One Spanish Summer: And Other Stories from the Road

by Juliette Robertson

Overview

Armed with a Spanish dictionary, a visa card, a lap-top and trust in Divine guidance, Juliette Robertson put her corporate life on hold and bought a one-way ticket to Salamanca Spain, in search of something she wasn?t sure of. Her life changing summer as a mature age Spanish language student, her experiences on the road and her love affair with Travelling Solo (TS), her intuitive True Self pushes her to become the courageous woman she had always aspired to be. Juliette?s stories on the road are irresistible appetisers that will awaken your senses and leave you wanting more. This is a wonderful read, full of memories that will birth your own, should you bravely take TS by the hand and step into the ever rewarding unknown. ?Brigitte Muir O.A.M. First Australian woman to summit Mt Everest First Australian to climb the Seven Summits This book is a veritable feast for those of us who devour travel. Featuring vignettes from a life well lived; each course is served with relish! Juliette?s memoirs capture the joy of travel and pay tribute to friends met along the way - even her courageous inner self. May these beautiful stories enchant and inspire you to set out on your own adventure. Without delay. ?Sorrel Wilby Acclaimed Australian adventurer, writer and producer Solo traverse of Tibet & world?s first complete traverse of the Himalaya If you have dreamed of escaping the daily grind, and take off alone on an unplanned summer adventure, to see of what stuff you are made, this book is for you.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781504305433
Publisher:	Balboa Press Australia
Publication date:	09/29/2017
Pages:	214
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.45(d)

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Leaving Home

You are as powerful and strong as you allow yourself to be. Know that the most difficult part of any endeavour is taking the first step, making the first decision.

Robyn Davidson: Australian adventurer, Author: "Tracks"

As Qantas Flight QF81 climbed to 35,000 feet, bound for Singapore, I reclined my seat, threw back a scotch and coke, exhaled slowly, and looked down at the card in my hand, bearing a quotation by the French poet, Guillaunne Apollinaire in the 1800's and hand written by mum.

"Come to the edge" he said. They came, he pushed them, and they flew."

"And so with you Jules" she added before signing off with hugs and kisses. I felt strangely calm but my heart ached and I could see the billowing clouds below becoming blurred from my tears. This was it. I was leaving home alone.

Travelling Solo, (nicknamed TS for short), had taken on a lifelike character of her own over the past year and urged me to take the plunge and face my fears. Leaving home alone, on a one-way ticket was not something I had ever done. Even for a single person with few ties, it can be a strangely unfamiliar behaviour. For me, TS conjured a deep sense of excitement within me that played hide-and-seek with my doubts, fears, and anxiety and questioned my ability to handle the stuff life would throw at me. Yet, contrary to the fears what flurried in my heart, I chose to believe that there is far more to be gained by leaving than by staying. Leaving home took me into dimensions of myself that I never knew existed; staying promised more of the familiar.

Ask anyone who has taken the risk of travelling solo and the answer is usually the same. The decision to go is often harder than the act itself. Tales of my trips were often met with envious eyes and longing exclamations from peers, who had not been able to make that first tough decision. Being single had made my life easier to manage, yet it had brought its own challenges of vulnerability, loneliness and questions of safety where every decision was mine alone. Amidst the pros and cons lie innumerable reasons and excuses why we choose not to make our escape dream a reality. I have always been more afraid of not realizing mine. My stomach still tenses with stress at the thought of regretting what might have been, and some early grey hairs provide testament to my panic.

On board my flight, the movie screens came to life but I turned towards the window. I had left Australia many times before on short adventures, but this time, I was travelling on a one-way ticket. I wanted some time out to shake off the shackles of my well-orchestrated life. Over ten years of career aspirations had moulded me into a corporate, disciplined, task-oriented individual, with characteristics that overflowed into my personal life. I didn't like it. I would need at least 10 months off, one for every year of my working life. I wanted to become spontaneous again, to be bilingual, to write, to experience a different culture, live simply, find romance, meet interesting people and throw open the doors of opportunity.

However, such a dream needed courage. As a single woman, loneliness, safety, and financial security were my main concerns. My bank owned my two properties and demanded that I pay my mortgages while away. I resigned from my job, rented out my homes, stored my furniture, sold my car and computer, bought a laptop and portable printer and packed my Monsack trolley bag. I undertook a basic course in Spanish and took lots of deep breaths.

The thought of escaping to Spain had been born while lying alone in my hospital bed during my convalescence the year before. I thought of it while wondering what I would regret should I not survive or ever regain my full sight. My 'SSST' (Senior Sagittal Sinus Thrombosis, or large blood clot in the head) had resulted from dehydration while on a high altitude trek in Argentina. The clot had caused a build-up of pressure in my head, causing my vision to split into two and my brain to throb with constant migraines that refused to quit. Put a 'P' in front of my 'SSST' and you can begin to appreciate how I felt. Lying around incapacitated wasn't something I took well. From my bed as I watched my world in duplicate, bustle around me, and a throbbing migraine begin to split the base of my skull, I let my mind drift away. So I thought of the things I would miss and regret not having done or the chance to feel again should I not recover. I thought of sunshine and I thought of music and dance and passion, the things in life that fill my spirit. I thought of Spain.

I am romantic and can be quite naive at times. I have no Spanish ancestry. I had only my fantasies from movies, books and songs of olive-skinned, passionate men with black, beckoning, come-hither bedroom eyes and buxom, long, dark haired beautiful Spanish women. I knew of paella and flamenco and arid coastlines with emerald water. I knew of Majorca and Barcelona and Madrid and guitars and siestas. From Hemingway, I knew of Pamplona and bulls and fly fishing in the Pyrenees. I knew of the Spanish love of wine and dancing and all night fiestas and Spanish passion that can so easily turn to aggression. I knew that the Spanish language moved my heart and that was enough. Somewhere inside, I knew that was where I wanted to go, but not as a backpacker this time.

I decided to fly to Spain alone, with no particular set plans, except to study Spanish for the summer and simply live and write and then do what?

"That's the exciting part," TS whispered. "For once in your life, have the courage to live without being in control of every waking moment."

And one year later, here I was.

Glancing back to my card, I could feel my mum's presence. It was from mum that I inherited my determination and my 'can do' attitude. Mum's belief in me gave me the strength and confidence to follow my heart. Dad's gentle nature reminded me to be kind. A special lunch during my farewell week had allowed us all to share our hopes for my trip. "You must visit Aranzuez in the stillness of a hot afternoon while listening to 'Concierto de Aranjuez' Dad had written in my farewell card.

Well into my second drink, I thought of my friends. We were a '30 something' bunch of singles, ex and potential partners, a lovable mixed group of adventurous individuals. Married couples were few but dear. Over the years we had shared overseas adventures to Nepal, India, the Maldives, Sri Lanka, Turkey, Africa and South America. Together, we had skippered 40-foot yachts in the Mediterranean and hiked the Inca trail in Peru. With some I had climbed 5,000-meter peaks, backpacked Europe, explored Australia; snow skied in Austria and Aspen, trucked across the Serengeti and scuba-dived in Fiji. We were young and carefree and had lived and partied together. I loved them dearly; however, now in our thirties, time was moving on and we each knew that those white knights and flaxen-haired maidens may not, for whatever reason, materialize in our lives.

I locked the memory of my family and friends quietly away in my mind and whispered a good-bye, quietly anticipating what the future would bring.

After seven hours of flying, I changed planes in Singapore and waited four hours to catch Qantas QF9 to London. The plane was packed and my anticipation grew as I wondered who would be sitting next to me for the next 13 hours. As I bumped and eased my way down the crowded aisle to seat 47K, I realised that I had drawn the unfortunate middle seat. There would be no escape, to turn unsociably towards the window nor to stretch out into the aisle.

I spotted him before he spotted me. In 47J, a tall, 30-something, brown haired man with a pleasant face travelling alone in the aisle seat. Next to the window was an elderly grey-haired Englishman. His eyes were already closed with his blow up pillow securely placed around his neck for comfort. Peter, with the pleasant face, turned out to be a geophysicist, who had been working for Santos in Australia. Heavily into the oil industry, Peter had travelled extensively with his work and was returning to his home in England.

As I settled into my seat, we made polite conversation and I realised that trying to stay awake was a hopeless task. My body clock told me it was 2:00 a.m. and simply needed the sleep. As QF9 took off into the night sky, I fell into a deep uninterrupted coma. I cared neither if my head fell carelessly against either of the two nor if my subdued snores would raise their eyebrows.

I awoke eight hours later to the second breakfast sitting of omelette and tomatoes.

Peter was smiling at me. "You don't have any trouble sleeping on planes, do you?" he grinned.

The flight from Singapore to London's Heathrow still had four hours to go. Once clean and comfortable, I settled in the in-flight movie. Touchdown, 5.28a.m. London time. Immigration and customs were a breeze and as I walked toward the exit, Peter handed me his card.

"If you ever get into trouble in Spain and need a hand, call me," he said. "I have lots of friends in Madrid who may be able to help you."

I pocketed his card with a warm smile and my heart was touched by his generosity. I had simply forgotten the concern and care that travellers often share on the road. Far back in my memory, I could remember such kindness also occurring in other countries, but that seemed a lifetime ago. Too many months of blahhing on the phone and staring at a computer screen had dulled their memory. What else had I forgotten?

As we entered Heathrow's underground walkway, and I dragged my luggage, the drop in temperature suddenly hit me. Ahead, another traveller had stopped to add a few more layers of clothing. We commented on the chill in the air and fell into a conversation. He was also from Australia, a filmmaker going on to Rome that afternoon to work on a new movie. Then, saluting farewell, he called me 'mate' and as he said that, any loneliness I may have felt dissolved in the warmth of that word.

Pulling my luggage, my computer bag in hand, I negotiated the tunnels and stairs and hauled myself onto the empty train to Kings Cross. There I hoped to catch the 8.00a.m. inter-city train to Edinburgh for a one week break before my flight to Madrid. Over the next forty minutes, as the train raced towards the metropolis of London, it slowly filled with sleepy depressed workers enduring severe Monday morning blues. Rugged up against the five-degree chill of morning, they sat or stood, eyes closed or reading papers in their dark grey overcoats and scarves, tired, bored Londoners facing another working week. I, on the other hand, was wideawake, peering eagerly through the foggy windows to the suburbs beyond, eagerly anticipating what the day would bring.

*
The four hour inter-city train from London to Edinburgh was a joy. On that cold, sunny day the English countryside warmed my heart. The sun streamed through the windows and steam rose from the fields. I dozed lightly, wrapped in my overcoat, lulled by the conversations around me. Two American women, chatting with a bald English gentleman having incredibly long and bony fingers, were swapping travel stories and marvelling at their experiences. I allowed my mind to drift.

It was a familiar feeling to be back in England. I wanted to experience the warmth of friends' company, talk of fascinating things while drinking cocoa and share laughter as the cold afternoons turned to evening. I wanted to stay in the 'now', to admire sunsets, drink good wine, and rediscover the simple joys of life. As the morning wore on, Scotland approached. The countryside turned to fields of green with rolling hills and longhaired, black-nosed sheep stared at me through the foggy windows.

I stood under the railway clock in the Edinburgh station stamping my feet. It was damp and painfully cold. Scottish men, women, and children bustled by me anxiously looking for friends and relatives, all rugged up to the eyeballs. As Eileen approached, I admired her ruddy, warm complexion and her huge smile.

"So there ya are luv, bin waitin long?" My it's cold, isn't it? Here, let me take a bag. My, you've got plenty! My car's over here. There now, in they go. Super!"

Eileen, at fifty-four, was an active, interesting and dynamic woman. She was short, incredibly capable, with vibrant, laughing eyes. Within minutes I was in her car, being whisked off to her home in Dalkeith, a renovated old iron mill in the middle of a beautiful rambling park. Her home, built in the 1700s was fully renovated. It was warm, cosy, and full of colourful rugs and ornaments that she had collected on her travels throughout Africa.

We had met ten years earlier in Crete. That summer we and some others had hiked the Samaria Gorge, drank Greek wine in tiny rambling taverns and walked on isolated beaches enjoyed only by local goat herders. We had kept in contact through the years and now, had many more adventures to share.

As I listened to her wonderful Scottish accent fill the sunny kitchen, my eyes started to close. After traveling for thirty three hours, the jet lag finally got the better of me. I was soon dead to the world.

Scottish spring days can be incredibly cold and it had been snowing lightly. Eileen's brilliantly white, modern kitchen had yellow daffodils and bright red tulips on the counter next to a bowl of fresh fruit. The windows overlooked the park and up-tempo classical music was always playing. What lovely days! Finding a sunny corner in the conservatory, we would sit and chat, exchange stories of our lives, over the past decade and our plans for the future. I listened and laughed to her ongoing saga about her neighbour, problems with the hedge, and the renovations to her lover PJ's cottage on the coast.

The house was adorned with artefacts from all over the world, particularly Africa. She and PJ had travelled to nearly every African country on short escorted tours. Her home reflected her love of adventure travel and African art from such countries as Uganda, Kenya, South Africa, and Tanzania. With an enthusiastic laugh, she showed me an authentic handcarved African three-legged stool that she had picked up in Uganda in exchange for her black lace bra.

"Miss. Australia, so glad you're home!" beamed Eileen as I entered the kitchen, one day after a short shopping expedition to Dalkeith. With her were two women, and all sat chatting in the kitchen, sharing stories and drinking coffee discussing the drama of the morning. Eileen had taken to calling me Miss Australia and brazenly introduced me as such to all her friends, causing raucous laughter to fill the room. It was not a title that I could hold with a straight face. Stifling their chuckles the two Scottish women sobered up to share how they had found an old man dying from a heart attack in the park whilst walking his dog. They had raced into Eileen's home to telephone for an ambulance. Now that the sad drama had passed, they were sharing how the dog had howled for an hour at the passing of his owner. How tragedy brings strangers together!

On cold afternoons, we poured over photographs on Eileen's gigantic wooden coffee table and lazed on colourful rugs in front of the fire, spending hours re-living our African experiences. Eileen's photographs showed a harsh and dry land, not unlike that of Tanzania, which I had visited in '91. She was a vibrant, intelligent traveller, who discussed her experiences from food to politics. She was full of life and willing to rough it. As I sat and listened to her lively chatter, I marvelled at her knowledge of the places she and PJ had visited. Although I too had been to Africa, my perceptions and the nature of my travel had been sensual, not intellectual. From my expeditions, I remembered wonderful colourful sights, sounds and smells of the Serengeti, of animals, Maasai warriors, burning skies, acacia trees, and mind blowing sunsets, but I knew little of the countries' problems, politics or economics. I had little socio-political knowledge about the illegal ivory trade, the problems caused by borrowings from the World Bank, the unemployment, and exports of the country. I knew absolutely nothing about the changing social fabric of the continent and how it affected the everyday lives of Kenyan and Tanzanian families.

I started to wonder, what kind of traveller had I become? I remembered my first overseas trip to Fiji and how I had read volumes about the country before my departure, eager to learn about another culture. Then, as the trips to strange lands became more frequent, I had researched less and less getting hooked on to the adrenaline of adventure travel experiences. I had changed. I sat up late that night pondering.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "One Spanish Summer"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Juliette Robertson.
Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Foreword, ix,
Preface, xi,
One Spanish Summer,
1. Leaving Home, 1,
2. Luggage, 13,
3. Life in a 'Piso', 17,
4. Where Ancient Truths and Storks Are, 25,
5. A Student's Life, 29,
6. Las Fiestas!, 41,
7. Worlds Apart, 47,
8. Mallorca - Isle of the beautiful, 53,
9. Robbed, 59,
10. Austurias, 65,
11. Ill and Alone, 71,
12. The Running of the Bulls, 77,
13. Pyrenees and Terrorists, 85,
14. Los Picos de Europa, 91,
15. The Summer Ends, 97,
Other Stories from the Road,
1. September Seas, 103,
2. Mt. Elbrus's Skies, 113,
3. Pucon – The Lake District of Chile, 121,
4. Memories of a Mountain, 127,
5. Indian Adventure, 137,
6. Return to my Emerald Isle, 145,
7. Meeting the Maasai, 151,
8. Turkish Delight, 155,
9. Pit Stop – A Mexican Train, 167,
10. December in Aspen, 173,
11. The Longest Ride, 177,
Epilogue, 193,