By Michael Papas

I was immobilized by shock.

All I could do was sit staring into space in the tiny ferry terminal coffee bar in Tarifa, Spain. Tarifa is at the extreme southern tip of the Iberian Peninsula. Contrary to common knowledge, it’s farther South than Gibraltar, and, the closest crossing point to magical and mysterious Morocco.

Mentally slapping myself in the face, I finally stood up and stretched. I slipped my laptop out of my backpack and logged into the free wifi. Searching and researching, I had no idea where to go or what to do next. My precious long term travel plans had just been completely demolished by a Spanish immigration officer.

Moments before, I had been just another traveler in the boarding line for the ferry, where I expected my passport to be stamped without issue. I was scared, but eager, to sail across the straight of Gibraltar to Tangier, where I planned to board a train and meet my old friend in Fez, Morocco. Suddenly, I was unceremoniously pulled from the immigration line and passed to an officer who spoke English. They quickly explained to me what the problem was.

“You have stayed 92 days in Spain,” she said.

“Not really, I spent two weeks in Portugal’” I ignorantly replied.

“That doesn’t matter,” she explained, “there’s a 90 day limit for the EU.”

“What?” I thought, true panic setting in.

 “You can leave if you want, but you won’t be able to return to the EU for 3 months.” 

“My God !” I fumed to myself, “Why didn’t I know this ??”

My psyche was slammed against a wall, and I was cursing myself for my casual, spontaneous, old hippie traveling style. I had, up to that moment, believed that I could spend 90 days in each European country, and then happily move to the next. I hadn’t done a speck of research on this particular topic 92 days earlier when I had left Oregon for Barcelona with my one-way ticket.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but the Immigration officer was being very kind. If she hadn’t educated me on the spot, I would have followed my plan to fly to Sicily in a month, and I would have been barred from entering the country!

After a couple of stressed-out hours in the shiny white cafe, flipping through TripAdvisor and other travel sites, I soon found that I could stay in Spain if I wanted. I could proceed to Italy by train, and no one would question me, or know I was illegal. However, and this was big, however - when I left Italy, depending on how stern or grouchy, or just plain nasty the agent at the border happened to be, I could actually be DEPORTED from the EU. That might mean I couldn’t return for three years. 

I was recently retired. I LOVE Europe. This was extremely BAD news. 

Finally, I dragged my sorry ass to a room at the closest, cheapest, hotel I could find and settled in for a night of stewing in my own juices. By morning I had a plan. 

“Well,” I concluded, “I’ll just leave these ungrateful jerks behind. If they don’t want me to continue spending my American dollars in their sacred European Union, I’ll head across the water to what lays ahead.” 

I found myself excited about visiting countries I’d never considered. South Africa, Kenya perhaps. Turkey and Israel were now in play, or maybe I’d just head over to Kathmandu, and experience Asia, and the Himalayas, for the first time. I had the time, and if I was thrifty, I could travel a long way.

The next morning I packed and walked down the steep hill back into the now-familiar terminal, and nervously joined the line. This time, when I stopped, I assured them I knew that I couldn’t return. I now felt like I was stepping off a high diving board. It was the most afraid I’ve ever been while traveling. I’d heard just too many bad stories about Morocco, and especially Tangier. After a lovely, speedy crossing, I discovered there were no monsters there I couldn’t manage. Just a flock of taxi drivers desperate to make a living. One just has to be good at saying “No thank you,” preferably in Arabic.

I seriously overpaid for a taxi to the main train station, but I really couldn’t feel too upset about the extra three dollars I had blown by not negotiating.

Later that day, I found myself in a classic train compartment out of a 1950s movie, with two thoroughly covered, but modern, Muslim women, along with their cell phones. There were fantastical, and surprisingly green, views into a new continent. I felt safe, and I had a newfound confidence, on my trip to Fez. 

The opening at the bottom of the toilet, with a view to the tracks below, only added to the charm of the trip. I was definitely headed into a brand new world, a developing Islamic country with one foot still in the 19th Century.

Michael Papas is a 65-year-old Buddhist Oregonian with two grown children. After his marriage ended he bought a one-way ticket to Barcelona and stayed out of the US for 13 months, visiting 9 countries.