(Late 70’s)
Wikipedia defines Gap Year (typically in the career world) as a year when one stops their formal work life to pursue other interests. Some of us know it as sabbatical year. My Gap Year had no definition or any intention of being a yearlong journey and a life changing experience. I had no idea I would end up in Kathmandu or sick with hepatitis in the remote town of Kag Beni.
My initial plan was simple, lead the bike trip, bicycle to a language school in Austria, wait for the love of my life (or so I thought) and bicycle off into the sunset with him.
Throughout the 70’s I led bicycle tours across the United States as well as Europe. A decade later I found myself leading bicycle trips in China. I made just enough money to pay for a cheap sublet in Hoboken NJ, buy veggies and tofu in Chinatown and was able to squirrel away a few dollars here and there for travel. I didn’t need much as far as “stuff” but I became increasingly obsessed with seeing the world from the seat of a bicycle.
Mid seventies I was off to Europe again to lead a bicycle tour in Germany and Switzerland. The kids (or trippers as we then called them) were typically upper middle class teens who were generally not accustomed to chores such as shopping, cooking and cleaning up. They weren’t used to the word “no”. It was a huge responsibility for someone in their 20’s, especially for the whopping $4.00 a day I was paid. There was, obviously, no GPS or WIFI. We planned our route based on lines on a map. We measured the distance by placing a string on the curved lines. We hoped for free or inexpensive camping along the way.
Upon completion of our month long bicycle tour my group was chaperoned back to the US by another tour leader and I on solo tour with Wolfgang (my bicycle and trusty companion). It was an easy transition from being mom, counselor, repair person, cook etc. to being solely responsible for myself and Wolfie.
I was free to cycle as far as I wished, stop as often as I wanted to, eat whatever would fill me up on as little money as possible and sleep under the stars wherever I wished. I was living on less than five bucks a day and having the time of my life. I lived at that moment just about every moment.
My solo journey to the village of Westendorf gave plenty of time for reflection on my life in NYC that I was not suited to. I knew two things of importance, firstly I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life in an unheated tenement building in the city and secondly I knew that Ed was the one.
Being on the bicycle for hours on end gave plenty of time for reflection. Just over a month ago I had visited Ed somewhere in the back country of Idaho. I recall flying into a small airport and having to hitchhike 70 miles to some outpost where he lived in a trailer with three other guys.
Wanting some privacy, we set up a tent in the back yard with mountains as a backdrop. We spoke of hiking the mountains on his day off, but we never got the time to do so. The fact of the matter was that we never got to do anything ever again.
We were abruptly woken at 3am as he was called to a forest fire. I waited several days for his return; my time was up; my flight was pre booked back to NYC and the next day on to Europe. I left the tent, the ramshackle trailer, without even a word goodbye or a confirmation that we would be meeting up in Europe after leading the tour. Little did I know he returned to the trailer some hours after my departure.
I didn’t have time to dwell on the past as I had to get organized for the tour that I was about to lead. At that point I still felt confident that he would meet me in Westendorf as he had promised to do so.
Why, you might wonder, would I choose the small Tyrolean town of Westendorf as my destination and our reunion spot? Clear and simple – I wanted to learn German and I wished to do so in a non-touristic town. I was also able to find an inexpensive language school with a cheap campground a few miles away. Budget was everything. I had a total life savings of less than $2,000.
When I arrived in the quaint and off the beaten path town of Westendorf I knew it was a good choice. My campground was pretty much a cow pasture a few miles away along a bicycle path. Since it was the fall, all the other campers had gone home and I was alone with the cows and their droppings. It was a blissful life; I was so excited about what was to come.
When the first snowfall hit I felt it time to move indoors. I scouted around for the cheapest indoor accommodation and found a simple room with a coal stove for $50.00 a month. And to top it off, it was slope side (on the side of the hill for this small town’s ski area). I was within walking distance of the bakery, a small food store and of course a few drinking establishments. The language school was still a few miles away on a magical path into the woods.
I soon landed a job at the language school in order to continue my lessons complimentary and to make some trinkgeld (tips also known as drink money). I wasn’t however well suited to the cleaning and food service career. As my German language skills became better I started to phase out my relationship with the language school. At that point I wanted to just “go native” and hang out with the locals.
I was overjoyed to be out of the touristic cities such as Innsbruck and Salzburg though it was fun to hop on a train and get my fix of pastries, junk food and hear sounds of the English language. One weekend I hopped on a train to Bavaria with my newly acquired XC skis and backpack in search of some XC skiing. I also made the journey so I could return to Austria with a new date stamped in my passport. I could then extend my stay in Austria. Skiing through the woods to some of Mad King Ludwig’s castles was a thrill I will never forget.
Having lived most of my life in NYC was a stark contrast to this new life. I was living in an old three floor farmhouse. First floor housed the cows, some equipment for making apple schnapps and a cold water spigot (my only water source). The farmer also provided me with fresh milk and apple schnapps on a daily basis. The two upper floors contained a dozen or so simple rooms. I chose the smallest one with a functioning stove. It provided some warmth as well as enough warm water to sponge bathe me daily.
It was a month or so before Ed was to meet me. I parted ways at the Language School and obtained a job working for the guy who first imported Guinness to Austria (or so he said). He was so very down to earth, however his Austrian wife and children were extremely hard to deal with and work for. My duties included laundry, house cleaning and kid sitting. I never realized that people like their sheets as well as their underwear ironed. My career was cut short when I was offered a job running the town sauna.
What a perfect match (so I thought) for someone living without a shower. I didn’t ask any details I just took the job. As you can imagine, it took a while to get used to my new surroundings – naked bodies. I tried to keep my eyes focused only on a person’s face, though that was sometimes hard to do. As for myself, I was the only one fully clothed in the place. I was mainly responsible for the collection of ticket monies, though I often had to enter the sauna area for maintenance and cleaning.
Initially I was uncomfortable with the small talk that would occur when some of the regulars would arrive. I often felt they were making smart ass comments to me, though my language skills were not good enough at the time to respond to their comments. I would just smile and collect the shillings. Since the sign behind me gave prices for the massage options they would often ask if I was the one giving the massage. I was able to tell them in German that there was a cute blond out back that did the massage. They later found out Rosika was a 70 plus Austrian built like a sausage. HAHAHA.
Soon after I stared the sauna job my peaceful life in the farmhouse changed dramatically. My evening ritual of quiet nights on the third floor with locals was blasted right out the door. I had grown accustomed to and looked forward to my visits to their “club house” in the farm house. Long nights were spent listening to German spoken with a heavy Tyrolian accent. I could understand perhaps one sentence every 10 minutes or so. I sat there knitting a scarf for Ed just to have something to do while I was not understanding the conversation.
Hans (a local carpenter) took a liking to me. He was patient and made it his responsibility to translate the conversation into a toddler’s German vocab. Hans and I explored quite a bit of the surrounding mountains. It was always a welcome experience since he made great efforts to small talk in a way that I could comprehend.
Our quiet farmhouse life changed abruptly one weekend while I was away. Upon my return I heard rock music blasting; I saw a dozen or so men hanging out on the deck with beers stacked to the roofline. I felt like an invasion was upon me. My new house mates were from Australia, New Zealand and a few from the USA. Apparently the farmhouse was noted for being a party rental for the winter season. I was totally unaware until now. Most of my mates were soon to be ski instructors at the local ski area.
When I look back on the farmhouse experience I question why I was never any more than a friend to any of these fit young instructors. Three things came to mind. Firstly, I had developed such a nice relationship with the locals that they were still my preference for evening socialization. Secondly, I believe I was mostly on a quest to find out who I was and didn’t want to get sidetracked with a relationship. Thirdly, there was Ed. If I could do it all again my actions might have been different way different.
Although I hung mostly with the locals, I started to hang with the house mates once or twice a week on party night. They were happy to have me since I was the only woman living in the house. They were also thrilled when I brought a few local females with me to the party. It was all good clean fun but way too loud for the nearby residents. Party night usually had the same flow and ending. I would usually show up once a week to hang out with my housemates and to hear the sound of some English. Though my initial intensions were just to speak German, I was slowly caving in to a bit of my mother tongue.
Party night usually went something like this. We all crammed into the largest and cleanest room. I had the smallest room so I had no worries about that. After a few beers flowed a half dozen housemates started to design guitars out of large pieces of cardboard scored from the local store’s garbage. Huge instrument cut outs were made, some rock music from an old tape would blast and after five or ten minutes they would build up to frenzy, jump up and down and tear up their instruments. The rest of us would go nuts. There would be a soft knock on the front door (sometimes it would take a while to realize someone was knocking). It was always the local police just asking us to simmer down a bit. I can’t believe they were so tolerant.
On this particular night I strayed from my usual one or two beer limit. To say the least, I had too much. I awoke to a few shocks. Firstly, someone wrote on my body the words “Drugs, Sex and Rock n Roll.” Secondly, when I finally felt well enough to walk to the Post Office I received a letter from Ed. It was a “Dear John Letter.” So many things were soon about to change.