Throughout my many years roaming around the globe, I have had the good luck to become acquainted with a multitude of other people doing the same. Out of them all, many fell into the category of the so-called budget travelers.
Some possessed a fair amount of savings and would strive to keep their expenses as low as possible to extend their traveling time to the greatest achievable length. Others had no savings but a secured influx of a small recurring income, instead. And a few, like the protagonist of this story, had taken the concept of budget traveling to the next level: the level of literally moneyless traveling.
The bloke was outright broke. Vittorio was a guy from the Italian region of Puglia I once met briefly. His boldness to defy common sense, public morality, and absolutely every obstacle to pursue his dream of seeing the world has earned him a prominent place in my memories.
It was summer in an ancient forest near the city of Oslo. Out of a tiny camp two friends and I had set there at the beginning of the summer, mainly owing to the rave parties we then started to organize, an entire little village eventually evolved in the middle of the woods. Our small forest-hippie community was attracting a lot of attention during its peak time. All sorts of folks were visiting for many different reasons; a common reason being to find free accommodation in the otherwise insanely overpriced Norwegian capital city.
One day, upon returning home from the city, I got introduced to a new member of the community who had just wound up there seeking a place to crash. His violet, checkered, two-sizes-smaller trousers and the bowler hat on top of his curly hair gave him a funny and trusty look. He had a calm demeanor, and his words were thriftily and prudently pronounced. Because of this first impression, as well as the Mediterranean temperament that we shared, I took an instant liking to him.
Though taciturn he generally was, he spoke to me a good deal about his mission during the week or two he, after all, stayed with us. For starters, he didn’t really have a mission; he was looking for one. It’d been a few months since he left his village in Puglia with only a small backpack and a few coins clinking in his pocket.
He wasn’t very eager to speak about his previous life. Still, I may suspect a tormentingly dull, meaningless life that, combined with some emotional affliction or heartbreak, is the usual reason urging one to undertake such an adventure.
He wandered around Europe without a particular destination in mind. He’d just stand on the side of the motorway with his thumb raised and accept any ride fate brought forth: the “where are you going to?” – “to the same place as you” kind of thing.
He passed his nights in fields, forests, and public parks inside his tiny backpacking tent or in some squat while in big cities. As for food, he exploited various methods for getting hold of it, but his primary one, which provided the bulk of his nourishment, was what he dubbed supermarket donations.
He valued a lot and was proud of his shoplifting abilities. I asked him whether he had any special technique or tricks he used to rid the shop shelves of their merchandise. He said: Yes, you just walk into the shop, throw everything you need – from candy to a whole chicken – inside a bag, and you walk away. The trick involved is to not bother about devising unnecessary tricks. At times, in case he’d be short of a bag, he’d use the supermarket basket, all the same.
Since he didn’t drink or smoke, and he could fix transportation, accommodation, and food for free, he was basically money-independent in the full sense. However, he had come up with a gig to raise some small cash and afford some relative luxury.
He liked to describe himself as a juggler, but after I one day bumped into him performing in the city, I would refrain from calling him a such to not do injustice to real jugglers. Well… he had a triplet of juggling balls which he switched between his hands in a rather clumsy manner, but his gig mainly consisted of directly asking – or rather shouting at – the passersby for money.
He’d be like: “Eh, you with the green shirt! Give me some coins! Don’t walk away like that! You are Norwegian! You have lots of money! Give me some!” Due to his persistence, as well as his occupying the most central and frequented spot in the city, he seemed to do fairly well.
So did Vittorio make it to Oslo but so far had no significant mission other than to keep surviving and moving. One sunny morning, as we sat in an open meadow near our camp, he told me how he’s fallen in love with a girl he met while in Germany. They spent some sweet time together, but she then went back to her studies. So for the moment, until a clear prospect of meeting her again was to arise, she was more of a dream than a mission.
During the last couple of days of Vittorio’s stay in our camp, I heard from him something like a plan to continue his journey to northern Norway sometime soon. But then, one morning, some Czech dudes, who as of recent squatted on a little island in the fjords, showed up at our camp.
They were just about to head to the Netherlands by hitchhiking to attend a festival. “What festival?” asked Vittorio, who was seeing those Czechs for the first time in his life. About a quarter of an hour later, he had packed all his belongings and was setting off to the festival together with them.
That was the last I saw or heard of him. I wish with all my heart he is alright and has found his mission and happiness in his life.