Traveling with Ralph

I pull into the hotel parking lot for the night and turn off the Blue Car. The 911 has a rear engine so the storage space under the front hood is quite small.  I open the hood and look at my well-worn black canvas backpack and think about how this trip compares to my first big trip, almost 40 years ago, and how that journey, and all those journeys that have happened since, have changed me.

I was 20 years old and on my first big trip in the summer of 1984. After five weeks of studying architecture at a study-abroad program in Copenhagen, it was time for the two-week mid-semester travel break. After pulling an all-nighter to finish my drawings, I participated in project presentations and then raced back up the coast on the 40-minute train ride to my host family house in Nivå to pack. My class project had been all consuming and I hadn’t prepared for my Amsterdam-Paris-London trip with my classmate and friend Rocco. 

I loved living in Nivå with its atrium houses and proximity to the beach but it was less than convenient.  Today my travel home after class, and then back to Copenhagen Central Station had to be well-planned for me to catch the 7pm Amsterdam train. I was feeling anxious and ran as fast as I could from the train to the house. In my small bedroom, I looked at the wall clock: 30 minutes was all I had to pack and head back to the station. My black canvas backpack, newly purchased in May for this summer abroad, sat empty and open on my bed. This was long before the days of lightweight ergonomically-designed hiking packs; the bag had one large main compartment with a zip-off smaller daypack on the front and a sturdy metal frame with shoulder straps. When full, it was a two-feet wide by three-feet long by slightly more than one-foot think soft-sided rectangular box on my back with straps at my chest and waist to hold it tightly into place. What it lacked in design and comfort it more than made up for in generous size and I was pleased as I started throwing things in the pack.

Unsure about the weather ahead and with an eye on the clock, I took my sneakers, good shoes, rain boots, rain coat, swimsuit, umbrella, warm sweaters, and a fleece.

I don’t want to miss something important on my first trip to Europe! I packed two guidebooks, a book on European architecture, and some general reading. 

Wouldn’t music would be nice? I threw in my Walkman, a bunch of cassette tapes, and the two 8” high speakers that I had used in the studio for music. What if the batteries died and no plug was available? I packed 12 “C” batteries for backup.

Maybe we would go somewhere fancy?  I added two dresses. Then my hairdryer and brushes. 

Don’t forget cosmetics, the electrical adapters, and two sketch books, just in case!

I was done, had two minutes left, and was very pleased with myself. A glance around the room revealed a barren space…most of what I had brought with me that summer was now in my backpack. As I passed through the dining room toward the front door, my host mother Jytte handed over her surprise…two loaves of homemade Danish Ryebread, a stick of butter, a knife, a large block of cheese, and four apples…for the train ride. A plastic shopping bag was added to my assemblage. Off I went!

I ran out of the house and down the steps in a burst of energy and slowed to a crawl half way down the block. What the…??!  My backpack (nicknamed Ralph later in the trip) weighed in at just about 40 pounds and even with the straps painfully tight across my waist and chest, it pulled me backwards from its poorly distributed weight jutting out from behind me. Only rising panic provided the adrenaline I needed to push forward when I heard the approaching train. I made it with seconds to spare.

As we rolled into Central Station, I pushed up from the edge of my seat and lurched toward the train doors. Sweat was pouring off my face. I had 15 minutes to find the Amsterdam train platform in a station packed with evening commuters and summer tourists.  Once there, I found Rocco. With raised eyebrows, he looked at my backpack, the plastic bag with Jytte’s goodies, and yes, a handbag! — and said nothing.

We were traveling on a shoestring and had booked regular seats on the overnight train. Our compartment was filled with other young summer travelers and the seats made poor beds as the six of us contorted our bodies to find some comfort. With cramps in my legs and someone’s pungent feet right under my nose, I didn’t sleep a wink all night. Our fellow classmate Cara was also traveling to Amsterdam on that train.  Cara was a woman of the world in my eyes, with her small travel bag and reserved couchette (sleeping) compartment with a real bed. While I liked Cara, somewhere at 3am in my seat, twisted like a pretzel, I snarled at the thought of her sleeping comfortably elsewhere on the train. 

In our Amsterdam youth hostel, our room was on the fourth floor…walk-up of course. Rocco took his bag up, along with Jytte’s goodies and my handbag (I don’t even remember what was in that handbag!) while I entered a slow awkward dance with Ralph as my clumsy partner; I pulled him up the steep and narrow stairs in a dull thunking rhythm: four steps, rest, four steps, rest.

After five days exploring the city we were off to France. Rocco and I took an overnight train to Paris Gare du Nord and got in at 6:00 am after another night of little sleep. At the station, muted light filtered through the skylights in the cavernous space. Under other circumstances, I would have been enthralled by the 1865 architecture, the vaulted ceilings, and the hustle and bustle. But in this moment, my architecture-loving self was repressed deep inside me; those grand spaces meant more distance, a longer walk, and most likely multiple flights of stairs to get to our subway connection. My eyes were heavy from no sleep from another uncomfortable overnight train journey and Ralph’s straps were digging into my shoulders and pinching my waist. But our journey wasn’t nearly over yet. A fellow classmate back in the States was studying architecture at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts at Fontainebleau about 30 miles outside of Paris and she was expecting us for a three-day visit.  We had two more trains to catch: first a Metro from our current location and then a regional train from Gare de Lyon to Fountainebleau-Avon.

Rocco’s legs were longer than mine and he had a faster gait.  I had just spent four days in Amsterdam talking to his back as we walked throughout the city. While frustrating at times, he always slowed down when I asked and Ralph had stayed behind on our daily outings. This morning, I was feeling none too light of step and more than a little cranky as Ralph and I rushed to keep up. Across the length of the grand station and down two flights of stairs, we finally came to the Metro token gates.  Rush hour was building at this, the busiest train station in Europe, and we needed exact change to purchase tokens. The Metro attendant was not helpful…his job in his little cozy booth evidently didn’t include giving change. He pointed to the newspaper and snack kiosk near the stairs.  No luck there without making a purchase so I paid for a candy bar that I didn’t want, to get the proper coins for the token machine.

Finally, token in hand, I approached the Metro gates where Rocco was looking behind him to see where I was (he had purchased his Toblerone Bar with remarkable speed). Those gates had a Star Trek quality, with sliding panels, as tall as me, that swept back to either side with a cool little swoosh sound to allow passage.  Rocco inserted his token, the gates opened, he went ahead, and the gates closed. My turn.

I inserted my token. The gates swept open, I walked briskly forward and came to a jarring halt. Ralph was wedged in the narrow opening, too portly to fit through. I felt my arms flailing in front of me as I struggled to pull myself through the gate while Rocco, hands on hips, looked back at me. “Susan, come on, we are going to miss our train!” I wiggled and struggled but stubborn Ralph wouldn’t budge. 

I will shamefully admit that, stuck in those gates, I felt the weight of not only Ralph, but also of those Danish delights I had been enjoying since my arrival in Copenhagen. Gammeldags waffle cones with three-to-five scoops of heavenly Danish ice cream, jam, fresh whipped cream, and a little Danish Flag on top (the Danish Flag had no calories but it is important to fully visualize these wonderous concoctions). Vienna Brød (Danish pastries) filled with cream and chocolate. Smørrebrød (those delectable open-face sandwiches with meats and smoked fishes, cheeses, and butter). Pints and pints of øl (Carlsberg, Tuborg…it didn’t matter…it all tasted better than the beer back home). These all were traveling with me…it was only halfway through the summer and I had gained about five pounds. A pittance compared to the load of Ralph but it showed, and I felt it.

Stylishly thin Parisians on their morning commutes grumbled and looked at me with distain. Then, purely out of self-interest, the people behind me began to help. Voila! It worked! I was through the gate! Sadly, I had been pulled, not pushed, and was now standing back on the wrong side as commuters streamed around me to get through. I couldn’t see Rocco and felt like crying. I shouted to him to wait and I walked back to the kiosk and bought another chocolate bar that I didn’t want or need, got change for the token machine, and prepared for battle in much the way a general must strategize when seeking to breach the walls of a fortress. I took a deep breath and assessed the situation. I then took Ralph off my back. I waited for a break in the line of commuters but no joy there.  There was nothing to be done but get in line for the gate and invoke the wrath of those behind me.  As I awkwardly approached the gate, I tried to block out the French curses behind me as I set Ralph down in front of me, slung my purse around my neck, yelled to Rocco to come closer on the other side, and inserted my token.  The gates swept back to either side and I did a full rush, heaving Ralph through like a battering ram and almost knocking down a surprised Rocco, just making it before the relentless gates rushed closed.  I was through!

After an uneventful Metro ride to Gare de Lyon, I looked down at Ralph sitting beside me and gave him a disapproving stare as we waited on the platform for a train to Fountainebleau-Avon. I had dragged him off the Metro, up the stairs, across the platform and down to the regional train platform.  Our relationship was in deep trouble and Rocco wasn’t even speaking to him. But for now, Ralph and I were a team and I was trying to make the best of it…but I was plotting. In a naïve attempt to rid myself of weight I was secretly starting to calculate at what point in the trip I could start throwing out my underwear and perhaps even my older socks? When the train finally came, I heaved Ralph aboard and slumped into a seat right near the door.  We purchased tickets from the train attendant…the click click of the small money machine on his belt oddly satisfying as he took our bills, made change (no need to purchase a candy bar here), and gave us our tiny paper tickets.  It was now 8:00 am and the skies were dark and heavy with rain when our train emerged from the tunnels of Paris for the countryside. We had spent two hours moving from Gare du Nord to Gare de Lyon in Paris…a distance of less than three miles.  We could have walked it in…oh wait, I had Ralph. Rocco and I promptly fell asleep to the steady rumble of the wheels on the track. 

I came awake with a start to find I was hugging a surprisingly comfortable Ralph in the seat next to me with a different attendant standing over us angrily asking for tickets. Rocco and I handed him our small stubs and he shook his head in disgust. Through his finger pointing to the route map on the wall and out the window, we understood that we had slept through our stop and were the only passengers left on a train that was now out of service. We were expelled from the train.

It was almost 9am and as I pulled Ralph down the step and looked up, I saw we were on a small raised concrete platform in the middle of the woods. No parking lot, no station…just a platform and steps leading to a turnaround and road back out into the forest. Offering a small bit of comfort, very small, was a small wooden sign with the name of the stop…which was utterly useless as we had no train route map and no cell phone. 

It began to pour. In the cold morning and soaking rain, on that tiny slab of concrete in the woods, I felt helpless and lost, and the weight of my relationship with Ralph was unbearable. Rocco was focused on our overall travel predicament; I wanted him to be focused on me.  I wanted sympathy. I wasn’t focused on how to get to Fountainbleau. I couldn’t get past my own discomfort and stupidity. I wanted Rocco to acknowledge my physical and emotional load. My thought of ditching half of Ralph’s contents, spoken aloud, was met with Rocco’s observation that there were no garbage cans in sight. After suppressing a very brief urge to strangle Rocco, I envisioned a glorious scene in which my underwear and socks were hanging from the trees, the twelve C batteries were strewn along the platform, and my guidebooks were laying on the tracks…like some puzzling crime scene with no body (after all, Ralph would still be with me). After fantasizing, I did the only reasonable thing to get through the wait. I ate my two candy bars. Then I tried to convince Rocco to hand over his Toblerone bar. He saw my look as I finished my second chocolate, put his hand protectively over his pocket, and said, “no.”

A train finally came. I am sure it would have stopped anyway, but I wonder what the engineer thought of the two soaked people on the platform yelling and waving their arms in desperation, like they had survived a shipwreck and were waiting for rescue. I wonder what he thought of the large black soaked mass of Ralph resting beside me, like an inanimate body left over from my fantasized crime scene? This time, I went up the steps first, turned at the top, and pulled Ralph aboard while Rocco lifted him from the bottom.

This train attendant was kind. We gave him francs and told him where we wished to go (the words out of my mouth said “Fountainebleau” but in my mind I was screaming, “home! home!”). We arrived at the station without further mishap and, you guessed it, purchased more candy bars for exact change for the bus. At the main gates to the Chateau Fountainebleau, one of the largest chateaux in France and a major tourist destination, we got off the bus, relieved to have arrived. We approached, asking to be directed to the Ecole Des Beaux Artes. We were met with a stare. “You are at the tourist entrance. You must go around to the rear of the Chateau.” In a sweet and vain attempt to lift my spirits, Rocco noted we were almost there. How far away could it be? It was now pouring again as Rocco and I left the Chateau entrance and began to circumnavigate the estate. Our walk, probably about half a mile, felt like ten. I was numb with cold and we lumbered along in silence until we reached a wooden door in the long stone wall. It opened easily. It was now noon and the most magnificent sight was before me. A group of students was eating lunch.  I saw our friend Mary and tried to run but couldn’t (Ralph again). I let her come to me as my arms outstretched.  She hugged me in welcome and I burst into tears.

After our Paris visit, we embarked on our last overnight train ride of the trip to London where, in that small compartment (still no sleeping beds) I tried to convince Rocco that we needed to hear music from my Walkman (I was going to use those twelve “C” batteries, damn it). We got into a conversation about travel instead. I told Rocco I learned a lot about packing on the trip and also that I wished he would walk more slowly. Rocco shared in turn that he felt rather helpless looking at my struggles and hoped he was learning how to help. He said it would be more helpful if I was clear about what I needed. But he quickly added that he wasn’t going to share Toblerone bars. After a good laugh we realized that my backpack was like a third person on the trip…taking up so much space and so much of my psychic energy that Rocco insisted we should name it. I don’t remember how we chose Ralph but the minute it was spoken it seemed like a good fit…sturdy and solid, with a good-sized paunch.  The name stuck but we didn’t listen to music then, or at any other time on the trip. It became easier to laugh about the situation now that my large and very heavy load had a name. I grew accepting (but never comfortable) with Ralph’s weight on my back and I confess that I did play out my earlier visions from back on that concrete platform in the pouring rain in the woods and I started shedding clothes and old shoes and my dirty underwear in the last five days of the trip. I threw out most of the guidebooks as well.

It may come as no surprise that Ralph has been enjoying early retirement since 1984 except for occasional uses as a storage bag…until now. Ralph is under the front hood of the Blue Car on this road trip with me. While I don’t see Ralph as my mobile partner any longer and have no desire to do awkward dances up the stairs with him, his soft sides make him the perfect luggage for the small front trunk space in the 911 and he handles packing cubes beautifully for his age. He also never, ever, leaves the Blue Car – I take what I need from him and leave him behind to hold the remaining load. Small penance for what he put me through so many years ago, don’t you think?

As I take what I need from the car for my overnight here on the Bourbon Whiskey Trail of Kentucky, I contemplate how that summer long ago taught me the importance of planning while also leaving room for flexibility. I have tried to put this to good use on this road trip…planning key points but leaving room for rest days, detours, and the surprises along the way. I have learned that it’s not the packing that has prepared me for the forks in the road or the unexpected detours, but rather the mindset and lightness of being (and lack of baggage) that provides the freedom for easy movement and flexibility.  I am a woman of the world now. Cara of the couchettes and the elegant small travel bag would be proud. I always travel light. I value nimble and flexible over packing for “just in case.”  I try, whenever possible, to ditch the baggage (with all apologies to Ralph) and just go.

Susan Silberberg, mile 192,095