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I finally finished reading the last page of Michener’s novel ‘The Drifters’, a story about six young people traveling through Europe in the late sixties. I closed the book and bit my bottom lip. I simply had to find a way to go to Europe. My heart ached with a yearning to see the world. I had been an English major/history minor in college and had studied the continent for years. Now I was determined to see them first hand.

I contacted my old college roommate, Ellen, and set a plan – I quit my job, borrowed $500 to supplement my savings and flew off to Europe for a six-week sojourn. We were nearing the end of a near perfect trip with only a week or so remaining before I would head for home.

We had driven ‘The Romantic Road’ through Germany, partaken in the revelry of Oktoberfest in Munich, woven our way through the high peaks of the Alps in a VW bus, ridden a Gondola across the Grand Canal in Venice, stared at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and even had a brief romance with two American brothers.

Ellen had been forced by the powers that ruled her pocketbook to return home two weeks earlier than me, and now I was traveling with an affable Australian girl named Robyn who we had met in Venice and had previously been a solo traveler. Now, the two of us stood on the port side of the huge ship and gazed out from the top deck at the starlit sky above the Port of Barcelona and the Mediterranean Sea. A statue of Cristobal Columbo (Christopher Columbus) peered down at us as we swore to sate our wanderlust ever after and reveled in our high adventure. We were on our way to the Balearic Islands, the island of Ibiza, to be exact, (pronounced Ibitha to the well-traveled tourist) and had secured a cabin on the ship for the night’s trip.

The ship and cabin were Spartan, and at first light, we disembarked and set foot on terra firma. The island, which had been touted as the happening spot for young people, was tiny and, aside from the ancient fortress and village around a small seaport, was mainly dry, brushy and agricultural. We wandered down the narrow, cobblestone streets amidst the tourists and the locals who were going about the business of daily living, baskets on their shoulders and bicycles laden with goods. The smiling proprietors of small cafes beckoned weary wayfarers like us to partake of their fine wine and vittles – ‘Hola, Senoritas!’

As the day wore on, our backpacks grew heavy and we stopped at a hand-painted sign offering a room. A dark Spanish woman, swarthy and a bit thick through the middle, took us through a door that opened directly off the street and then up a steep staircase. At the top was a small, Spartan foyer with four or five doors presumably leading to guest rooms. She opened a set of flimsy double doors, which didn’t quite meet in the middle due to some sort of chopping at the space between them. The gap was now about three quarters of an inch wide and would have revealed to anyone who chose to look, the entire contents and characters within – (along with the content of their characters, perhaps). To prevent just such chicanery a faded piece of cloth was hung on the inside of the door - a curtain, as it were.

We surveyed the room with a jaded eye having already experienced the drill of expecting more from a room than we ever got during our extended tour of Europe. This one was a bargain at a buck and a half per night and was worth every peseta. The plaster was chipping and the chenille bedspreads were mismatched and worn. The curtains on the door that led to a small balcony overlooking the main street had seen better days, but we paid the small sum and dropped our packs to rest our travel-weary bodies while we sipped some local red wine.

As evening approached our tummies rumbled so we changed into our other set of clothing and headed for the nearest restaurant for some more ‘vino’ and ‘una comida’. Robin had discovered an interesting spot in Europe on $5 a day, so we located it and ventured in for dinner. A loaf of hot, homemade bread and a steaming bowl of succulent Paella filled with sumptuous shrimp, clams and rice were placed before us by a smiling Spanish waiter, and we ate with gusto, juice dripping down our chins.

Soon after dinner, our explorations led us to an American style discotheque complete with black lights and flashing neon. We worked our way through the crowd looking for a seat and managed to squeeze into a spot near the bar to watch the tourists mingle with the locals. Scantily clad bodies gyrated to the beat of the outdated American tunes that blasted from the rickety jukebox.

We Americans tourists stood out in a crowd with our sturdy walking shoes and nondescript clothing. I had packed two pairs of trousers, two sweaters, two tee-shirts, five pair of underpants, three pairs of socks and a down coat. My hair was cut as short as it had ever been for the ease of sink shampoos in cold water. Robyn looked like a Spaniard with thick, dark hair and tawny skin and a Rubenesque figure. Our apparel only seemed to draw attention to us, and we moved uneasily away from the gaze of more than one dark stranger who seemed to be assessing his prey.

We mingled as only young twenty-something girls can do meeting an array of people ranging from strange to fascinating and by 2am or so my body begged for sleep. I said goodnight and left Robyn in the company of several young men and wandered back the short distance to the room (okay, maybe I staggered a little) and flopped into the lumpy bed for a deep doze enhanced by the abundance of red wine I had imbibed.

Not long after, I was awakened suddenly by Robyn’s harsh Aussie whisper in my ear. “Wake up! Wake up! Someone’s trying to break into our room!”

I jumped up rather unsteadily and approached the door with my heart pounding wildly in my chest. I beat against the door with my fist and hollered, “Go away, get out of here!” Who knows, in the heat of the moment, I may even have shouted “Vamoose!”

Silence.

We looked at one another and reluctantly crawled back into bed leaving the light on, hoping the would-be intruder had vanished into the night. But soon, I awoke to bloodcurdling screams coming from Robyn who sat bolt upright in her bed. I sat up and began screaming too, and saw a dark man turn and flee from the room leaving the two doors wide open and the curtain inside flapping between them.

We continued to scream for a few more rounds until an Englishman arrived at our door dressed only in thin, cotton pants.

“What is the problem?” he asked in his clipped British accent while rubbing his eyes.

“We saw . . . there was . . . someone tried . . .” we panted breathlessly as we managed to reveal our plight and cause for such abject terror.

He listened patiently and then said, “It was probably just some Spaniard trying to rape you. Is that so terrible?”

We were stunned by his stiff upper lip approach to this whole scenario, but were deeply grateful when he offered to leave his two huge dogs with us for the remainder of the night.

“Stay,” he said and they curled up between the two beds and went to sleep. However, we lay awake, eyes wide, contemplating who, why, when and where, terrified that the stranger would return to rape and pillage. We couldn’t wait for morning when we quickly packed our belongings and departed. We ventured warily into the street, scanning each face wondering about the stranger who might recognize and be following us, but whom we would not recognize if we fell over him.

We found some good American fellows we had met the night before and told them of our intruder. They quickly offered to share their room until the ship returned two days later, and we slept on the floor of their room, honest!

Thoughts ran wildly through our minds as we relived the horrifying experience, but the only viable answer we found was that perhaps the man had followed Robyn from the disco thinking she was alone. When he burst into the room, hit the curtain and was assailed by two screaming banshees, he likely panicked and fled, forgetting his original intent.

By the time the ship was ready to depart, we were exhausted and more than ready to say goodbye to the little island that had become little more than a frightening place. As I lay in my berth aboard ship that night chasing sleep, a tiny gnawing pain had begun to grow in the pit of my stomach.

When we arrived in Barcelona, chills and fever had replaced the pain, but I persevered. We were anxious to board the overnight train to Paris but soon found ourselves sharing a small sleeping compartment with four other people of mixed race and gender. I was in the middle berth with my head near the door. As passengers entered the compartment, their faces were at my eyelevel, and I could smell their body odor and garlic breath, which only worsened my condition. I rotated from one end of the bed to the other where I could open the window and breathe a bit of fresh air. As the chills shook me, I donned all my clothing from my backpack only to quickly remove them as the fever and sweats returned.

By the time we reached Paris, I had a full- blown case of the ‘touristas’, otherwise known as amoebic dysentery. Well, I won’t go into the sordid details of the last few days of my trip. Let’s just say, given the quality and texture of Parisian toilet paper, I was very glad when the morning came for me to board a train to Luxembourg for my flight home. I said goodbye to Robyn, descended the five flights of stairs at the Hotel Cluny on the left bank of the Seine and ventured out to hail a cab. I hailed and waved and shouted, but none stopped. Finally, I returned to the room where Robyn informed me that I must go to a cabstand, but now I had missed my train and, possibly, my flight home. My only choice was a plane. Low on funds, I borrowed the necessary amount for airfare from Robyn.

Once aboard the transatlantic flight, I watched with empathy and pity a poor girl lying across three seats, literally green from her trip across the English Channel in a boat. With problems of my own, I dozed and dreamed of all the foods I couldn’t wait to indulge in when I got back to the States, dysentery be damned. We played the food game with many of the Americans we met on our trip. Some wanted a grilled beefsteak with French fries; others craved bacon and eggs. I longed for my mother’s juicy meatloaf and a crispy baked potato with butter.

When my 8-hour flight finally landed, I was met by my mother and step-dad to whom I must have written at least two postcards during my six-week adventure. As we climbed in the car, my mom turned to me and said, “I hope you’re hungry. I’ve got meatloaf and baked potatoes for dinner.”

I sighed with pleasure and snuggled happily into the back seat, wondering if it was just a fluke or a classic case of mother’s intuition.