Crossing Paths

The story of some days spent in the Mediterranean rainforests of Sintra, and the unexpected crossing of paths with a curious stranger.

“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”
― T. S. Eliot

June. I look up and my vision is engulfed by azure-blue skies, characteristic of the Portuguese summer. It’s a colour of depth and richness, appropriate for the infinite space that lays above. This is relatively rare, given my current location—a lakeside view, deep in the Mediterranean rainforests of Sintra. A place which is known for the persistent clouds that roll over this small mountain like a slow flowing, sky-dwelling waterfall.

Surely one of the finer spots that I’ve discovered on my four-wheeled adventures, all it took was the subtle bypassing of the “no entry” sign in order to roll gently over the gravel tracks, leading to a not-so-gentle series of potholes in order to reach the shore of the lake. I put the van in first gear and picked the line carefully—too close to the left or right, merely a matter of inches, would have surely ended badly. The intense rainfall over winter had caused a miniature series of ridges and valleys to form in the road. A microscopic mountain range, if you will.

With an old van such as mine, with a severe lack of four-wheel drive, suspension and elevation, the path had to be chosen with precision and diligence. I roll forward slowly, telepathically communicating with the ancient steel chassis that carried my life precariously within it. A few careful turns of the wheel and I manage to maintain balance on the high parts of the ridge, avoiding what would have been certain (vehicle) death. Rolling gently down the slope, I celebrate with immense satisfaction—a kind that can only be derived from navigating an old camper van through a terrain where it certainly shouldn’t belong.

I pull the handbrake and pitch up for the night. The tiredness and fatigue I feel in this moment is overwhelming and unfortunately familiar. For all of the beauty and adventure of this lifestyle, after many cumulative weeks and months and many thousands of kilometres travelled, it is starting to weigh on me. The sun descends on the horizon, scarcely visible behind the large granite boulders and pine trees. I watch the crescent moon through the skylight, inwardly acknowledging the wonder of being able to witness such a simple delight through the ceiling of my humble home. There is still a lot to be grateful for. There always is.

Morning greets us once again and with it comes new visitors, an unexpected volume of people, especially since it isn’t the weekend. Many of them have come to walk their dogs in the forest it would seem, many who also appear to be of retirement age. I guess I’m not the only one who the normal structure of a week doesn’t necessarily apply to.

An elderly Portuguese couple walks around the lake and heads slowly towards the van. I notice the man looking in my direction, making the body language cues that tell me he wants to approach and start a conversation. He wears a baseball cap and aviator sunglasses, reminding me of an old American army veteran. As predicted, he approaches and says hello. We strike up small talk—the usual beginnings of a conversation with a stranger: where are you from, what are you doing etc. I tell him that I’ve been living in the van for over a year now, exploring the Iberian Peninsula and western Europe. I notice that he begins to relax a bit more into the dialogue, and he begins to share.

"I always wanted to do this, but I never did. To me, this is freedom. It was ever since I read On the Road by Jack Kerouac." 

Inquisitively, I asked him why he didn’t decide to live on the road for a while at some point during his life. It seemed he wasn’t entirely sure. He said he had a passion for writing and storytelling, his favourite book was “Travels with Charley” by John Steinbeck, a travelogue written about Steinbeck’s journey in the 60’s around the United States in a camper van with his pet poodle. The man explained to me that instead of following his desires, he decided to take the safe and secure life-path, to focus on his career as a banker. I could tell by the tone of which he spoke about it that it wasn’t where his passions were.

I told him that even though it was a cliché, it’s never too late to do what you really want to do. Alas, he insisted that it was. He had resigned himself already—perhaps this decision was made many years, even decades ago. My mind drifts to a quote from Thoreau: “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation.” Unfortunately, I know many people who are many years younger, who have already found themselves in a similar psychological condition. Quiet desperation. A stagnation of the soul. An epidemic of the psyche. He continues.

“T.S Elliot was banker, you know?” He shared with a sense of irony and a hint of regret in his voice.

As our conversation came to a natural conclusion, wee wished each other well and parted ways, as he walked to catch up with his wife—who was already half way around the lake at this point. I wonder if this wasn’t the first time he had a conversation like this with a stranger—or if it would be the last.

Afterwards, I felt inspired to write. Perhaps this is what I wished I had said in this brief moment of conversation with him. Perhaps this is what I needed to remind myself:

My friend, if only you knew.

 If only you knew the nights spent alone, in the dark and cold, wishing for company and a sense of comfort.

If only you knew what the sunset looked like, as the tangerine orange melted like hot wax onto the earth's horizon.

If only you knew the insecurities and vulnerabilities of a life on the road and the risks it entails.

If only you knew the feeling of an ice-cold mountain lake after a long run in the blazing sun. 

If only you knew that it was all worth it, all of the struggle for all of the beauty.

And if insecurity is the price I pay, then so be it.

If only you knew that the risks taken were worthwhile, for a life filled with meaning.

The lakeside view in the Mediterranean rainforest.