The Clumsy Grey Nomad
This year I went to Europe for the first time. I’ve embraced overseas travel late in life, but with great enthusiasm.
I decided to throw caution to the wind. I chose to ignore my anxiety of being far from home, in a country where I can’t speak the local language, exposing myself to new germs and diseases (travel agent warned me that new travelers pick everything up!), and having no idea where to find a toilet. Oh yes, I was going to flip the script and break all the rules!
The excruciatingly detailed and eye-wateringly expensive travel plans were booked and seemed too good to be true. Many other Aussies have visited Europe and now I, little Miss Nobody from Nowhere, would be one of them. A bucket list item checked off – tick.
In typical fashion, I overprepared. I bought all new travel wear including chic, no crease tops that fold down to almost nothing. I packed thoughtfully with multiple layers in mind. Why waste space on excess toiletries? All make up was abandoned except for foundation, and I left the hair dryer behind. I invested in an excellent pair of walking shoes (both style and comfort) that I could take everywhere, without needing to pack a second pair. I watched dozens of You Tube videos on avoiding pick pockets and bought a thief-resistant body sling for passports and cash. I opted for a single, small carry-on type suitcase with wheels. Admittedly it ended up being astonishingly heavy, yet I could still lift it myself when climbing stairs or boarding trains. I could even hoist it overhead to stow it on a flight. Check in luggage? No way! Nothing was holding me back. I may not actually be a seasoned traveler, but I could look the part. I was ready to jet set with the big dogs and collect passport stamps like it was going out of style.
We started in France and had a magnificent week in Paris (I teared up when I saw the Eiffel Tower). Next, we moved on to Switzerland, or Schweiz as the locals called it. Italy was going to follow, and I was beyond enthusiastic, but our week in Switzerland was the high point for me.
Why Switzerland? my husband asked. I could have said anything really, the soaring Swiss alps, the impossibly quaint villages, cow bells, the classic novel Heidi, but I’ll be honest. It’s because of the chocolate. And while we’re truth telling, I think he already knew that, and just wanted to hear me say it. I have a lifelong dream of being surrounded by an endless supply of authentic Swiss chocolate (thank heaven for those stretchy waistband new travel pants). What better place to experience chocolate nirvana than immersed in a culture that’s both well organized and steeped in hygge.
So, we boarded a train to Switzerland. Navigated Paris Gare de Lyon - just like that. It was a breeze. Yeah, I was rolling with the wanderlust set. We’d bought first class Swiss Rail Passes for the duration, which were our golden tickets to everywhere. Unlike Australia, where major cities are vast distances apart, every town, city and country in Europe seemed connected by a short, scenic train ride.
The highlight (secondary only to the chocolate) was going to be our first class booking on the world-famous Glacier Express. We were scheduled to board the very last service for the year and traverse the magnificent Swiss Alps. Glossy brochures showed photographs of our train hugging the edge of snow-capped mountains, chugging through tunnels hewn out of solid rock, and looking almost suspended in midair on sky high aqueducts. I expected that this would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
And we almost made it.
We had spent the night before in the tiny, picturesque village of Zermatt, in a ski resort at the foot of the world-famous Matterhorn. It was early morning, and I had enjoyed a delicious breakfast of impossibly flaky croissant, thick silky yoghurt, vibrant fresh fruit and a piping hot cup of tea. All that was left to do was check out of our luxury hotel and walk a few minutes to the train station, to board the Glacier Express.
As my husband took out his credit card to pay at the front desk, I stepped across the highly polished marble floor toward our sensibly packed luggage. My foot found a step I hadn’t seen. I lost my balance, as well as my effortless-woman-of-the-world fantasy, and fell. All the way down.
In that moment, my identity shifted to a clumsy-older-woman who needed to be helped off the floor by people who over-enunciated while speaking both slowly and loudly. This was even more shocking than falling over.
Someone asked, ‘Are you alright, dear?’
And they were talking to me.
Pain had erupted in my foot, but it was my pride that was annihilated. Just how old did they think I was? Had I gone from a woman who had just fallen over, to a woman who ‘has falls’? Admittedly, I had never felt older and was inwardly giving thanks I hadn’t broken a hip. We would have had to sell the house if we’d needed to pay to be airlifted out of a top tier ski resort for major surgery.
It was humbling.
Yet, I tried to play down my shock and humiliation. I could feel my cheeks blazing (a full face of make-up might have been useful at this point) but, in an attempt to salvage a shred of dignity, I dusted myself off and laughed about my bruised ego. “Nothing hurt here but my pride. Goodness, well that will teach me to pay attention. Ha!”
I kept my voice light, casual, as if vaguely amused by it all. I re-tied my jaunty cashmere scarf. I silently forced myself to stand equally on both feet, to appear completely unharmed and walked without the hint of a limp, out the door and toward the train station.
Within moments, my foot had swollen so much that my shoe was impossibly tight, but I was frightened to take it off in such cold conditions, for fear that I would never get it back on again. I only had one pair, and shopping was out of the question. My husband shot me nervous glances as I responded with a tight smile and walked on. I was in too much pain to hold a conversation (and could still be seen from the hotel windows).
As we stood on the train platform, I refused to show any outward sign of the excruciating stabbing sensations coursing through my foot and up my leg. I wondered whether a five-hour, non-stop train ride without access to medical attention was wise. My husband wondered the same thing. He threw his arm around my shoulders and led me to the nearest bench seat, and we waved off the Glacier Express. We didn’t even have any chocolate with us.
The holiday had a whole different vibe after that. We caught a series of local trains en route to the general hospital in Zurich. One train was so filled with sick people, it was akin to a moving Petrie dish. Amidst the coughing and hacking, I had an unfortunate direct view of a young Swiss army soldier picking his nose. I kept my gaze firmly out of the window.
My husband had to lug my small but deceptively heavy case, along with his own, while holding my elbow as I managed the stairs, to prevent any further falls. What followed was anything but exciting. Hours at the hospital. Hundreds of dollars spent. An hour and a half standing outside in the freezing cold and pouring rain, waiting for an uber driver. Collapsing, exhausted into an expensive hotel room bed (it was a last-minute booking). Calls to the travel agent (who agreed to cancel part of the trip if I cancelled the other part - and eventually charged me an additional $450 for her efforts), travel insurance, Swiss Travel Centre (unfortunately closed on the weekend), hotels and tour guides.
The next morning, as we checked out of the Zurich hotel, my husband took a step backward, away from the reception desk to collect our luggage and … I kid you not … collided with an unseen step and fell. All the way down. Backwards. He somehow managed to tuck and roll and almost completed a backward somersault right there on the smooth tiled floor.
I was stunned. Apparently, we were intrepid enough to travel far and wide on all manner of terrain, but polished hotel lobbies were the bane of our existence. On the plus side, if our current jobs didn’t work out, we’d discovered some untapped talent as circus performers.
My husband looks (but is not actually) 20 years younger than me, so no-one spoke to him slowly or loudly, but they did offer to help him up. My husband laughed with genuine good humor and assured me he wasn’t hurt. Honestly, not even a little bit. I was so shocked that I wasn’t able to speak at first. Soon, we were on our way – he carried everything, I hobbled – and we flew home four hours later. We managed to laugh about it but honestly, we’d had quite enough excitement. It’s important to know when to quit.
It turned out that I had broken two bones in my foot, and as a final touch, developed pneumonia 48 hours after returning home. It was that train ride to Zurich – I knew it! Everyone on that train was coughing, hacking, gasping for air. Had we boarded some kind of hospital transport by mistake? Everything was in German, after all. But … I have now moved on.
The unexpected is the stuff of everyday life. Ups and downs are the way of things.
Overall, I am genuinely grateful. These inconveniences are what is commonly referred to as first world problems. Many people don’t have a bed to sleep in, a home to go to, or food to eat, let alone the opportunity to holiday overseas. There’s nothing glamourous about poverty, and I am aware of my privilege. I am indeed truly blessed, and forever grateful to have had such a wonderful holiday experience.
Best of all, I am wrapped up again in my cosy dressing gown, comfy on the couch with a warm mug of tea clasped between my hands. Travel can remain safely in my imagination for the next little while.