Villach

We shot through northern Italy, catching glimpses of the Alps between tunnels. This train was bound for Villach, Austria. The first new country in a week. We chose Villach on a whim, because it's fun to say (FEE-LOCK). I harbored a small amount of excitement in knowing a small amount of German that I was eager to put to the test, but was surprised when greeted with a confusing German/Italian dialect, and floundered completely.

We wandered in the general direction of a hostel we hadn't booked for the night. A combination of the heavy packs and the rain that had started slowly, but now soaked us thoroughly, drove us to seek shelter under an awning across the street from a Chinese restaurant. I had given up looking for this phantom hostel, and wouldn't have been opposed to sleeping under the awning for the night. I looked over at the mixture of symbols and gibberish, Chinese and German. I remember thinking it was out of place, but I really wasn't one to talk. Derek was playing with his hair, molding it into a Mohawk, when I jokingly suggested that we just ask the restaurant if we could pitch our tent in their outdoor dining/garden area. I had no further plan other than that, but Derek stopped playing with his hair and looked up nodding. "2 Euros if you go over and ask them, 5 if we actually get to stay," he said with a small laugh and a grin. The smile I had been wearing from the joke was still on my face, but it molded now to match Derek’s sly grin. I was still wearing this face when I reached the door of the restaurant. Derek was close behind.

I stepped in out of the rain to find the place nearly deserted, with exception to one English-speaking group of older people hunched over a table in the corner. Immediately I locked eyes with a young waiter making his way over to seat us. He couldn't have been older than 17, with a slight build and quick steps. Looking around I gathered that he was running the pace by himself. When he was in range I attempted, in my best fragmented German, to explain our situation, throwing in dish washing gestures for work and the phrase " kein geld," to convey our lack of pocket funds. I had no idea how to say tent, lawn, sleep, or other key phrases, so after making wild hand gestures for a bit the young man ushered us to his computer where, with help from Google translator, I managed to respond with a wag or nod of my head. A few head movements and "danke's," later we were permitted to stay until his father came back, when he would ask permission.

I stole a look at Derek, the first since this whole process had begun, and could hardly contain a chuckle. It was right when I was about to fully double over when I spotted a small intent looking man with two gray streaks running through his hair on either side of his head at ear level. He was undoubtedly the young man's father.

His son met him outside, just behind us, and proceeded to spout a whirlwind of language, explaining the situation. We filled the pauses with German snippets, which probably annoyed him. After a particularly long break in the conversation the dad said something short to his son and they walked back into the restaurant. It was a nerve-racking minute before the boy came out and informed us that we could stay in the garden, on the little patch of grass in the corner, but not until 11:00 P.M. when they closed. We thanked them profusely, and held in our laughter until we were out of earshot. It was too much. We had somehow gotten ourselves a campsite in a Chinese restaurant garden in the middle of Villach, Austria. It was 8:00 P.M. on a Sunday, and we needed to find a place to celebrate.

There was a gas station just down the hill where we had asked for direction to the phantom hostel earlier, and we stopped by to ask if there was someplace where we could kill a few hours. We had prepared for the usual Sunday shut down, and weren't surprised when we found out everything was closed. The man behind the counter said that if we wanted we could have a drink and something to eat here, and motioned to a small sitting area surrounded by empty beer crates. We agreed, and played cards for a bit sipping Villachers, a hometown brew. Not that we had a choice, Villacher was the only beer offered. As couple sitting next to us observed, "Why you want to drink anything else?"

We stayed until they closed at 10, and made our way downtown in hopes that there might be some late night joint still alive. We ended up finding a sports bar where we caught clips from the Formula 1 races in Monaco. By the time we got back to the garden I was exhausted, and pitched the tent, said goodnight to the man and his son (who told us we had to be out by 10 the next morning when they opened) and fell asleep with my head resting on my filthy pants.

I woke up with the sunrise and bird songs of a Villach morning. Salzburg was waiting for us.