Chapter
Summaries
PART IV
Along European Lines
Chapter
17
BENELUX AND
THE GERMAN FACTOR
"One might better go
without friends in Germany than take all this trouble about them."
(learning the language)
Mark Twain
A Tramp Abroad
I am tense riding those first miles in Germany, feeling that I am invisibly surrounded by
a nation of war-loving stoic racists whose language hits the ears like a hammer. Get
out! Schnel! That would be fine except for
nearly drowning in a downpour near Hamburg. I realize that I will not reach the
Netherlands before nightfall. But the anxiety fades when a close-knit German family
takes me in and feeds me. They teach me some German and share a bit of their everyday
lives. I thank the German stars for people like Ella Otten and her family.
Since Newcastle, I have been mainly in the open. It has often been cold
and wet. I race against high winds across the dyke over the Zuider Zee and make
haste for Brussels where friends Marianne and Patrick give me my own apartment.
There in the evenings, I relax to songs by "Old Blue Eyes" and wonder about
reaching far-off New York, New York, my way.
After my diplomatic duties, I
take walking tours of the soon-to-be capital of the European Community and
window shop, unwittingly discovering, one day, the window enticements of
prostitutes. One is a pale, painted veteran with a grandmotherly twinkle in her
eyes. Another is a young African girl who dips low to offer her lovely,
abundant... I leave Brussels, happy to have had the company and care of good
friends. Melawend and I roll through the scenic splendour of Belgium and Luxembourg
before plunging back into Germany.
Revived
apprehensions are again diminished by a most welcoming and talkative family who give
Melawend and me a home base as I seek an exchange in Bonn and my paternal roots in
Essen. I move on and discover that "the Rhine of North America" (the St.
John River – Chapter 7) is more contrast than similarity to the real thing. In
Lahr, a Black Forest city ringed with vineyards, and whose population is half foreign
military, I find continuing German efforts at reconciliation when I become guest of a
friendship club. Leaving Germany becomes an increasingly regretful anticipation.
This chapter deals with the difficulty of setting aside prejudices
founded on historical events and replacing them with friendship and common bonds. In a
digression to present-day life, I lament the rise of neo-Nazism and racism as refugees
pour into Germany.
But the Germany I discover at the
end of the summer of 1986 leaves me hopeful and looking forward to the Alpine wonders
ahead.
Chapter 18
ALPINE BLISS
There have already been so many
places that have been so close by that I had to omit from the journey. Vienna is another
as Melawend and I round the Austrian end of Lake Constance. I observe the
rugged beauty surrounding Vaduz, the capital of Liechtenstein, as the guest of
Ursula, a penfriend, and her family and stay in one of the city’s historic
hotels. Then it’s on up into the Alps for some publicity stills near that great
talon of rock that etches the sky and the international imagination – the
Matterhorn. Melawend and I wind our way down out of the mountainous majesty of a
country that epitomizes neutrality and
secrecy. We go to Geneva where I find welcome at and a
tour of the UN’s European headquarters.
The latter part of this chapter
focuses on peace and the work of the UN. It explores some of the concepts of world
peace, neutrality and global cooperation as I look for resolutions to war and the
terrorism that lurks ahead.
Leaving a region of
awesome terrain which has inspired feelings of peace and well-being, Melawend and I head
for a country that not only returns a prejudiced mind-set, but stirs fear – France.
Specifically: Paris.
Chapter 19
PARIS:
BEAUTY AND THE BOMBS
While being turned
away from camping at a church may have been due largely to language difficulties, a French
family takes me in and shares a fine evening of soccer, pie and wine, and a comedy of
mutual language instruction.
The lead skies over Djon burst
and I nearly drown all the 193 miles to Paris. Fortunately, I am made a guest of
Jocelyne, a penfriend, and her family in their apartment on the Left Bank. Ah
Paris! How lucky I feel to be in the city that has so inspired the world.
It’s 5:28 in the afternoon,
September 17, 1986. Just before stepping out for a stroll, there is a muffled
"boom". Everything is shaken. Fear comes to the eyes of my Parisian
friend. On a street nearby, a bomb has exploded, killing five people and injuring 53
– mothers and children as they shopped for school clothes at the Tati store on the
Rue de Rennes.
The next day, I find Notre Dame
surrounded by the gray hulks of 
armoured vehicles and by police in
helmets and bulletproof vests. I am searched before being allowed into the Hotel de 
Ville to meet city
officials. Paris has been under siege by terrorists. A city executive says,
"How do we fight ghosts?"
Life goes on in the city of
lights. Paris is awash with autumn color. People are still walking along the
Champs Éleysées. Cafes are busy. There might be fewer tourists, but
foreigners, like the Japanese girl with crooked teeth, still scan the sights from atop the
Arc de Triomphe. Yet I wonder if the spirit of Hitler is circling below, chauffeured
by the Angel of Death, and singing, "Paris is burning! Paris is
burning!"
On a personal note, I lament the
girl who got away.
After reviewing some of the Paris
that Hemingway knew, Melawend and I leave and find a campsite on the banks of the placid
Loire River. A muscled old man crouches beside me on the shore and carries on a monologue
in French. Aiming and saying "tat-tat-tat-tat," he is apparently talking about
the Second World War. Finally, the man locks his hands on his forearms and says,
"Ami," referring to the Allies. He pats me on the back and leaves. I feel
a kind of happy guilt that I have received appreciation for others who fought and died
that I might not experience war.
On the way south, I camp on a
farm after some hilarious charades with the elderly couple who own it. Except for the
filthy skies over Bordeaux, my impressions and attitudes toward France have mellowed. Once
again, I feel the regret of departure, but also the rapt anticipation of the French
Riviera yet to come.
First it’s on to Hemingway
country – the bulls and the sun-baked plains of Spain.
Chapter 20
SPANISH HEROES
Bullfights and the reconquista
– romantic images of Spain portrayed by Ernest Hemingway and Charlton
Heston – Spanish culture and legend immortalized by American media. These
colour my outlook as Melawend and I enter Spain. Basque terrorism looms over the
country but I encounter only quietude. Lovers stroll and the byways are peaceful in
Hemingway’s Pamplona where I am gored, but only in the ears by the horns of cars on
the narrow streets. In Burgos, as old men 
converse in a park,
the bones of El Cid repose in the epic hero’s hometown cathedral while his colossal
horse-mounted image, sword in hand, slashes the sky above a traffic-embattled plaza.
This chapter explores a
ground-level view of such romance of Spain as some of the country’s turbulent history
and currents events are woven into the tale.
Diplomatically speaking, Madrid
becomes a make-do situation caused by bad timing. After a motorcycle escort to the edge of
the city, I throttle up Melawend and we head for the longed-for comforts of the
Mediterranean.
The chapter concludes after we
reach Valencia, the city liberated from the Moors by El Cid. Just as American movies
have coloured my outlook, so too have American commercials – riding amid the
area’s vast orange groves brings fond memory of Big Crosby promoting Minute Maid
Orange Juice, "made from real Valencia oranges" (albeit from Florida) –
"Well, there’s no doubt about it."
After three and a half months of
mostly cold damp weather, I am anxious for the warmth and sensuality of the Spanish,
French and Italian Rivieras.
Chapter 21
RIDING THE RIVIERAS
First stop – Peniscola
(somehow an appropriately suggestive name). Part of El Cid was
filmed here, but to this lonely North American, even the town’s seaside Papal Palace
withers to the attraction of bare buxom beauties on the beach. So begins the tour of
the famous Mediterranean shore. Titillation aside, I soon discover the sublime
wonders of the region that has drawn the world’s elite and its eminent artists –
the royal blue waters, the green frocked hills dotted with palatial villas and the high
winding seaside drives.
The chapter explores the lure of
Lloret de Mar and the opulent atmosphere of St. Tropez with its beautiful
people and their cigarette boats and sailing yachts. In Cannes, I savour the
affluent atmosphere along the promenade de la Croisette and covort with the Baroness Von
Kirchoff-Lintner and friends aboard her yacht, Lady Cleopatra.
I also overcome inhibitions and attempt my first
session of nude photography – on a crowded beach. Even the tension wrought by
terrorism has its funny moments as when President 
Mitterrand’s
helicopter comes in for a landing near the Palais des Festivals, causing hotel beach
cushions to take flight and the balloons attached to the Palais to rub its stucco walls
and pop, alarming already tense security forces.
Melawend and I pass
through exquisite Monaco with reverence for the 
late Princess Grace. Along the seaside in Genoa, I try to capture a little of the
spirit of Columbus but am snarled by traffic. Finally, I pause to enjoy the
impressionistic beauty of Italy’s tiny Portofino, so lovingly compared to a painting
by Loretta Swit on a segment of TV’s Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.
This chapter looks at the life of
opulence, leisure and "caviar dreams", unattainable by most but at least visible
to those who visit the fabulous Rivieras. Those who have played and live here,
including Pablo Picasso, form a picture of this rich lip of the Mediterranean through
anecdotes and quotations.
The Rivieras also have an
atmosphere of complacency and idleness. I realize that I must move on - now bound
for "The Eternal City" – Rome.
Chapter 22
THE ETERNAL CITY
AND THE HOLY FATHER
On
the way to Rome, I visit Pisa to take promotional stills with the imperiled
Leaning Tower as the background, and discover some of the tawdry commercialism known in
Niagara Falls. At Florence, I can but take in the city’s magnificence from a high
vantage point. But I do gain some new perspectives on war and peace by a visit to the
Florence American Cemetery and Memorial. I look at older trees, wondering which of
those silent witnesses to war might have taken a bullet meant for a soldier.
When in Rome – take a bus! Insane traffic makes Rome
the New York of Europe. But during the eight days there, I do take
Melawend into the city to attend a friendly but awkward reception at the City Hall, on
Michaelangelo’s redesigned Campidoglio, by Rome’s Ambassador of Ceremonies and
Festivals – we can’t speak each other’s language but the exchange of
peaceful wishes is understood. On walking tours of some of Rome’s touristed and
private byways, I explore some aspects of the city that make Rome "The Eternal
City".
One of the most profound moments
of the odyssey occurs at St. Peter’s when I shake hands with Pope John Paul. It
may have been awe of the moment, but when the Holy Father takes my hand, I believe I have
a "religious experience" – though I am not Catholic.
The chapter looks at two of
Rome’s landmark gathering places: the Colosseum, infamous for past blood sports; and
St. Peter’s, a place of continuing pilgrimage to the glory of Christianity. Contrasts
are drawn between persecution and unity in religion. Optimism is instilled through the
mission of the Vatican and its charismatic leader while pessimism is fed by the
continuance of bloodshed worldwide; viewed through the global Colosseum of television.
With
so much of Rome left unexplored, I toss my three coins into the Trevi Fountain
and leave. In Pompeii, I examine how insignificant man is against the forces of
nature. But the exhumed city looks serene, almost livable, compared to the images of utter
destruction such as at Hiroshima – nature’s power manipulated for
humanity’s own ends, paling by today’s capabilities.
Finally, after an Italian family
provides food and comic relief after my camp is flooded, Melawend and I cross the Adriatic
Sea, bound for that bastion of Western Art and philosophy – Greece.
Chapter 23
GRECIAN SOJOURN
Fair Greece! Sad
relic of departed worth!
Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great!
Lord Byron
Childe
Harold's Pilgrimage
Indeed!
I sense Byron's passion for Greece after Melawend and I disembark at Igoumenitsa and
make our way along the rugged coast to the Peloponnese. Alone amid the
the ruins of Olympia, I reflect on the Olympic Games, once used to initiate truce between
warring city-states, now a symbol of peaceful international competition (when not
exploited politically). In Olympia, I develop a concept of Peace Games taking the
place of War Games.
I have often been
haunted by the feeling that something painful is going to happen to me on the
journey. But in Jules Verne's Around the World In Eighty Days,
Phileas Fogg says: "The unforeseen does not exist." To that I would learn
to say, "Bullshit, it doesn't!" Its existence is revisited in
Athens. As we leave a campground, three stray dogs of Greece chase Melawend and
me. We slide on unseen gravel and smash into a tree. I am thrown off and land
even less gracefully than a gooney bird on Midway Island. I lay wounded with a torn
groin muscle as the dogs stand by, wagging their tails.
It's just as well:
a serious logistical blunder keeps me from proceeding to Africa. A carnet and
supplies must be awaited from home. Anchored to a seaside campground for two
months, there is time heal and to explore the wonders of ancient and modern Athens.
Lost and lone, I unwittingly wander into a cinema and watch a graphic sex film in the
company of grungy, middle-aged seamen. I come away from the theatre more lonely but
with some good ideas I am anxious to try with Her. I am swept up with the hordes of
Greeks marching to commemorate the 1973 university uprising that initiated the collapse of
a military regime. And I am swept under the spell of the Athens – the
Acropolis, the Plaka, the Agora, Lycabettus Hill, the street vendors and musicians and the
cats in the National Gardens.
At
Cape Sounion, I relish a day at the Temple of Poseidon and trace the signature Byron
carved in one of the columns. I sense the joy and beauty he found here,
but also a sadness. The ruins also suggest to me an apocalyptic metaphor for the
human odyssey -- windblown, empty, crumbling monuments with graffiti that together
declare, "We were here!"
In camp, transients meet: the
photog couple from California whom I will encounter again in Africa; the old British
couple who share stories and booze; the arguing couple; the get-lucky British boys and the
French-Canadian girls; the Greek labourer who sings to the loud, eccentric German woman
who, on the day she finally packs up her tent and leaves, cups her hand, pounds her crotch
and shouts at me: "Fraulein! Fraulein!" I guess she means that I have missed
something good.
And Greeks are met: the farm
families that open their doors; the freight company owner who saves the day; and Tatiana,
my elusive Greek goddess.
Athens becomes another
crossroads. Injuries, costly logistical delays, low funds and increasing loneliness make
me wonder if I should abandon the journey. I feel low, like I've been running after
the garbage truck of life, tossing in my dreams. (Later I realize, again, that one of the
easiest things to do is to feel sorry for yourself.)
I retreat, feeling
snug and safe, concealed in my owner-built cocoon (a metaphor for my spiritual
reclusiveness, not the tent). I reflect on trying to become a writer: being one of
all those aspiring, perspiring, expiring writers in the world who call upon Hemingway, or
Twain, or some such dead literary hero to reach beyond the veil, pat them on the shoulder
and bestow upon them the gift of literacy! I think of reading heady books -- as
people the world over do in groping for solutions, the right idea, concept, phrase, or
some pearl of knowledge around which to fashion a life. I find it in a four-letter
word, a universal need: love.
Christmas is approaching. I read
in Hemingway’s By-Line: "You do not know what Christmas
is until you lose it in some foreign land." Spending much time on a point of
land that has once been a gun post, and reminds me of Point Abino back home, I reflect on
Christmases past. Then it all comes together: the carnet, the supplies and the
sponsored passage to Africa – Christmas indeed! But at this time two very
helpful people here and a young family back home each suffer the loss of a loved
one. Life, I find, can be joyous or brutal.
The chapter concludes with
Melawend and I aboard the Espresso Egitto, watching the lights of
Piraeus become smaller. I meet people on board who will play significant roles
ahead. Alone, I feel apprehensive of entering the Dark Continent. But as
Steven Spielberg would later say, "We should take a step toward what we don't
understand."
