Hitchhiking Around Europe Carrying a Double Bass

It was one of those wonted summer afternoons, somewhere deep inside an alluring, ancient forest atop a hill in the periphery of the Norwegian capital, Oslo. For us people present on the spot, there was nothing extraordinary about being there, as that was the exact place we were, as of then, accustomed to call home.

We maintained a few tents and makeshift lodgings made of branches and tarpaulin, scattered here and there between firs and hazelnut trees. In a glade amid that improvised little village of ours, a cluster of logs formed a circular bench around an ever-burning campfire. A charred, old, tin teapot nestled atop the embers. A lean steam jet was ejected out of its elongated nozzle. Blended with smoke, it frolicked its way up the sky against the sunlight bundles that penetrated the forest canopy.

And we, witnesses of these marvelous moments, did nothing but solemnly passing the joints around while observing nature in awe and strict silence – as if a single word or sigh would have irrevocably forced the magic to collapse into plain commonness. It was just one of those wonted summer afternoons in the Norwegian forest…

But then, the quiet was interrupted. Suddenly, the reverberation of trampled twigs and dry leaves betrayed the presence of someone walking up the hillslope towards our position. Letting the fumes rise unattended through the air, our gazes got nailed at the slope’s purview, curiously anticipating the arrival of our impending visitor.

It was a young fellow whose curly, blond hair, light green eyes, puerile facial features, and puny physique made him look like the hero of some adventure children’s movie. The hippy clothes he was dressed in, the small backpack he carried on his shoulders, and especially the double bass he dragged along added a tone of surrealism to that imagined movie.

The persisting on our part silence upon his appearance suggested that he was equally unknown to all. The gratified smile he gave off upon seeing us indicated that we were precisely whom he was looking for.

“Hi guys,” he exclaimed mirthfully when he came to a halt beside our circle.

As advised, he got rid of his burden and took a seat in the circle around the fire. Taking the few moments he needed to catch up with his breath, he proceeded with stating his business. He had set out from his small hometown in Poland to undertake a hitchhiking journey around Europe, exploring the continent and his soul, seeking adventures and meaning for his life. He solved our puzzlement about the double bass by explaining that he’s constrained to only catch rides with truckers or private automobilists with a rack atop their vehicle, which definitely made the whole venture significantly harder, but evidently, far from impracticable.

He was dropped off by one of those truckers outside of Oslo earlier in the morning. By chance, he ended up asking people by the hill’s foot to put his tent inside their garden. One of them made him aware of our little encampment inside the forest, where it should be an ideal place for him to settle.

It took him quite some time and effort wandering around the woods and looking for us at random. He had grown weary and daunted enough to be just about to give up. But at last, he managed to find us and was very happy about it. We unanimously granted him the liberty to pitch his tent at any spot he finds suitable and have some rest.

He stayed with us for a length of time I cannot gauge – Time loses a great deal of its measurability when living in the woods. But I reckon it must have been anything between one and three weeks. For all this period, he kept a rather strict program. He would wake up very early every morning; spend an hour or two breakfasting and chilling in the camp; take his instrument and head to the city on business; and come back late at night to retreat straight to the privacy of his tent.

During the few morning hours he spent at the camp outside of his tent, he wouldn’t speak much. He would mostly listen eagerly to what was said around him and, at intervals, blurt out hints of the philosophical cognitions he’d been going through during that ongoing life-changing mission of his. One day, he also spoke to me about his imminent plan. He wanted to go to some place in northern Norway, where he would volunteer on some clay building project, aiming to acquire the skill and know-how to someday build his own clay house in Poland.

As for the nature of his business in town, he didn’t say much, either. However, throughout those days, I happened to run into him a few times in the city, so I became aware of what he was up to by chance. He was often stationed somewhere along Karl Johans Street – Oslo’s main shopping street – where he busked with his double bass, striving to raise some cash. Other times, I met him roaming around the center, letting me know that he’s either about to meet some friend or in the middle of some city-foraging mission: scouting for accessible dumpsters or the various charity-food-rationing-sort-of-places around the city.

That’s pretty much how our Polish visitor was keeping himself busy while in Oslo. And then, one morning, his tent was missing. As suddenly as he had appeared, he did that day disappear. Without saying anything, as usual, he had packed his stuff and departed. I envisaged him standing by the side of some highway, his arm extended and his thumb raised, the double bass laying on the asphalt beside him.

The story you've just read is a part of my "Real Stories of Real People" collection, wherein I narrate my encounters with various remarkable characters I've run into while traveling around the world. The entire collection is published on my blog and may be read here. But if you'd like to get them with you to the beach in your ebook reader or as a physical book, and very appreciatedly support my creative activity, go ahead and grab your copy from Amazon for the cost of a cup of coffee.