Spain from a Backpack. Mark Pearson

decided to make Spain his home, working as a freelance journalist in Madrid for three years. Now on a brief break in Dublin, Mike yearns for Spanish food—even some tomatoes.

       Barcelona

       Restless Spain

      nicholas gill

      as we pulled into Barcelona’s Estación França, I picked up my new, $200, lime-green backpack, and stepped off the train with my brother and two and stepped off the train with my brother and two American friends we’d met in Interlaken. It was Friday night, and people filled the streets, many walking arm in arm. Lovely olive-skinned señoritas kissed each other’s cheeks. I was 18, just out of high school, and near the end of my European-continent trip. Wild, restless Spain had been in my thoughts for weeks.

      We went from place to place looking for lodging, but we found nowhere to sleep that night in Barcelona. Someone suggested sleeping on the beach. It sounded good to me—sleeping beneath the stars, listening to the sounds of the sea, my back against the earth. No bed could provide this.

      Everyone had been tense until we decided to give up looking. Lightening up, we found an outdoor café, ordered drinks, and enjoyed telling tales of coffeehouses in Amsterdam and pubs in London. I became as disoriented as I was blissful, and when the café closed, we made our way to the beach. Plenty of others had the same idea, mostly backpackers, but also some bums and junkies. There were four of us, so I didn’t expect any trouble. We formed a circle and made our beds in the sand. I felt tired and more comfortable than I had in days. The night was clear and warm, and I smiled as the gentle murmur of the Mediterranean put me softly to sleep.

      I awoke sensing that something was wrong. My head hurt; my sight was a little fuzzy. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been out, but it couldn’t have been more than an hour or two. It was still night, and everyone else was asleep. I thought I had tied myself to my pack, but I couldn’t feel it. I jumped up and looked around. It was gone. I became frantic. I tried to wake everyone, but they were all passed out, too inebriated and exhausted to make sense of my ranting. I walked a circle around the camp we had set up. It was not there.

      I finally woke my brother and demanded he give me his knife. I was angry, upset and fearless. I was going to get my things back from those thieves. They couldn’t have gone far, I thought. I was going to find them. I ran around the beach inspecting anything I thought looked suspicious. Adrenaline was pumping through my veins. I was prepared to do whatever it took to get my possessions back, my collection of objects from a continental trek.

      I approached some groups of sleeping people several times, thinking I may have missed something. I asked bums who spoke no English if they had seen my backpack. They gave me no answers. Frustrated, I found some wooden chairs on the concrete boardwalk and beat them as hard as I could against the wall, screaming. Finally, in despair, I returned to my friends. They were aware of my situation—in a hazy, dream-like sort of way—but went back to sleep. Their packs were all there. One of them was lying three feet away from its owner. Why didn’t the thieves take that one? I thought. I sat there, disappointed, but only for a minute. I wasn’t going to give up that easily. My pack was somewhere. I was going to slow down my search, and look further and more carefully than I had before. I’d spend all night if I had to.

      A half-mile or so down the beach from my friends, I found a van full of policemen chatting with some people on bikes. I tried to remember some of the Spanish I had already forgotten from high school. My macchina was missing. No, that wasn’t the word. Anyway, they speak Catalan here.

      “¿Mochila?” one of them asked.

      “Yes. Sí. That’s it. Mochila,” I said as I recognized the word. “It’s gone. Stolen.” I raised my arms in the air to signify “missing.”

      I got in the van. I didn’t really know what was going on. We drove around the city. They asked me questions I couldn’t answer. “Mochila … missing,” I said, reassuring myself that they knew what I was talking about. They whistled at girls on sidewalks and laughed. I tried to laugh along with them, but I couldn’t. We went to a station somewhere in the city; they sat me down on a stiff chair in a bare cement hallway and left. I waited for something to happen. The only other person in the hall was a startled old Spaniard with crutches who kept trying to talk to me. From what I could make out, he had been robbed or attacked.

      It was the first time I began giving any thought to what was in my bag. Now I felt worse.

      There were tears in his eyes.

      After what seemed like hours, a policeman who spoke some English brought me into a room to fill out a report of what exactly was missing. It was the first time I began giving any thought to what was in my bag. Now I felt worse.

      Besides all of my clothes, there were souvenirs from a dozen countries: postcards, CDs, T-shirts, and various items I’d picked up along the way. My camera was gone, as were the 20 or so rolls of film I had shot. I thought of the pictures I would never be able to see: the one of me hoisting a beer with a table of Japanese students at the Hofbrauhaus; the one I took of the Sistine Chapel ceiling that almost got me thrown out. All of those memories would be lost. I was lucky enough to have kept my passport and wallet in my pockets.

      I completed the form and handed it to the officer. He led me to the door outside. “Aren’t you going to give me a ride?” I asked. No, they answered, they did not do that. I had no idea where I was, where on the beach my friends were, or even what time I’d left. I walked outside. The officer warned me to watch out for Arabs, saying they maced people so they could rob them. If I saw any, he said, I should run.

      Scared now, I ran through the streets, looking every which way for Arabs. The knife came out of my pocket; I grasped it firmly in my hand. I wasn’t going to let anything else be taken from me. I could just imagine my friends back home hearing that I died in a knife fight with an Arab in Spain.

      The wind blew hard, tossing leaves and trash under the bright streetlights. I ran in circles at first, but the smell of salt in the air finally led me back to the beach. That was the easy part. Now, I had to find my friends. The beach looked the same everywhere. I ran in one direction, then, thinking I had gone too far, headed in the other. My calves ached from running in the thick sand. I felt weary and could barely stay awake, but still I ran as fast as I could. I worried that my friends had left to look for me, since I had been gone so long, and that I would never be able to find them.

      I ran for miles and miles, always feeling as though I was getting nowhere—half an hour in one direction, half an hour in another, then back again. Eventually, my surroundings began to look more familiar. The place that I had left hours before was still there. In fact, my friends were still sleeping. I collapsed onto the beach and tried to go to sleep, hoping that I would wake up well-rested, next to my belongings.

      But I could not fall asleep. The sky was beginning to lighten and gulls were circling above. I looked around and saw what was left of my things: a blanket, an inflatable neck cushion, and a book that I had yet to finish. I sat and watched the tide roll in. I could feel the temperature rising by the minute. Humiliated, I felt like the gulls were laughing at me. My pack was gone. I wasn’t getting it back.

      Slowly, I began to understand my lost things for what they were: things. Other than the photos, everything would be worn out or thrown away in the next few years. It could all be replaced. The photos I couldn’t reproduce, but my memories were alive.

      Tired and heartbroken, I began to laugh along with the gulls. I was disenchanted but not devastated. I looked out far across the ancient water, farther than I ever had before, and accepted the rising sun.

      NICHOLAS GILL is a freelance writer and photographer based in Columbus, Ohio. He is the author of Adventure Guide Peru (Hunter Publishing, 2006). After graduating from Ohio State University, he spent several years abroad in search of adventure. However, he and his Peruvian wife are intent on settling in the United