No Planes, No Problem! He Crossed the Globe...HOW?!

No planes? No Problem: I Crossed the World Anyway

No Planes, No Problem! He Crossed the Globe...HOW?...

My challenge: traversing the globe from Málaga to California – sans planes. Utter madness? Perhaps. Genius? We shall see. You know, I've always had a soft spot for a good challenge, but this one felt a little… different. It wasn't just about getting from point A to point B, it was about the how. And the "how" involved absolutely no flying. Buckle up, folks, because it was a ride.

The initial leg – Málaga to Paris by bus – bordered on the heroic. Almost. That 3 a.m. bus transfer somewhere in the Basque Country, bleary-eyed and reeking of stale coffee, nearly drove me to surrender. I vividly remember staring into the abyss of a roadside petrol station and briefly fantasizing about confessing to any crime imaginable just to be taken somewhere warm and quiet. I almost begged the police: “Yes, it’s me! I’m… I’m the Stilton bandit! Just take me away, I give up!” Spoiler alert: they didn’t even notice. Talk about anticlimactic.

Paris to Caen? Sheer bliss, relatively speaking. Rolling countryside, surprisingly decent train wine, the fleeting illusion of being chic rather than completely insane. Caen greeted me, however, with locked hotel doors, no staff, and a non-responsive phone. Apparently, my reservation had been lost in the ether. So, a midnight adventure it was: find the key stashed somewhere, or bunk down with the potted plants in the lobby. Guess which I did? (Okay, I eventually found the key, but I definitely considered the plants.) Classic.

Then came the ferry to Portsmouth. My first real sea crossing – and thankfully, no man overboard! A personal victory, I declared. Southampton arrived with buzzing nerves and a significant caffeine-fueled exhaustion. I’d always imagined transatlantic voyages were the domain of billionaires, aristocrats, or those who whisper about the "Titanic" in hushed tones. Yet, somehow, there I was, clutching my boarding pass and praying I wouldn’t get seasick.

Days at sea morphed into a delightful, if slightly surreal, routine. Think heavy-china breakfasts, laps on deck (mostly to justify the aforementioned breakfasts), martinis at the Commodore Club, and my obsessive quest to locate the elusive 24-hour buffet. Whiskey tastings at 10 a.m.? Why not, I figured. Line dancing afterward? Probably a public hazard, but I participated anyway. Afternoon Tea? Chaotic and glorious. And then – the moment that changed everything – the discovery of Stilton cheese at midnight. I swear, I almost wept.

Finally – California. Santa Monica. The terminus of Interstate 10, stretching triumphantly from the Atlantic to my beloved Pacific. Endless blue, salty air, and me, standing there slightly emotional, still obsessed with snacks and Stilton, after a world crossed without a plane. It was exhausting, occasionally ridiculous, and utterly unforgettable. And in my defense, the joy was never really about the destination, but the crazy, cheese-filled journey. (Yeah, yeah, Lucca, I know, how cliché can you get? Ha!)