I’m Not Geronimo
A real representation of the person that I am
I feel like the guy my friend told me about in Torres del Paine, Patagonia, Chile. It was one day post my seven day O-trek escapade and I was on a nice morning run with my newfound friend, Matheus. We had met during the slippery hours of my last day on the trek as I struggled to walk down on the icy path from the Tres Torres view with my worn-out North Face shoes.
Actually, that’s a lie.
We had met two days earlier when I was still with my other friend, Grace. It was an early, frigid, rainy morning and we were to begin our ascent to one of the most notable viewpoints on the trek: the Frances viewpoint. We had slept well. I mean, we had shared a glamping tent gifted to us by our three Chilean friends (who happened to be brothers) after they saw us nearly shiver to death in the frigid night air. The rain pitter-pattered all night as we cuddled closer for shelter. It felt funny how our privilege worked, because if we had been in our shabby little tents, we would not have peeped a word of complaint, attempting to be the heroines of our self-written stories. But, with the armor of privilege - the glamping tent - we suddenly felt entitled to the complaints of kings and queens, grumbling about the sordid mood and gray skies. But that’s besides the point.
Back to meeting Matheus.
Grace and I had just finished boiling our water for the little smither of warmth we were to have that day. Anxious to go and start our climb, we were affronted by Matheus, who gently asked if he could borrow our gas stove as he had left his down below at the campsite. Now, recounting this makes me feel like a piece of shit because if I had asked for this favor from anyone else, I would have expected to be met with a sharing smile and sprightly action to fulfill my simple request. Instead, Grace and I wearily eyed each other and she murmured something disgruntled, like: ‘sure.’ Feeling our annoyance, or perhaps just intense hesitation, he quickly stumbled back on his words, retracting his request in a whisper of humility. Welp, that settled it and he went down to begrudgingly collect his gas and self, I presume. Still feeling guilty, I gathered up our stuff and we hurried off to the now-known failure of the Frances climb.
So, this circularity is all to go back to Matheus, whom I thought I had met slipping down the ice of my last O-trek climb but really met denying a basic act of giving & generosity.
[This was our day, maybe now you will have empathy for our sins (day 6/8 trekking in Torres)]
On the run the next day, Matheus was telling me about this guy he met, who I will, for the purposes of this story, call Geronimo. Germonimo started off as a backpacker like us. He was cheap and trying to see the world. He saved on food by eating the cheapest empanadas on the street and attempting to camp out in random green spaces with his tent. Much like in the cases of both Matheus and I, this cheapness evolved to an elevated level. He began to hitchhike around, and upon encountering significant success, he started attempting to sleep at people’s (presumably the people who picked him up) houses. Now, this is often where I would say most people, including myself, draw the line. Hitch a ride or two, crash on a couch or three. Whatever. But, Geronimo wanted an adventure. He sought to create some spice in his life, as they (I, mainly) like to say.
So, he embarked on a year-long mission to never pay for a single ride nor sleeping accommodation.
Now, this is a devolution of his prior self, as he had earlier scenarios which forced his hand to solemnly release a stack of fifty cents worth of pesos for a night and a shower. On this trip, though, this was no longer the case. And, he succeeded.
He did that for an. entire. year. Then, he aimed to do it again, now including food. Somehow, he went to secure himself meals through avenues of people’s generosity and the occasional busking stint for an entire year. He succeeded in this endeavor as well. And thus, his obsession and challenge continued.
The Final Test
Geronimo’s ultimate test for himself (which was really for other people) came when he decided to travel for a year with no money and no attempts to make any money. This perhaps sounds similar to the prior goal, but I can assure you that it is not. Every broken backpack, lost shirt, over-worn shoe: they all now came from his pleas for kindness. Okay, bueno. This to me feels like an ultimate test. Life lived with $0 spent.
This is an extreme that in my head I feel that I could achieve, though I just can’t convince myself of doing it. I guess some things are even too intense for me. But not for Geronimo.
Geronimo did it and now I am here sitting on a bench outside of Autostazione Lampugnano trying to do it too (or my version of it).
A few days ago, my phone broke. I woke up to my blaring alarm and turned over to silence it. But, the screen was black. Somehow, I managed to snooze it through the abyss of my appearingly-dead digital extension. After trying to restart it a couple of times and cursing the heavens for doing this to me while solo traveling, I chucked the phone to my side and went for an extensively long and hilly run in the hopes of relaxing myself.
Instead, I came back even more overstimulated than before. The lack of sidewalks and the plethora of honking horns in this small town in Italy stressed me out. God! Where are American comforts when you need them?? This is the thought I had in my brain as I turned the final corner and, nearly-avoiding a head-on collision with a packed mini Fiat, thrust myself into my apartment as quickly as possible.
Logging back onto my computer, I found myself praising the beauty and grace (mainly existence) of it. Turning her on, I quickly took to groveling with the Apple chat support team. Alexandra Allen answered me, assuring me that if I tried to turn my phone on enough times, it would eventually concede. Allen was right to an extent. I followed her instructions and attempted to start the screen, greeted with the empty space of blackness, mockingly staring back at me as if to say: “You thought I would return to you?” Um, yes, duh (imagine that in the most American accent you can muster).
Anxiously returning to my Apple support chat (now feeling more like a support group), I found myself pleading on hands and knees again for any, ANY solution. Okay, they conceded again. The only option left was to go to the Apple store. Quickly doing my own research, I saw the closest one was 104 km away. Absolutely no way. But, to my relief, Apple had certified partners. Hooray! My new Alexandra Allen (I forgot her name) promptly secured me an appointment at Apple’s closest certified partner: Juice Corcicia. It sounded like a weird juice bar or wannabe cool-kids thrift store but I gratefully accepted the 20 km distance.
The Appointment
The appointment was for 16:40. The place was technically only meant to be 40 minutes away by bus, but I had to make sure to get on the right buses and get off at the right stops and walk to the right place. Also, all in Italian:)
Writing down addresses, common phrases in Italian, and directions, I set off. I got on the bus and was greeted by a scary, gray-haired older woman with a pixie cut and bright red nails. My hand visibly shook as I paid her the two euros for the ride and contemplated asking her for help to get off on the right spot. Seeing her glare of disinterest, I gave in to my second-tier embarrassment and anxiously sat myself down.
I call it second-tier embarrassment because a friend of mine once said: “Vicky, I will never understand you. You unflinchingly hitchhike in countries where you don’t speak a word of the language but refuse to ask for a cup of water at a hotel” in reference to a time when I indeed was too embarrassed to ask for a glass of water at the fancy hotel one of my mentors was staying at. And yes, he was absolutely correct.
I honestly don't have an answer to this except for to say that life doesn’t feel real when you act so unhinged that people just stare in amazement rather than judgment. That’s how my crazy adventures feel, but the real-world tasks of asking for help or requesting someone’s service are just too human, too commonplace for me to bravely face them.
Someone please unpack that.
Back to the journey.
At one point, it had felt like I had been on that bus for ages thanks to my social media-induced-two-second attention span. Shyly crossing over to interrupt the bus driver’s soundless stupor, I braved myself and asked: “Via Panchillia?” At first, I pronounced the Panchillia with a “ch” sound and quickly realized it was the opposite in Italian, so I repeated the request with the “k” sound. Looking at her bus route with a grimace, she patiently explained (in Italian, obviously) that I needed to something something get off somewhere somewhere next stop with someone someone on bus G. Weird, because on the route I had seen on my handy computer it had said that this bus would take me nearly all the way to my store. But, the conductor knows better… Gratefully getting off that next stop, I skeptically positioned myself to wait for the G, pronounced “hhhhhh.”
A crack sounded and a light flashed around me maybe two minutes later. Rain poured. Awesome. Armed with my broken phone fitted into twelve plastic bags and my wallet nearby and plainly in sight, I stood there withstanding the downpair in my singular pairs of jeans and singular, non-waterproof jacket.
After my twenty-minute bath, bus G came bumbling along and a young conductor blaring EDM through his airpods nodded me on. Getting on the bus, I once again succumbed to my second-hand embarrassment and sat down to the music of his Odezsa.
Once again and many ages later, I stood up to check where the Juice Corcicia was. The bus driver shook his head and motioned me back down. Okay… waiting a little longer, I went back up to him and asked “qui?” Again, the seat awaited my familiar bodily warmth. Finally, we passed a commercial center and a memory of the Centro Commerciale Gheraldi flashed through my mind. This is where it should be, I am sure of it. Strutting over the conductor, I didn't even get to ask my question as he pulled out one headphone to silently wag his finger at me and say “prossimo.”
The next stop didn't really look like the right place so I just waited and eventually got off at a place that seemed semi-correct. Headphones never ended up telling me where to get off and I felt myself drifting further and further from that 16:40 time stamp.
Finding Juice Corcicia
As I got off, I tried to follow the instructions on my handwritten map and found myself in a deserted street. Seeing a building that almost looked like a hotel, I cautiously tried to enter and ask for help. The moment I entered, I saw that it seemed to be some sort of furniture store. I wandered through the aisles of bed frames and homely dreams, hoping to find a friendly face to direct me. Instead, I turned a corner and ran into loud shouts and angry whispers. Looking at the fighting pair, I panicked and sprinted out of there like Sha'carri Richardson. I’d rather be lost.
As I solemnly wandered the Oak tree Hill-esq street, I came across a woman with a dog. “Scusi! Scusi!” I shouted, perhaps a little too vigorously. “Siiiii….” she drawled out, eyeing me more suspiciously than the rottweiler at her side. “Mio telefone e rotto” I said, making an X sign with my arms and holding out a banana phone made out of my hands. “Io…” I had no idea how to say I need to go in Italian. So, I said “Io Centro Commerciale Gheraldi.” I Centro Commerciale Gheraldi. Genius.
“Ah, si!” she exclaimed and happily gave me the not-so-complicated directions to get there. As she explained, I probably interrupted her at least five times to clarify. Probably seeing me sweat through my still-rain-soaked jacket despite the cold Italian skies, she took pity on me and turned on her heel. Beckoning me, she briskly walked me to the street corner, then turned left, then to another street corner, then turned right. Finally, she pointed down a long road and said: “qui!” pointing to her right. Thanking her so profusely you would’ve thought I would kneel to kiss her feet, I jogged over to the building. Of course, in the one minute jog, it started downpouring again. This time, the tiny holes in my shoes gave out and my feet were promptly soaked.
Rushing into the building, I sprinted to my destination and was greeted by a friendly, Italian-only employee. But do not fret, for I had my Italian introduction in my trusty handbook. Which was now… wet. Using a jumble of Italian-ified Spanish and ultimately the employee’s phone for Google Translate, I communicated the problem. Taking no more than thirty seconds to look at the phone and the issue, he muttered: “acqua.” Damn water. The day before I had cheerfully been on the phone with my dad during another torrential downpour, forgetting I had a weak Ebay-refurbished phone. Water must have seeped in then.
The employee then left for the secret backroom to give me a quote for a repair that I already knew I would not get. Anything over fifty euros was not in my realm, and I knew it would be more. He came back with a somber look on his face and turned over a tiny piece of paper to me. 490 euro??? My eyes bugged out of my head. That was more than I had actually paid for my phone. Tanto, eh?, he said, looking at me in amusement. Tanto, Tanto!! I vigorously shook my head. Nuovo telefono? He inquired. And before I could shake my head no, a monstrous 698 euro glanced up at me, mocking me with its 128 GB of social-media-influencer level storage. No, grazie!
Time for plan B.
Becoming Geronimo?
Now, this is where I became Geronimo. Not quite, but perhaps every reasonable person traveling solo would try to figure out some sort of way to get their hands on a phone. Obviously I did not. I was meeting my sister in a few days and then I knew I could get to Amsterdam afterwards to meet a friend with a spare phone. Great plan!
So, I asked the guy to print out my bus ticket to Milan for that Friday night [2:15 am] (my original plan was to hitchhike from Milan to Colmar where I was meeting my sister). Then, I went onto their display phones and started translating English to Italian. I wrote down every common phrase that I could. I drew pictures of roundabouts and rest stops that I could stop at. I wrote down my family’s and French friends’ phone numbers in case of an emergency. Then, I left the store with two printed copies of my bus ticket and a list of Italian phrases I had forgotten to write the English translations for.
Approximately five minutes later, I was back in the store. How do I get back to my town?? Using an iPad this time, I routed myself and saw the only way back was to walk twenty minutes and take the F bus. Maybe red nails was right and it didn’t go straight to Centro Commerciale.
Walking into literally the fourth rainstorm of this saga (at least it’s fitting!), I finally located myself at the bus stop. I knew that it was a twenty minute walk and the bus was meant to come in thirty minutes, so I figured I had only about ten minutes left for my hearty bus. 10 minutes passed, then twenty, then thirty. I know I don’t have a phone and can’t keep track of time but it literally started to get dark. I knew it must be approaching 8 pm and that if the bus had abandoned me, I needed to hitchhike out of there. In the exact moment I meant to stick my thumb out, the F rounded the corner and came to a screeching halt. Getting onto the bus sufficiently wet and peeved, I made it back with no significant trials.
A few days later, after skillfully memorizing the layout of the town of Perugia, Italy, I wearily trudged to the station at 1:30 am. Promptly at 2:15 am, I was picked up and delivered to Milan at 9:20 am. This was my moment of true Geronimo truth. Hoisting my 25+ kilo backpack onto my back and my torn-up mini pack onto my shoulders, I went to my selected round-about and stuck out my thumb. I waited and waited. I was shaking, partly from the cold and partly from the fear. My sister was going to kill me if I didn’t meet her in Colmar on the day we had discussed. That is, unless someone else did once they realized I was a solo female hitchhiker without a phone.
Eying me up and down, the Italian passerby glared at best and hooted/hollered at worst. I would estimate that I stood there for about an hour before I knew it was over. The passion. The passion was lacking. But, oh, the grit was not. Firmly sticking my finger out with renewed vigor, I willed myself to save those 37 euros. Thirty more minutes and the sun was blazing and my thumb felt permanently stuck in the position of a plea. Please take me!
One more hour. This was the end. Shaking off my internal reprimands, I shuffled back to the station and dished out my 37 euro.
Current State
Now, I am waiting for five hours to contemplate and write.
So I am contemplating how disappointed my parents will be when they read this, how relieved my sister will be when she sees me, how the kindness of strangers is ubiquitous and, mostly, how I am not Geronimo.
P.S. I ended up getting the hand-me-down phone from a friend about 17 days after my phone first broke. I wasn’t totally de-digitized as I still had my computer but those 17 days were probably the most simultaneously peaceful and stressful of my life.
Not advised to try (but I lowkey advise it),
Vicky
Your adventures amaze me, as do YOU!