, bella, ciao (eBook)

Day 1/ 30.04.2019: Arrival in Porto

The bag is packed, and I have the feeling of not having forgotten anything. Internally, I am very tense. I constantly walk back and forth, checking for the third time if I packed my flip-flops.

For days now, I’ve been noticing how irritable I am. Why, though?

Julian, a friend who is supposed to take me to the airport, will arrive at 5:15 p.m. His driving style is pushing my nerves to the limit. I grip the seat tightly and shout:

“You drive like a beginner! One moment you’re speeding like crazy, and the next you’re crawling like a grandma. Oh, man... ”

Julian looks at me with wide eyes, shrugs his shoulders, and mutters only,

“Alex, you need a vacation!”

I feel that he’s right. I close my eyes and fall silent. Why am I so irritated, I wonder. Whatever, I just need to get away! Out of this everyday life, into my adventure with the slogan:

The journey is the destination!

By 6:30 p.m., we arrive at Weeze Airport, near the border with the Netherlands. I bid Julian a brief goodbye. He’s probably glad to be rid of me, the annoying person, I think to myself. I’m also relieved to have arrived without a nervous breakdown or a massive car accident. So, I wave to him briefly and start searching for the check-in counter.

The Ryanair check-in is the usual madness. People are bustling around in all directions. With their headphones on, they seem like they’re being controlled remotely. Everyone acts like robots. What a sad sight. The restlessness from the car ride threatens to resurface. Please, no!

Finally, it’s my turn, the luggage is checked in, and the security check goes smoothly. I have plenty of time. A deep breath temporarily calms my mind. Before takeoff, I buy a magazine, a bottle of water, and a baguette. Traveling tends to make me hungry and thirsty, or is that just nerve-food?

I briefly consider exchanging the water for a red wine but decide against it. Sometimes reason wins. But only sometimes. Before I get too proud of myself, I remember something I almost forgot. Tomorrow, my son has an important tournament. I take out my phone, thinking about what to say. I ponder, scratch my head. Then I type an SMS:

“Wishing you the best of luck for the upcoming tournament! You can do it! I love you!!”

After sending it, I keep staring at the screen for a while, wondering how he’s doing. When was the last time I had a proper conversation with him? I think and have to think back further. It’s not productive, I tell myself. You have to look forward. As I look around, I see some people who look like they’re also going on a pilgrimage. At least their shoes and clothes aren’t suitable for a samba competition. Let’s see if we’ll meet again.

The plane is full, and we start slightly delayed. That’s something I don’t like about Ryanair. The seats are a nightmare. My butt starts hurting after just five minutes. But fate is on my side because fortunately, the plane makes up for the lost time. We land on time, but the baggage-claim takes forever. I wonder why they don’t put chairs next to the conveyor belt. They would be handy for taking a little nap. “Damn Ryanair!” someone next to me curses. I grin in agreement at first and think to myself, “What do you expect from a one-way flight for 85 euros, including baggage?” And I only booked it a few weeks ago. Which usually doesn’t make things cheaper. Still too expensive for the service? No, far from it. In the context of the societal motto “being stingy is cool,” the ratio between service and compensation is completely out of balance.

After 30 minutes, the baggage carousel finally starts. As expected, my backpack comes out last. At least my bag arrived. I take a deep breath as I finally hold it in my hands. A few days ago, I emailed the owner of the accommodation for tonight and informed her that I wouldn’t be bringing a smartphone, tablet, or laptop. Only a basic cellphone, so we can only make calls or send text messages.

I deliberately didn’t bring a smartphone. It was getting on my nerves lately. It was constantly ringing, flashing, or buzzing with SMS messages, emails, and WhatsApp notifications that I had to respond to. “Am I the slave of this thing?” I asked myself, turned it off, and left it at home. I didn’t want to completely give up modern communication, though. In the 90s, there was a Scandinavian mobile phone manufacturer that was as big and significant as today’s fruit manufacturer from Silicon Valley or the electronics manufacturer from South Korea. They produced phones that looked like dinosaur bones. With these awkward devices, you could already make phone calls and send SMS messages back then. It was a hit at the time. I was amazed to find out that you can still buy these devices today. The salesperson explained to me:

“It’s hard to believe, but there are still people who only want to make phone calls or send an occasional SMS!”

That’s exactly what I needed! After all, there was a life before WhatsApp and company. It gave me confidence as I paid for the digital relic. My plan was to book the accommodations for the next few nights in local internet cafes. There had to be something available.

Since I’m not a fan of dormitories, also known as puma cages, or the symphony of snoring in mass sleeping rooms, I prefer to book guesthouses and hotels. Of course, there are budget limits there too. I don’t want to spend more than 50 euros per night. Well, that’s quite a bit more than a hostel, which costs around 6 to 15 euros. The comfort of a single room is worth it to me. The first three nights are already fixed; I had booked them in advance because I could plan that far ahead. I wanted to leave some room for flexibility. Who knows what might happen on a trip like this?

Elena, the owner of my first guesthouse, had offered to pick me up from the airport for a fee. I gladly accepted since I would be arriving in the evening and didn’t know how I would get to my first place to stay. It’s already 10:00 p.m. here , and pitch dark. So, I stroll towards the airport exit, scanning the crowd of people waiting for their friends and relatives.

And there I see her. I recognized her immediately, a typical Portuguese woman: dark hair, dark eyes, shoulder-length hair, and the same friendly smile as in her profile picture.

“Alexander?” she asks shyly.

I nod, smile, and ask, “Elena?”

Her dark eyes light up, she greets me with a casual “Olá!” and introduces me to her boyfriend, Ramon. He silently shakes my hand and scrutinizes me from head to toe. I try my best to give a son-in-law smile. Apparently, it’s well received because he mutters something under his breath that I don’t understand. Meanwhile, we make our way to the car. I can understand why Elena brought her boyfriend along. She looks even better than in the WhatsApp picture! Who knows what kind of guys come when booking anonymously over the internet, I think to myself. Elena interrupts my thoughts. She speaks very good English. On the way to her car, we talk about my flight, the weather in Germany and Portugal. Just small talk. Her boyfriend trots ahead like a loyal dog, always listening with one ear to make sure his lady is doing well. After a short walk to the parking lot, we drive to the outskirts of Porto in her French compact car. It’s dark now, and I let the lights of the night pass me by, listening to Elena’s words as she tells me about Porto, while Ramon silently navigates the car through increasingly smaller streets. Elena tells me it’s over 10 kilometers to her apartment. After about 20 minutes, Ramon parks the car in the underground garage. A slightly aged elevator takes us rattling up, almost to the top floor. The Pension Elena is a private apartment, not an official guesthouse. In the small apartment, she has carved out a little room and set up a small bathroom.

“Your own kingdom, Alexander!” Elena presents my home for the night.

Thank you! A bed, a bathroom, that’s all I need.

I’ll be leaving relatively early tomorrow morning anyway since Elena doesn’t offer breakfast. She hands me the apartment key in case I want to leave and explains a few details about my domain. Ramon stands in front of Elena’s bedroom with his arms crossed over his broad chest, silently indicating where my realm ends and his begins.

Feeling a bit tired, I get ready for bed and lie down. As I drift off to sleep, I suddenly jolt awake as I remember:

Tomorrow is May 1st, a public holiday even in Portugal! Where can I find breakfast then? I mentally turn to Google, even though I want to avoid the internet and all that, and surely, I won’t be the only one in Portugal looking for breakfast. That reassures me.

“There will surely be plenty of wonderful cafes or bakeries along my hiking route,” I whisper to myself, hoping, “They surely won’t all be as crazy as us and close up shop. Maybe even worse, barricade themselves?”

Just as my nerves start to calm down and I’m determined not to starve on May 1st, a thunderous roar passes by the head of my bed. It sounds like Niagara Falls rushing through this room. But it’s just the sewage pipe carrying the results of a toilet flush past the headboard of my bed. I’m about to jump out of bed when I realize the next flush...