Upon finishing a 500-mile trek across Spain along the Camino de Santiago, I returned home to face the task of closing my office at the NGO I founded, completing a divorce that my husband initiated, and dealing with a depression that I couldn’t shake. What better way to handle the stress than to run away…again.
One week later I began the European Peace Walk, a 350-mile trek from Vienna to Venice along the western border of Hungry. For seven days I soldiered on in 98-degree heat, accommodations that rivaled a Soviet-era gulag, and soul aching pain. I finally snapped when my cherished morning ritual piddled into a plastic cup. I dropped my one-euro coin into an ancient machine that dripped mud down a disgusting tube and called it coffee.
Each morning a taxi would arrive to carry our backpacks to the next location. To this day, I’m not sure why we weren’t ferrying our backpacks ourselves. After a quarter of a mile into that day’s 14-mile route, I stopped in my tracks, did an about-face and returned to the decrepit gym where we slept the night on blue plastic mats still sticky with sweat from Olympic training in the 1950s. The cabbie was loading the last backpack into the taxi. I had four seconds to decide, and at second number three, I requested a ride to the nearest train station. His perplexed look did not bode well. He was scheduled for another pick up shortly. My backpack lay at the bottom of the heap in his car. There was only train within driving distance, and its final stop was one town away. Fine, I said. At least it wouldn’t be here.
I stood firm as he sensed my need to flee. The $8 I spent for his services turned out to be the best investment for the next stage of my life. His gruffness turned fatherly as he sauntered to the ticket counter in Koseg, requested a ticket for Szombathely, and bid me good-bye. From Szombathely, I found my way to Sopron. In Sopron, I headed towards Zagreb via Vienna where I met two women en route to a small yoga retreat in Croatia. After a bus to Split and a ferry to Hvar, I landed in the town of Stari Grad holding a reservation for the last available spot at the very same retreat as the women from Vienna. I was Home.
I hit rock bottom in Hvar, but I found a safe space to start clawing my way back up. I used the next ten days to slow down and face the future. Each day included three hours of yoga and four hours journaling by the Adriatic at a seaside café serving the most glorious, steaming, milky coffee.
My story has a happily ever after ending. After my summer of running, I returned to southern California, packed everything I owned into my jeep and drove 1000 miles to Portland, Oregon, met the love my life eight days later, and began a new career.
My newfound happiness commenced with those $8 and the cabbie in Koseg. Next summer I plan to return to Hungary and search for this knight in shining armor. I want to spend another $8 on a beer and dinner to thank him for arriving at that pivotal point in my life. It commenced a path that turned turmoil into triumph. Wherever you are, my friend, I can’t wait to see you again.
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