The Overlook: Hitchhiking, Northern Spain, July 1975

The Ride

Having just landed in Bilbao, I took a taxi north to the highway that hugs the northern coast of Spain, the “Road to Santander.” The cab driver dropped me off right on the highway as I requested. I was headed west, to Ribadesella. It was late in the afternoon. I faced east, on the north side of the road. My shadow was long, stretched out before me. Facing the oncoming traffic, I awaited a trusting, generous driver that would respond to my thumb. I figured Ribadesella was about 200-220 kilometers up the road—about 120-130 statute miles.

Two cars swished by–then none for a while. In the distance, on the crest of the hill about half a kilometer away, I saw a red truck with its lights on. As it came over the hill onto the gully of the road, its reflection shown on the road as a mirage created by the warm asphalt. As it approached me, the brakes hissed and the truck came to a stop, right alongside me. The shiny red door opened and I heard, “¡Arriba!”

I flung my single bag aloft, grabbed the shiny vertical chrome hand bar and hoisted myself into the cab.

“Buenas tardes, Señor. ¿Dónde vas?” I said.

He commented, “Gijón,” which I recognized as being on the same road but beyond my destination. And he said, “¿Y tú?”

“Ribadesella.”

“Está bién.”

He guessed I was German, or Alemán. I mentioned I was from Estado Unidos. His immediate response was, “Much crime!”

What makes you say that?

“¡Kojak!”

His experience or perceptions of America were based on the Telly Salvales television drama, “Kojak,” one of many media programs imported to Europe during the 1960s and 1970s. I tried to explain to him that the television program was not representative of America. He listened.

Mário played cassette tapes of Mexican music. This was a Pegasus truck, a diesel-sleeper, which means it had a bed directly behind the two front seats about shoulder high. Curtains separated the driving area from the “bedroom,” but they were slightly apart. Surrounding the bed, which took up the whole space, were three walls of red-on-red velvet with intricate patterns. Covering much of the walls were worn magazine photos of women in various configurations of dress or undress. The area had somewhat of a musty smell.

Although bouncy, the ride was fun. I had a high vantage point, enabling me to see below the road toward Mar Cantábrico. We’d pass crescent beaches usually hugged by mountain bluffs. Fishing villages were frequent. Along the way, I noticed brightly colored tents either alongside rivers or on the mountain sides. I asked Mário if these were campsites. He said, no, anyone may camp anywhere one chooses. That fascinated me.

We soon rolled into the town of Llanes, a small fishing village. Mário said he usually cleaned up here and had supper—would I like to join him?

“¡Sí, claro!”

He parked near a small outdoor restaurant next to the harbor and said he would be back in a half hour or so. After about 30 minutes, he appeared fresh and well-groomed. He had taken a shower and changed his clothes.

“¡Comida!”

We sat outdoors, next to the harbor at a large, thick round wood table, worn and full of knife carvings. The waiter brought us several cans of sardines, a large loaf of French bread and a bottle of red wine—no label. We sat and indulged ourselves until all the food was gone and it was dark. I truly felt I was in touch with the spirit of Spain as we sat, ate, drank, and talked.

We proceeded west. After an hour or so, he said we are nearing Ribadesella. What will you be doing there? I said that from there, I intended to take the road to Infiesto, about 40 kilometers south, and spend the night with the family of my sister-in-law, Gloria.

He said he would drive me to the house. I said it was far out of his way. He could just continue west and probably arrive in Gijón in the same amount of time it would take to get to Infiesto. He said he would drive me, regardless.

We arrived in front of “Mamá’s” house about midnight. Mário waited in the truck to make sure I got in safe. I knocked. Charo, Gloria’s 13-year old sister came to the door.

“¡Yon!” she exclaimed. I thanked and waved goodbye to Mário who continued on to Gijón with a smile.

My Quarters

After spending a night in Infiesto, I took the train northeast to Ribadesella to find my brother and Gloria. They were staying at the Hostal de la Playa, where the concierge told me they were on the beach.

I walked along the stone bulkhead, probably about 8-feet tall, until I spotted Robert and Gloria playing Frisbee. Gloria’s back was to me. Robert saw me coming, but acted nonchalant so Gloria was not alerted to my arrival. After catching the Frisbee, he sent it flying to me instead of Gloria. Gloria visually traced its flight, right into my hands up on the bulkhead. “¡Yon!” she exclaimed.

While enjoying some tapas and wine for lunch, I told Robert I would like to camp somewhere. He said he had an army pup tent at Mamá’s in Infiesto. He said we could probably find a “campsite” on the western bluff somewhere near the lighthouse.


Based on a Google map.

His plans were to drive to Infiesto in the morning with Gloria but said he would return alone with the tent. We explored the town for several hours, having dinner in town. Robert and Gloria shared their hotel room with me the first night. In the morning, they drove to Infiesto. I stayed at the beach until Robert returned with the tent. We strolled up the bluff on a beaten path to a ledge overlooking Mar Cantábrico. Rob had forgot the ridge poles, so we simply bent a small tree and tied it down to create a frame. We set up the tent in no time. We gathered and spread ferns along the tent floor over which I lay Robert’s pancho, creating a mattress. My tent was about 100-120 feet above the beach.

After my new home was set, we walked down the trail and said goodbye. Rob said he would return in five days.

That evening, before walking to town, I tore off some eucalyptus leaves about the size of silver dollars, crumpled them up, placed them in my tent and closed the flaps. I then walked to town (a little over a mile, across a bridge), ate at an outdoor restaurant, and explored a bar or two before making my way back. While doing so, I bought some candles and matches so I could have enough light to write a letter or two.

I arrived at my tent about 10:00 pm. When I opened the flaps, I was delighted by the spicy aroma emanating from the eucalyptus leaves. I closed the flaps, got comfortable and by candle light, wrote two long letters, one to my mother and another to a dear friend, Sharon.

I fell asleep quickly. Before daybreak, I was awakened by the rumble of waves breaking on the shore. I peeled back the tent flaps facing the sea. It was still dark, nearing light—or “entre dos luces,” between two lights. I saw a necklace of lights moving slowly from the harbor toward the sea. The fishing boats were all in a line, heading north.

I watched for a while, then went back to sleep until the warmth of my tent and the noise of beach goers awakened me. After donning my bathing suit and a tee-shirt, I walked down to the sea where I found a pool of seawater and a large rock. I used the water in this natural basin to more fully awaken me and brush my teeth.

Eventually, I walked to the Hostal de la Playa and used their bathroom facilities.

The Village


I spent the day strolling the beach, village, and harbor. After chatting with some fishermen, I sat at an outdoor café, drank wine and wrote letters and post cards.

A street during siesta.

Local boats.

Low tide provides an opportunity to supplement the evening meal.

Fishermen maintaining their vessel.

Probably my first boat photo using reflection–Maribel.

My Friends

My first three days followed a similar pattern. On the fourth day, however, while returning to my tent late in the afternoon, I noticed 8-10 young people, perhaps 16-20 years old, sitting in a large circle in a clearing below my tent. They were drinking wine, playing guitars, and singing. As I walked by, we made eye contact and two or three of the youth said “siéntate” –sit down. Just what I was hoping for. I sat down, introduced myself, and immediately started sharing their festive spirit. There were probably 6-8 guitars, 10 bottles of vino tinto. Each took turns playing the guitar, sometimes simultaneously—singing, joking, drinking. I even played and sang a few American folk songs. We made friends. They would not let me buy a bottle of wine. They insisted that I was a guest in their country.

My new amigos: wine, guitars, song, and spirit.

“She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah . . .”

Muy simpático.

A duo.

Laid back.

This señorita sang and played extremely well.

Around 8:00, they said they were returning to their homes in Ribadesella to eat dinner but would meet me at Bar Rio about 10:00 pm. One loaned me his guitar until then. During the next two hours, I perched myself upon a rock, the bottom of which was being washed by waves, faced the sea, and belted out songs. I sang through my whole repertoire. I never sang with such robustness. I was singing to the sea.

After about two hours, I got off the rock and waded ashore to a chorus of “¡bravo, bravo!” Unbeknownst to me, there was a group of pre-teens sitting on the bulkhead the whole time, listening to me serenade the sea.

I walked to town with the guitar and found Bar Rio. Most of my new friends were there. Here we continued to carry on, everyone taking turns playing a guitar and singing. On the walls of Bar Rio were 5 or 6 guitars for the use of patrons. The floor was filled with sawdust, which soon became sloshy from our drinking sidra in the traditional manner of pouring.

Sidra is fermented apple cider. One would hold a fine, large crystal glass with his or her arm extended straight down at one’s side, below the waist. The other hand held a bottle of sidra. The green, unlabeled bottle was positioned over the head and the sidra was poured as a thin stream into the glass. When hitting the glass properly, you would hear a “ting.” Most of us missed the glass the first time—thus the sloshiness on the floor. Some of us would hold the glass up higher to provide an easier target. The pouring is supposed to make the sidra taste better. It certainly made me feel better. I barely remember returning to my tent on the bluff.

The next day, I met a few of my friends at a café in town. We shared stories and got to know each other some more. I began to recognize the sincerity and passion for life they exhibited. As they say in Spain, they were all “muy simpático.” They were generous, fun loving, trusting, and certainly appeared true to themselves.

A New Perspective

As we had lunch, my friends were curious as to what I did for a living. I told them I worked for Pan American Airways as a technical writer in the pilot training department, but I was considering leaving to go to graduate school. I also revealed that it was difficult to quit because most of my working peers continued to remind me of my job benefits: good social life, free world-wide flight privileges, good salary, good camaraderie, among other things. But I was not happy, essentially because I was tired of editing flight manuals; I wanted to do something that was more akin to my spirit. My new friends convinced me that the choice was easy: “Quit—follow your heart.”

My heart. Yes. All of those other benefits did not address my heart. It was difficult for my Pan Am peers to see that. Their value system revolved around the status of the job, the magnetism of working with Pan Am, the flight benefits, the associated social life, the money, etc—all valid reasons to stay at a job! But for my new friends, all that was extraneous. You need to work at something you love.

After bidding farewell late in the afternoon, I started walking the mile back to the lighthouse bluff. From afar, I saw a lone figure walking toward me. Could that be my brother, Robert, who has come for me? I slowly waved my right hand, waist high, in a circle with about a 20-inch radius. The person I was observing, mimicked my wave. Sure! It was my brother.

Rob helped me break camp. I returned to Infiesto with him. I spent a few days there before taking a bus to Bilbao, from where I flew to London and on to America.

Within several months, the perspective obtained from my time in the “overlook,” gave me the courage to submit my resignation and start my masters in communication at Queens College, CUNY. My career goals were not set. I simply sought academic enrichment.

I am convinced that my short visit to Ribadesella and having the fortune of meeting a group of amigos with a simpático spirit, helped shape the perspective through which I view today, follow your heart, or at least include it in the equation when making decisions about your life.

Within a year of my trip to Spain and having experiences that helped me shift my perspective in terms of what values are most important (for me), I read “The Rhetoric” by Aristotle, as part of my curriculum at Queens College. He discusses the same thing. When making decisions about one’s situation in life, the top of the hierarchy should be “happiness.” It should be the most important factor to consider when making life decisions.

And what makes a person happy? For some it may be security, others, it may be education, for others, it may be self-fulfillment, or having money, having a family, etc. In my case, it was and is the pursuit of self fulfillment. And, as Aristotle points out, the pursuit of happiness may compromise other values we hold dear. Ultimately, and reasonably, we are looking for goals around which we organize our life. Interwoven within, however, should be the pursuit of that which makes us happy.