How travel became our tutor on a lifelong journey: 50 years … and counting

Luck was with us.

Our mail — handwritten letters from family and friends back home, along with a copy of our local broadsheet, the Aylmer Express — awaited us at the American Express office in London, England.

Our first letter from home. I can still remember the excitement.

It was 1974, and my husband Noel and I were newlyweds — open year-long return air tickets to Europe in our hands.

Our love affair with travel — that feeling of adventure, the sense of being away from it all — of being untethered from the only world we knew began almost as soon as we stepped off our flights and into the autumn chill of the wet, foggy streets of London

   Just walking the streets was exciting. Photo: Noel Van Raes

The red telephone box, a prominent cultural icon. Photo: Noel Van Raes

Growing up in a small town in Ontario even the accent and language seemed exotic.

“Put your packs in the boot.”  

Boot?

“You should try spotted dick.”

 Did we hear that one right?

Communication home was tenuous: there was no text messaging, social media, Facebook, WhatsApp, travel blogs, or grabbing a cell phone and talking to someone on the other side of the world.

We were on our own.

International calls had to be made at phone offices. Operators connected you to your requested number, something that could take a few minutes or a couple of hours. Whether you heard a clear, familiar voice or one that was faint, broken up and indecipherable depended entirely on luck. Frequent disconnections were common. Just as you heard the voice, it was gone.

And it was expensive; about three dollars per minute.

Air mail letters, now relegated to the dustbin of history, were then the basis of international communication.

Letters were the link home, and American Express was the lifeline. Their offices scattered throughout the world acted as post offices holding mail for pick up.

Thumbs out

Not having much money, our packs adorned with Canadian flags, touted as a way to get rides, we had hit the road in England thumbs out. We never knew how long a journey would take, where the road would lead, where we would end up, or who we would meet.

It was the golden age of hitchhiking — the thrill of the unknown. 

The idea that stranger equals danger was still decades away. Many people who picked us up went out of their way to show us an interesting site or to ensure we were at the best spot to get a ride.

We didn’t know if it was the Canadian flag, but we got our very first ride — one of many to come on our sojourn — in just a few minutes. That’s when we realized how small European cars were and how big our packs were. Leaving behind a trail of items as we travelled helped somewhat, but fitting in metal-framed packs remained a challenge.  

Our first driver, an affable middle-aged man, excited to share his still fresh memories of the Second World War and the role of Canadians, regaled us with stories as he took us to his neighbourhood pub to treat us to a drink. 

But this wasn’t any pub. This was a 14th-century building, home to a peculiar unexpected relic — the mummified severed hand chopped off a cheating gambler whose spirit, according to the owners, still haunts the pub.

Sharing a drink with our driver at the pub.

Pubs continued to loom large on our onward journey, offering us warm, cozy and convivial refuge on those rainy English days when we were literally out in the cold waiting for hostel doors to reopen at 5 p.m. Ploughman’s lunches — a delicious selection of crusty bread, butter, cheese, pickles, and chutney combined with lively conversations with locals — are some of our best memories.

A surprising number of our lifts were amateur historians who enthusiastically shared battle tales from the War of the Roses and the Reformation years. Detours to stone abbeys, crumbling keeps and ruined monasteries were not uncommon.

History first came alive for me in England, sparking a life long interest. Photo: Noel Van Raes

Roman Baths. Photo: Noel Van Raes

This was history as I’d never seen it before, up close and personal. Why hadn’t I been taught any of this in school?

That question followed me through the English countryside and beyond. There was so much complexity and wonder in the world, and my small-town education had prepared me for none of it.

Travel was now my tutor, and the journey would be lifelong.

Before the masses

The warmth of the British people was our constant companion on this first leg of our ambitious journey, culminating in an unexpected trip to a grassy field with some notable rocks, otherwise known as Stonehenge.

Our ride travelled far from his planned route to drop us off at the now-infamous prehistoric megalithic. Well-known locally at the time, it would be years before UNESCO would recognize the solstice-aligned structures. 

No fences prevented us from wandering among the stones, and I can’t recall an entrance fee. We were the only ones walking around, free to spend our time in solitary contemplation of the ancient builders.

All quiet at Stonehenge. Photo: Noel Van Raes

Mass tourism hadn’t yet taken its toll — no booking ahead for a specific time and day — and no being lumped shoulder-to-shoulder, tramping through historical sites, ambiance lost in the stampede of visitors maneuvering to get that perfect picture for Instagram or Facebook. Often the sole visitors at sites, we were free to breathe in the history to our heart’s content.

Opportunities for photos abounded, but buying and developing film was cost-prohibitive. Would the photo be a keeper or a dud? We never knew until we returned home.

Unfortunately, being frugal, we bought a used camera. It was a big mistake; most of our photos were lost to the overexposed sands of time.    

With no social media or travel blogs to guide us, we relied on the very few travel books available to independent travellers. Lonely Planet was in its infancy, and Europe on a Shoestring had yet to be born. Arthur Frommer’s Europe on $5 A Day, quaint in today’s world, was then a groundbreaking guidebook and a travel bible for many. 

But it was Vagabonding in Europe and North Africa — a book geared more to backpackers — that provided us with the rough blueprint we needed. With relevant chapters including titles such as Techniques of Hitchhiking, Finding a Place to Sleep — From Crashing to Communes and What to Pack, we felt prepared for our journey. Following the packing advice we had a tent, a tiny stove and sleeping bags.

This guidebook for our sojourn was a wealth of information.

Word-of-mouth recommendations from other travellers were like finding gold nuggets of information — best places to hitchhike, cheap meals, friendly pubs, and interesting sites off the beaten path. Youth hostels provided a treasure trove of information and were home to a camaraderie among youth from all over the world that you couldn’t find anywhere else. We all wanted to travel and experience the world as long as possible — for as little as possible.

Writing a letter home at a youth hostel. Photo: Noel Van Raes

Nightly discussions with fellow travellers were the beginning of our political awakening. 

I was shocked to learn from the young Israelis I met, both women and men, that they had such limited time to travel prior to their mandatory military service. But as horrified as I was by the idea of conscription, I was more taken aback when I learned about how the young state was acquiring land.

Today, I’m shocked that nothing has changed.

Youth hostels served as gathering points for different perspectives, and with an International Youth Hostel membership, they were also cheap: a dollar a night, a small fee for a sleeping sheet, plus the completion of a small chore — like stacking dishes or sweeping a floor — got you a bed in a dorm.

The only drawback? Strict sex-segregation. 

As newlyweds, it was definitely a concession. But undeterred by a lack of intimacy, we pressed on to Scotland.

Knowing the country was part of Great Britain, we assumed Scotland would resemble England. 

We were wrong. 

To start, the language was indecipherable. Some regard it as a variety of English with distinct dialects — others say it’s entirely unique. We tended to agree with the linguists who considered it distinctive. 

Night after night, we sat in pubs, laughing along with others at our table, not having a clue what was being said, but determined not to cause offense, always wishing we were in on the joke.  

More political lessons were ahead as geopolitics made travelling from Scotland to Northern Ireland impossible. 

Explosions of political violence between loyalist Protestants and nationalist Catholics during the so-called Troubles — a conflict that was, sadly, to continue for decades — regularly cancelled ferry service between the two islands.

And so we headed south to Spain.

Dystopia or paradise? 

Here, in this supposedly romantic nation, we faced our own naive misconceptions head-on for the first time. We’d expected flamenco dancing, bullfights, tapas bars, Gothic cathedrals, and medieval architecture. Instead, we found a Fascist state in chaos.

When we arrived at Madrid train station, we were so aghast that we barely noticed the awe-inspiring architecture. We felt as if we had wandered into a dystopian novel. Dozens of heavily armed members of the Guardia Civil, a police force known for its brutality during Francisco Franco's reign, patrolled the station. Citizens walked heads down, giving the officers a wide berth. 

Franco led a brutal regime of repression and coercion from 1939 until his death in November 1975. Some historians say he’s responsible for as many as 400,000 deaths. Many more Spaniards were tortured or imprisoned during his reign, and we saw fear on the faces of the people we met.

A stamp costing six pesetas, the Spanish currency at that time, bears the image of Francisco Franco.

The terror permeated every part of Spanish society. More than once, when dining in small bars or restaurants, we watched patrons flee when the Guardia Civil entered. Sometimes, seemingly benign individuals spurred the same emptying. We guessed they were probably suspected members of Franco’s repressive secret police force.

However, as tourists, we had no fear. The Guardia Civil was only interested in terrorizing their own people, and draconian penalties meant crime was nearly non-existent. Even petty offences could land citizens long prison sentences in concentration or forced labour camps.  

Returning almost thirty years later, we’re amazed at Spain’s transformation into a modern democratic nation. The Guardia Civil now protects the rights, freedoms, and safety of its citizens.

Interestingly, on that return trip in 2002, we often received blank looks and silence when we mentioned we’d been in Spain during Franco’s rule. We were later astonished to learn that this was because many knew little about it. It was not part of the curriculum in schools.

When the country’s democratic parliament formed in 1977, both leftists and rightists agreed to a Pact of Silence, an enforced political amnesia to avoid confronting the Franco legacy. No persons responsible for human rights violations were prosecuted. 

Only in 2007 was the Franco regime finally condemned and victims recognized, although there are still those in power who continue to whitewash the regime.

Good balance and strong knees

Spain wasn’t only a lesson in politics. It was also the beginning of a somewhat begrudging friendship between me and the squat toilet.

Squat toilets are exactly as they sound. You squat over a hole using two raised blocks to keep your feet out of the way. Adding to the intrigue of my first encounter, toilet paper was no bueno — it clogged the antiquated sewer system. 

An exceptionally clean squat toilet.

A convenient tap on the wall and a pitcher underneath fulfilled two purposes: clean yourself and pour in to flush the toilet. Newer ones flushed, but it flooded the floor and required a quick step, or your feet were soaked.

I learned the hard way.

Hotels were much cheaper in Spain, so we left hostels behind and moved up in the world. But Club Med, this was not. Private bathrooms were virtually unheard of, and sometimes an entire floor, if not an entire hotel, would share one. Toilets were rarely cleaned and might be several flights of stairs away — praise be for my then-youthful bladder.

Out of hostels and into hotel rooms in Spain. Photo: Noel Van Raes

Our hitchhiking continued, though. 

“Wear a sports jacket that looks pretty good but which you don’t mind rolling up into a ball to go into your pack,” advised Vagabonding in Europe and North Africa. Noel took the suggestion to heart from day one, but it was in Spain that the practice paid off.

Thumbing through Nerja, a small town in southern Spain, we were picked up by a fellow Canadian, Chris Haney. As soon as we climbed into his beat-up van, he told us it was Noel’s jacket that caught his eye and prompted him to give us a lift.  

The friendship was instant, and Chris, a temporarily unemployed journalist with a love of quiz games, took us to his mother’s villa to meet his lovely partner Sara and their friend Doug, who was also staying there. 

Chris and Sara. Photo: Noel Van Raes

The hours turned into days, days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. We celebrated Christmas at the beautiful villa, a five-minute walk from the Mediterranean Sea, and then rang in the New Year with our new friends.

Getting a Christmas tree.

When we weren’t dancing with locals at their favourite bars or hanging out at the beach, we would spend evenings playing the games Chris loved so much

All fresco dining for breakfast. Photo: Noel Van Raes

As so often happened before cell phones, email, and social media, we lost touch with Chris and his family. We hadn’t thought about him for a couple of years when I heard his name on the evening news —  he’d created a game called Trivial Pursuit.  

Roads less travelled

As magical as Christmas in Nerja was, the new year shifted our thoughts to Morocco. 

Some of our fellow travellers were circulating alarming stories of unpleasant interactions between visitors and Arabs in the North African nation, but we didn’t know what to believe.

Tales of being constantly harassed to purchase things and pickpocketing, especially on buses and trains, had us worried. Were these stories real or exaggerated? Did bias or stereotyping play a role? 

We couldn’t be sure, so decided to buy a van to eliminate our reliance on public transportation and avoid harassment by camping outside of towns. 

But where to buy one? 

With no internet, Facebook Marketplace, or AutoTrader, face-to-face negotiation was the only option. Strange as it might sound to contemporaries, American Express was the place.

“Don’t Leave Home Without It,” American Express’s famous slogan for their travellers’ cheques, was familiar to all. With bank withdrawals in foreign countries still an impossibility, credit cards very rarely accepted, and online banking and ATMs futuristic fantasies, their services allowed us and fellow globetrotters a way to access funds and carry them safely.

American Express offices had by now also morphed into a meeting place for travellers to hitch a ride, meet a new travelling companion, or buy or sell a vehicle. Malaga, about an hour's drive away, was the nearest American Express office.

American Express offices boomed with young travellers. Photo: Noel Van Raes

About half a dozen young people stood outside the office holding handwritten signs advertising vehicles for sale, two of which were for vans. At $120 CAD, the Fiat van for sale by a young American couple heading home after a months long sojourn was by far the cheapest. 

It needed a bit of minor  work. The passenger side window was broken and the signals didn’t function properly. We struck a deal for $100 CAD and it was  ours. 

Locals recommended a repair person who started work on it the next day. A good start until he promptly disappeared — the keys to our vehicle with him. Asking around led us to the local jail where he was being held. For what we never found out. Which is how we ended up at a Spanish jail trying to convince the guards to let us speak to one of their prisoners. 

They acquiesced. To this day, I don’t know how we managed it — we didn’t speak Spanish, and the guards spoke no English. Without the help of Google Translate, it must have been a miracle of pity and persuasion.  

Keys collected, but repairs unfinished we decided to take our chances and headed to Morocco. A calm hour-long journey on a car ferry across the Mediterranean brought us to the Moroccan border. Despite an unsafe vehicle, no insurance, and no ownership, we were waved through. Regulations were non-existent or at least unenforced.   

Crossing over to Morocco was like entering another world: in many ways, it was. Growing up in our totally white, all-Christian small town, we had never even heard the words Islam or Muslim. 

Almost inconceivable today but not surprising then. It wasn’t until the late 1960s that overt racial discrimination in immigration policy was gone from Canadian immigration legislation and regulations. 

Herb and spice vendor. Photo: Noel Van Raes

Men wearing djellabas, a full-sleeved, long, loose outer garment, filled the streets. Women were few and far between, but all wore hijab and some the niqab as well. Goats and sheep wandered in the streets. Children played with old tires, rolling them with sticks.

Small manufacturing trades, reminiscent of the industrial revolution. Photo: Noel Van Raes

We felt overwhelmed. How would we even get out of town or find a place to stay? Without GPS, all we had was a paper map, and the streets were more confusing than a hedge maze.

Intrigued by the sound of hauntingly beautiful melody we stopped and pulled over for a break. Later, this sound, calling the faithful to prayer five times a day would become routine to us, but back then, we had no idea what it was. We later learned that no matter the country it is always in Arabic — the language of the Quran — the holy book of Islam.

Speakers on minarets broadcast the call to prayer five times daily.

Now decades later, the gentle lilt of the prayer call always takes me back to our first journey to Morocco.  

Our travel angel interceded again — this time in the form of a group of fellow travellers headed to a campsite outside of town. They invited us to follow them and we did. We soon arrived at a makeshift camp dubbed the Banana Village. A nearby grove of banana trees inspired the moniker.  

About half a dozen vans were parked with a view of the Atlantic Ocean. A campfire burned in the centre of the semi-circle. The denizens of this newly-named tribe were all travellers like ourselves, some just starting out, and others well-worn. We stayed a few days, enjoying the laid-back lifestyle before moving on.

A great view of the Atlantic Ocean. Photo: Noel Van Raes

We didn't use our tent nearly as much as we thought we would, but nonetheless carried it for the entire trip.

Photo: Noel Van Raes

Alas, not long after leaving Banana Village, our van suffered an early demise. We had no choice but to pass it along. The American Peace Corps, which used broken-down old vehicles to train mechanics, offered to buy it. Sold, for the grand sum of twenty-five dollars and a piece of advice — take the train.

Why not the Marrakech Express? we thought. Ever frugal, it was third class for us, which as it turned out was where everything was happening. The slatted wooden seats were packed with passengers crammed together along with chickens, goats and sheep vying for space. Delightful aromas of cooking floated throughout as women prepared family meals over small strange looking stoves. Mint tea, selling for a few cents, was always on offer.

We mistakenly arrived so early we temporarily had the Marrakech Express to ourselves. Photo: Noel Van Raes

A remarkable journey to a magical place — Jemma el-Fnaa, the main square in Marrakech.  Snake charmers, storytellers, musicians, water sellers, trained monkeys, traditional dancers, henna artists, medicine men, and tooth pullers with frightful pliers filled the square — an every day and night extravaganza like nowhere else.

Jemma el-Fnaa square throbbed with excitement. Photo: Noel Van Raes

Although not always sanitary, the food was delicious in Morocco. We never got sick during our trip.

Photo: Noel Van Raes

Returning again in 2024, the square remains, despite mass tourism, one of the world’s great spectacles.

Marrakech itself has not fared as well. Throngs of tourists arrive en masse, clogging the narrow alleys of the Medina, (an old part of a city), irrevocably tarnishing all former ambience. 

Gone are the donkey carts, drivers shouting, “Balak!, Balak!” “Watch out! Watch out!” Now motorcycles weave recklessly through the crowds, endangering everyone.

My first camel ride. I also took to wearing a djellaba. It was warm in the cool damp winter weather.

Photo: Noel Van Raes

By now, our short time in Morocco had allayed our fears. We returned to our hitchhiking ways and threw ourselves headlong into Arab culture — a culture of surprising hospitality and kindness to strangers that transcended the language barrier. 

After giving us a lift, they would invariably stop and buy us a coffee or tea at a small shop or roadside stand. Sometimes we were even invited into private homes for a meal — we, complete strangers, would be welcomed with open arms.

We never felt afraid for our safety.

However, poverty was a rampant and persistent problem in Morocco, especially among young men whose job prospects were dismal. This meant that we, as travellers, albeit on a shoestring, were seen as a source of income. Large groups of these young males waited near bus and train stations, swarming backpackers and hitchhikers, offering their services with some desperation.

Their voices became an expected cacophony.  

“I can be your guide.”

“You will get lost in the Medina and not find your way out.”

“I know the best sights.”

“I can get you the best prices at shops.”

 “I’ll take you to a good cheap hotel.”

It went on and on as we walked away, the gaggle still around us. A couple of times, we hired one just to keep the others away, but it was all part of the journey. 

Our frustration was softened by imagining what we would do if in the shoes of these young men — all brilliant linguists speaking Arabic, French, English, Spanish, and Italian, but with few opportunities or prospects for a better life.

Travellers less inclined to give a firm rebuttal were often roped into overpaying for unwanted help, and though we were practiced at rejection, we found the routine tiring.

History was written on their faces

Concerned about the strictness of the Algerian border, (rumours about disallowed hippies abounded), Noel opted for a shorter haircut before we left Morocco, but it didn’t have the intended effect. As we arrived weary in the moonless darkness at a small border station in the middle of nowhere, a crotchety guard shone a kerosene lantern in our faces and ordered us to empty our packs on the table. 

Our belongings scattered everywhere as he riffled through them.

For whatever reason, he was offended by Noel’s Goulimine beads, a must-have item from Morocco, which we had bartered for in Guelmim, a small town in southern Morocco known as Gateway to the Desert. It was only decades later, thanks to the Internet, that we found out they were actually beads from Venice that had found their way to Guelmim in the 19th century where they were used as a form of currency.

Our passports were scrutinized but passed. As the guard gruffly motioned for us to get back on the bus, we hurriedly collected the beads he had flung to the floor and haphazardly reassembled our packs.

We still have our treasured Goulimine beads. Photo: Noel Van Raes

An inauspicious start perhaps, but Arab hospitality shone through the next day. Sitting in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant on the northern edge of the Sahara Desert a man dressed in what can only be described as rags beckoned us to his table. When his meal of tagine, rice and bread arrived he insisted on sharing — a kindness that humbles us to this day.

We were often picked up by truckers as not a lot of cars plied the northern fringes of the Sahara desert in Algeria. Our large Canadian flags can't be missed. Photo: Noel Van Raes

   Noel too had donned a djellaba. This dog has struck up a friendship.

The more time we spent in Algeria, the more we bemoaned our lack of French, wishing we could communicate on a deeper level with the people of North Africa.

Sadness, though, needs no language, and Noel and I often noted a sense of loss in the people there. Every bit as hospitable as their neighbours, the people of Algeria seemed melancholy.

It wasn’t until we came home and researched that we learned about the war for independence from France, which lasted from 1954 to 1962. 

The French, unwilling to give up the country they had colonized for 130 years, enacted brutal policies to quell the uprising causing the death of 400,000 to 1,500.000 Algerians, leaving scars that would take many years to heal.

Brothel or hotel?

One persistent challenge in the Arab world was shelter. Getting a decent hotel room was a tricky venture. Booking ahead was impossible and the only way to ensure you weren’t paying for a dive was to check several out in person to see if they were reasonably clean and well-kept and then barter for a reasonable rate on the spot.

But what a hotel looked like in the afternoon was sometimes far different from the evening atmosphere. Come night, one in particular became a booming brothel. After several men came to our door — as surprised to see us as we were them, the word must have gotten around as the knocks on our door ended. 

Somewhat apprehensive, we put a chair against the door for extra security, but there were no problems and we managed to sleep soundly.  

One of the nicer hotels we stayed in.

In another — quiet when we checked in — we were jolted awake by after-dark screams and a steady stream of people coming and going. We had unknowingly got a room in a refuge for alcoholics. Surprising to us as Islam prohibits alcohol.  

Only once were we unable to procure a room — in the bustling city of Algiers. Night was falling and this was not the time to be on the streets. What to do? Slightly panicked we visited the local police station for help. Surprised by our appearance they jumped into action phoning around for a room —no luck— but they did convince a hotel to clear out a storage room for us. No bed, but ample floor space for our sleeping bags. 

Not knowing much English the police officers mentioned the only thing they knew about Canada — Margaret Trudeau. We nodded along, wracking our brains for what they could have heard.

Challenges and rewards

Travelling in developing nations, although rewarding and at times exhilarating, was challenging and tiring. After two months in Morocco and Algeria, we were looking forward to Italy and gave Tunisia a short shrift.

Despite almost empty roads in Tunisia, hitchhiking was good, and in our brief time, almost everyone stopped — usually not going a long distance but never a long wait for the next ride. Once, a government official and his chauffeur even gave us a lift.

Tunisians were often surprised by our presence. Photo: Noel Van Raes

Travellers were few and children were often quite surprised by our presence — peering at us as we waited for a ride as if we were from another planet. In one tiny isolated village we attracted the attention of several young children who bravely approached, delighted to touch us and our belongings. To no avail, a local merchant threw water in an attempt to shoo them away.

A perfect time for some candid shots — except each time Noel got out his camera all the children ran. We weren’t sure why they were afraid of the camera. Perhaps they hadn’t seen one before.

A place to call home?

We moved on, boarding a ferry to Sicily. The Mediterranean was calm, its dark blue surface lit by the bright orange streak of the setting sun greeted us as we boarded — the perfect send-off from Africa. We found our seats on the half-full ferry, got our snacks and settled in for the evening. 

All good until the storm hit, heaving the ship up and down like a carnival ride gone berserk. Announcements came on, but only in Italian.

Noel, prone to seasickness at the slightest swaying of a boat, turned deathly pale — pointed to the bathrooms and began a turbulent walk on the writhing vessel. Glued to my seat, I didn’t dare move until my concern grew, and I too made the precarious trek. I found him safely on the floor, hugging the toilet — where he remained to ride out the storm.

Several hours later, thankful to be alive, we docked in Sicily. The sea once again smooth and beguiling in the early morning light, gave no hint of its former ferocity. 

The city of Palermo, roused by the sunrise, was just coming to life as we made our way in search of a pension. We would continue our journey after a good rest.

The next day began watching a driver going the wrong way on an on-ramp where we stood, everyone honking enthusiastically. This was crazy even by Italian standards — what on earth was he doing. He stopped and motioned for us to get in. He had come to give us a lift. Was this person out of his mind?

 “Buongiorno”  “Buongiorno.” The friendly tone of the middle aged Sicilian man convinced us otherwise. We hopped in but weren’t sure where he was taking us. He just said something about home and daughter, which was about the extent of his English.

Hungry, we got out some bread eliciting an immediate response. “Non mangiare”, “Non mangiare” “Don’t eat”, “Don’t eat”. Fearing we had offended him or committed some sort of cultural faux pas, we lowered the bread and apologized.

 As it soon turned out he was in no way offended — but wanted to offer us a meal to welcome us as guests at his home.

Our Sicilian family.

After settling us into a house used by workers during harvesting of his vineyards, he whisked us off to his house where we shared a meal with not only the family, but the mayor, police chief and others from the small Sicilian village.

Our temporary home.

Now they didn’t speak a word of English, and we didn’t speak a word of Italian — but after a few glasses of red wine from his vineyard, we all understood each other perfectly.

The importance of the daughter became clear the next day when she arrived. She was studying English at university and her father thought we would be just the ticket to converse with her. For us, she was just the ticket to cultural immersion in the village. 

We accompanied her on a tour to meet the local inhabitants. In town, our money was refused when we stopped at a local business to buy snacks for the following day. Our host family had arranged payment.

Feeling almost like family, the thought of living in Sicily temporarily crossed our minds.

The kindness of strangers was constant, but the start was sometimes shaky. Traffic on the expressway heading to Rome was a blur — pulling over was dangerous. We doubted that we would get a ride.

We heard the squeal of tires as a driver skidded to a halt and signalled for us to wait as he made room in the back. That’s when we spotted the revolver in a holster under his jacket. Was he a member of the mafia? A thief? A kidnapper? An undercover officer? Should we get in? We looked at each other — made a split-second decision, and scrambled into the back.

Seemingly friendly, he indicated he wasn’t going all the way to Rome, so we knew we’d have to brave the expressway again. Strangely, reaching his turnoff, he pulled into a rest stop but didn’t drop us off; instead, he drove around the parking lot. What was he looking for? 

He stopped, headed into the restaurant, and motioned for us to wait. A few minutes later he returned with a young man who spoke English. “I can take you to Rome,” he said. Huh? The mystery was soon solved. Our driver, wanting to ensure we had another ride, had been searching for Rome plates in the parking lot, found the owner and got him to agree to give us a lift. 

We never did know why he was armed, but he was our travel angel that day.

Curiously, campfires burned brightly along the sides of the highway as we approached Rome. “What are those?” we asked our driver. “Prostitutes,” he replied. It wasn’t what we had expected to see as a welcome to the city that is home to the Pope.

The new driver skillfully took us through snarled traffic not just to the city — but right to the front doors of the Rome Youth Hostel.

Two travel angels in one day.

No line ups at the Roman Forum when we visited. Photo: Noel Van Raes

No tourists at all at the ruins in Central Rome. Photo: Noel Van Raes

Venice had been on our list from the get-go, and for a change, we decided to take a train. Night trains were popular with backpackers as they saved the price of a night’s accommodation — that is if you could sleep sitting up. 

We couldn’t and arrived in Venice eyelids drooping, but not for long. The majesty of the floating city with its winding canals, famed bridges and Gothic Venetian architecture, was eye-popping.

The canals of Venice were quiet. Photo: Noel Van Raes

In retrospect, what was most remarkable was the emptiness of Venice’s main square, St. Mark’s. We were almost the only ones sitting gazing enraptured at St. Mark’s Basilica. 

Returning to Italy in 2022, we decided to bypass Venice, now degraded to what has been called a theme park. The population of 175,000 in the 1970s has now fallen to 50,000 residents, a number smaller than the amount of tourist beds.

An unexpected turn to the left

Yugoslavia wasn’t originally on our list, but our interest was piqued by other travellers who had visited. We didn’t know what to expect of this nation — in fact, we knew nothing about it — weren’t aware of the regional conflicts or the economic recession that had hit so hard. Nor did we know about Tito, dictator from 1945 to 1980 — who remained revered in some quarters, and reviled in others. 

The economic difficulties became apparent after crossing the border from Italy. Hitchhiking was impossible due to the paucity of cars on the road. More horse carts passed by than vehicles. We resorted to buses to explore what is now Slovenia and Croatia, a much better mode of travel than standing in the cold, almost constant rain of early spring waiting for a ride.   

A rural lifestyle rather than urbanization was prevalent in Yugoslavia. Photo: Noel Van Raes

A comprehensive bus system covered Yugoslavia. Photo: Noel Van Raes

Not understanding any of the several languages spoken in this country, least of all menus, we thought we’d be safe eating at cafeterias where we could point to the food we wanted. 

Not quite. 

I gagged as I bit into what was a hunk of fat deceptively disguised as a bread-encrusted pork chop. We knew there was a tasty cuisine — we just weren’t able to find it.

Five decades later, rooting through our box of travel mementos, we find our old tourist map of Yugoslavia. Memories ignited we decide to return. Fragments of our original visit float around in my mind as we land in Podgorica, Montenegro’s capital city, formerly known as Titograd. 

This brochure inspired us to return to the former Yugoslavia.

Travelling through what is now part of the Balkans: Montenegro, Kosovo, and Northern Macedonia, we see little of the undeveloped nation we previously experienced, horse carts now replaced by cars. But we’re told by many residents that economic problems persist and hopes for economic prosperity are pinned on acceptance into the European Union. 

We do find the delectable cuisine this time around though — gorging ourselves on sarma (stuffed grape leaves), moussaka, meze (a collection of small dishes served as appetizers), homemade rye, barley and wheat cornbread.

Returning to Noel’s roots 

Although we had adhered to a strict budget, our money had dwindled six months into our journey and we had to make some decisions. 

Austria and Germany were relatively more expensive. Plus, we weren’t keen to hitchhike through the cold and snow. We hit only the major cities — Salzburg, Innsbruck, Stuttgart, and Munich as we thumbed our way to Belgium — high on our list since the beginning.

Snow and cold weather made hitchhiking a slog.

Noel’s father emigrated from Belgium to Canada in 1940, and his mother in 1948. His aunt and uncle, along with his cousin and her husband were all the family that remained in Flanders. Sharing the family home in Torhout was Edward, a Portuguese draft dodger who refused to fight in the wars between Portugal's military and its African colonies, and had walked from Angola through Africa back to Europe, somehow ending up in their home in Belgium.

Noel's family in Belgium.

Noel's uncle. Photo: Noel Van Raes

Most Europeans in our area of Southwestern Ontario close to the shores of Lake Erie came just before or just after the Second World War, always referring to Europe as the old country. I took the expression to mean their country of origin, but also a description of hard times there. My father-in-law often spoke about the difficult conditions and economic hardships he remembered.

And that’s more or less what I expected. But we arrived three decades post-war — that Europe no longer existed. Social democracies and modern welfare states had been created, leading to higher wealth and a middle class that could afford creature comforts, including cars — a luxury unheard of prior to the First World War.

Belgium has been cited as the birthplace of french fries. Usually served with mayonaisse, they were delicious.

And then there was the Netherlands which, even at that time, was famous for its liberal attitude. Just how liberal we hadn’t realized, but began to get an idea as the smell of marijuana drifted out from coffee shops lining the streets.

Set canalside, dotted with ancient churches and cathedrals, Amsterdam’s infamous Red Light District was both bizarre and fascinating. Citizens went about their everyday lives against a backdrop of window brothels. Window after window of women— in various states of undress lined the streets, some advertising languages spoken.

The sexual revolution notwithstanding, it was a revelation for us.

It was impossible to reconcile the horrors of war as we approached the Anne Frank House museum, located by a canal on a quiet street in central Amsterdam. I will never forget reading The Diary of Anne Frank at the age of twelve. Anne’s personalization of the Holocaust through her diary made the horrors of the Nazi genocide real to me.

Sadness entered my soul as I stepped through the hinged bookcase, the entrance to the secret annex. 

The unassuming entrance to Ann Frank's house. Photo: Noel Van Raes

As the only visitors we could almost feel the presence of Anne and the others in the hidden attic. Seeing her collection of picture postcards and movie stars still glued to the walls where she had left them — the prized possessions of an ordinary teenager was heart-rending. The red-checked diary she received for her twelfth birthday, along with her notebooks, remained a testament to so much loss.

Anne's collection of postcards and pictures of movie stars.

The museum struck a powerful chord that no other battle site or war museum had — one that resonates with me still.

Returning three decades later, we are dismayed to learn that due to the surge of tourists, a ticket for a specific day and time was necessary to enter. The steady line of people made contemplation almost impossible, and the museum's sombre feeling was lost.

Last but not least

We had saved what we hoped was the best for last. 

Paris had been a lifelong dream for both of us and we saved the last of our funds for a two week stay. But our arrival was more of a nightmare than a dream as a freak late spring snowstorm left us lost and alone in the city of lights. 

No one was on the streets. Everyone was hunkered inside. Not even a taxi in sight. Once again, our travel angel appeared — this time in the guise of a Roma family who happily guided us to our hotel.

Bedraggled, cold, and hungry, we entered the restaurant downstairs and, despite our appearance, were welcomed as treasured guests. Unable to read the menu, we entrusted our waiter to choose for us. We weren’t disappointed. First, a sniff from the cork of the recommended white wine, followed by stuffed trout, sauteed potatoes and green beans, and, of course, a baguette.

Our hotel in Paris. Noel is dressed the part with his sports jacket on.

The Paris of our dreams had begun — gourmet, romantic, cultural, brimming with history. 

When not visiting the major sites: Eiffel Tower, Notre Dam, The Orsay Museum, The Louvre, and Palace of Versaille, we scoured every street, nook and cranny visiting lesser-known museums and sampling delectable treats from bakeries and chocolatiers.

It's a long ways to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Photo: Noel Van Raes

We had the place to ourselves. Photo: Noel Van Raes

Noel on the hunt for bargains.

It didn’t matter that our precariously diminishing funds meant subsisting on yogurt the last couple of days of our trip. Wandering around, far from the tourist paths gave us the taste of Parisian culture, a taste we still savour.  

A long-lasting legacy

Eight months after setting out and a lifetime later, we returned home. 

Adventure was our constant companion, forever shaping our views and understanding of the complexities of the world. Living in the moment wasn’t a catch-phrase yet, it was just the way it was. It was a privileged chance to see the world through a different lens — a broader lens —and if not walk in someone else’s shoes, then at least to try them on.

Fifty-one years later, with three daughters raised, our passion for travel is still on fire. 

We still get a rush when we hit the road, whether we’re sharing our seats with chickens in El Salvador or sweating and caked in dust while chugging back roads. It’s still taking our packs and heading out, landing in a foreign country with nothing booked beyond the first night. It’s sitting on that jam-packed and rusty van in Africa, bouncing continually over the bumps. It’s walking the crowded streets of India dodging the sacred cows or taking a dugout canoe down the Amazon.

It’s the continual generosity, kindness, and helpfulness of strangers that give meaning to our journeys, fuel our adventures, and lead us down paths we never would have ventured.

Mark Twain said that “travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.” We have come to see our shared humanity over and over. Despite our differences, no matter where we go in the world, people want the same things—peace, security, food, shelter, and a brighter future for their children.

Colossus of Constantine, Capitoline Museums, Rome, 1975. Photo: Noel Van Raes

Colossus of Constantine Capitoline Museums, Rome, 2022. Photo: Noel Van Raes