Chapter Summaries
PART XI
America, America!
Chapter 42
HOORAY FOR
HOLLYWOOD!
LAX. At the last airport of the
Odyssey, someone meets me, for the first time. Louise Berle, the 72-year-old
"cosmic philosopher" I met in Tokyo, picks me up in her white Lincoln
Continental and takes me to her high-rise apartment that overlooks the beach in Santa
Monica. Louise is a remarkable lady. Early photos of her reveal a vibrant and
beautiful young woman with Ingrid Bergman features. She had been offered screen tests by
studios that included Paramount, but she passed up potential stardom because of casting
couch propositions. She delved into the mysteries of life, found a yogi, and
achieved two "full-blown enlightenments". She married a wealthy Parisian
lingerie manufacturer and pursued teachings of "the ultimate", giving lectures
on "The Magic of the Mind" and "Mysteries of the Universe". She
shares her home and some of her knowledge with me.
I spend my first day back in
North America conversing with Louise and freeing Melawend from air cargo – the same
day that one hundred of the world’s best photographers spread out to shoot A
Day in the Life of California.
Negotiations for sponsorship
resume with American Honda. Unfortunately, the company is hunkered down by lawsuits
over the three-wheeled ATV’s (all-terrain vehicles) on which many mostly youthful
riders have been injured or killed. While executives of Honda’s PR company are
enthusiastic and come up with plans for the return journey, the firm is also busy with a
client whose factory is to be visited by presidential candidate George Bush.
The publisher and editors of Rider
magazine can hardly believe Melawend has gone around the world and are anxious for a
story. They take me to lunch in "the company car" – a rotting, peeling Olds
98.
In the meantime, I
explore Hollywood. I meet a guy from my hometown that has done very well here. For thirty
years, Doug Kirkland has been one of Tinseltown’s premier celebrity and glamour
photographers in addition to his international assignments. We get together several
times. A surprisingly relaxed man, Doug talks about his fast-paced life. (One of
Doug's recent projects was a large lavishly illustrated book on the making of James
Cameron's Titanic)
Photography by Douglas Kirkland
(all photos immediately below are Copyright © Douglas Kirkland
and are shown here with his permission)
And more from Doug's evolving website:
"Through the years, Douglas Kirkland has
worked on the sets of over one hundred motion pictures. Among them, “Butch Cassidy
and the Sundance Kid”, “2001”, “True Lies”, “Out of
Africa”, and more recently “Titanic” and "Moulin Rouge!". A book
of Kirkland’s celebrity work, “Light Years” was published by Thames and
Hudson in 1989 followed by “ICONS, Creativity with Camera and Computer”, by
Collins San Francisco in 1993. Some of the subjects interpreted in “ICONS” were
Dustin Hoffman, Robert Redford, Kim Basinger, Sean Connery, Robert De Niro and Dr. Stephen
Hawking. In 1997 Kirkland has had four new books published, “Legends”,
“Body Stories”, “Woza Africa” and “James Cameron’s
Titanic”.The Titanic paperback was on the Best Sellers List of the New York Times,
for over a half a year, selling more than a million copies in the United States
alone."
Back to IN THE LONG
RUN: A Hopeful World Odyssey in Hollywood...
I also find Vinny Cravero right
where I had met him four years earlier – just off Sunset Boulevard in Beverly Hills,
sitting by the roadside on a lawnchair, annotating and selling guide maps that show the
locations of the homes of celebrities. Propped against a tree is the same timeworn
article of him when he was a guest on Late Night with David Letterman.
Vinny is full of stories about the stars and sage advice about life, but he wants to
retire and open a hot-dog stand.
Onward progress is tedious and
looks bleak. Down and out in Beverly Hills? A cool dip in a pool might be a
remedy but I explore the legendary byways using Vinny’s map. I see the behemoth
mansion Aaron Spelling is building on the site where Bing Crosby’s home had been
demolished to make way for it. Among others, I find the homes of Burt Reynolds,
Neil Diamond, James Stewart and Lucille Ball. I find the red mailbox at the end of
the driveway to the home of Charlton Heston. Outside the coral-colored gate of
Barbra Streisand’s home, a deliveryman rings the bell. A golden-haired woman
reaches through, signs for the letter and walks back toward the unseen house.
"It’s only her sister," the deliveryman says. I begin to feel
self-conscious about my tour and, through the narrative, I take a look at the enigma of
benign and malevolent "stalkers".
Of course being in
Hollywood makes me think of my love of movies. I think of the passions and the
stamina of the people who make movies. I think of myself as being
"reserved" but is that only an outwardly avoidance of being passionate? I
think of the strong women of Hollywood and think that here, one of them might well write a
book entitled: "The Dark Ages: The Time Before Mans' Enlightenment By
Women" I think of movies about that thing between people called
"bonding", the Crazy-Glue of Life, as it were. For better or worse, movies
covered the gamut of human experience.
I am burdened with preconceptions
of Hollywood. To me its movers and shakers epitomize "conspicuous
consumption". It is where many men and women seem to be living off their
egos as well as their talents. If the ego is starving, they grab any morsel of
recognition they can get and do anything for that morsel, even if they know it's junk
food. This leads to morsels coveted by the ego-destitute - conspicuous
leftovers. In that sense, Hollywood is a very sad place and dangerous place for
one's ego, which Barbara Ueuland defined as "fear and self-preservation."
I conclude that it takes courage rather than ego to really make it here.
Touring quiet streets lined with
opulent mansions, I also conclude that Hollywood epitomizes "the American Dream"
(which is really more "the Universal Dream" - no studio reference
intended). And here I defend the attainment of wealth - when counterbalanced by
contribution, the "putting something back" for the benefit of others.
(Again, I encourage anyone with
means of helping worthy causes to take up The Global Challenge on
the Charities page...)
I touch base with
the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences and explore Hollywood Boulevard.
Opposite Mann’s Chinese Theatre, a Paul Newman look-alike named Harold suddenly sets
himself up as my PR man, hailing my journey to anyone who will listen. Several do.
(Photo: the Dorothy Chandler Pavillion in Los Angeles - major venue for annual Academy
Awards Presentations)
At Venice Beach, it’s all
sand, bikinis and performers, like the chainsaw juggler who says to man with a beautiful,
shapely girlfriend: "Hey dude, don’t tell me you ain’t pussy-whipped."
Louise vents the frustration of
aging. She says she feels twenty, spiritually, but her aging body imposes
limits. There is so much she wants to do for humankind. She feels the press of
time and is anxious to get back to her computer to finish her book.
I head for the hills
above Malibu and camp at Circle X Ranch. Here, I meet interesting travelers, like
Dan, the white South African who is torn between the commitment of love and the high road
to adventure. Do I persuade him? "This is what I needed to hear,"
he says. I also listen to Geraldo on my walkman as he does
a show about pornography, sexual abuse and murder. A featured guest is Linda
Lovelace of Deep Throat, who gives surprising revelations about
her career. This in the tangle hills below the Sleeping Indian.
At a coast highway gas station
near Malibu, I meet actor Peter Strauss as he cleans the rear window of his Mercedes
beside a self-serve island. He seems intense and preoccupied but obliges me with a
pose beside Melawend. He says he is starting work in few weeks on a new spy thriller
– Brotherhood of the Rose, with Robert Mitchum and Connie
Selleca.
I accept a compromise from Honda,
and say goodbye to Louise, to Doug and to Hollywood. On Memorial Day, one month
after returning to mainland North America, Melawend and I turn north onto the Pacific
Coast Highway for one of the most spectacular drives in the world.
Chapter 43
AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL
Around the world, resentment
toward Americans has, in part, boiled down to plain envy of something Americans are taking
less for granted. In the words of John F. Kennedy: "Our greatness today rests
in part on this gift of geography that is the United States…"
I skirt the coast and shunt
inland, passing migrant workers with backs bent in fields near Oxnard. Melawend and
I come back to the sea at Ventura. It’s sunny but cool on this Memorial Day as
we head up the coast highway, past Santa Barbara. But I am warmed by all the waves,
thumbs up, and by heads cranked back and video cameras blipping out of car windows.
After another diversion inland at Faviota, I finally see the familiar peak of an extinct
volcano jutting 576 feet from the beach at Morro Bay, marking the southerly beginning of a
most awesome drive.
We ride past La
Cuesta Encantada – The Enchanted Hill – William Randolph
Hearst’s castle, looking tiny at the end of its five-mile-long driveway. After
photographing a decapitated lighthouse and rocks painted white with guano, we surmount a
rise and behold, just beyond the low plain ahead, the imposing Santa Lucia Mountains, like
a fortress by the sea – Big Sur country – pristine and virtually
uninhabited. With incredible ease, Melawend weaves the high coastal road through
these magnificent, rugged headlands.
At Plasket Creek Campground, Los
Padres National Forest, I meet proprietors Russ and Louise Edwards in their homey trailer.
They have welcomed guests from 121 countries. They inform me that the campground’s
luxuriant grass came from Kenya. And they talk about life in Big Sur.
Melawend and I scoot
through the rugged opulence of Clint Eastwood’s beloved Carmel and head around
Monterey Bay. But there is no time to see Cannery Row, made famous by John Steinbeck,
though some narrative reflection is made of the Nobel Prize winner’s works, including
the one based on his search for America, Travels with Charlie.
Then it’s up on the coast
for stays at two lighthouses whose outbuildings have been converted into youth
hostels. After the ubiquitous lull of guitar-strumming songsters, I share tales by
European shoestring travelers.
I touch base with the Canadian
Consulate in San Francisco where I meet Consul General Patrick Reid who was chairman of
Expo ’86. Reid tells of his newly famous son-in-law, Rick
Hansen (see Charities page), now on a promotion tour in Australia, following his
Man in Motion World Tour in a wheelchair for spinal cord research. At lunch, a
consul talks of the importance of free trade with the U.S. but feels that some Americans
regard Canada as an extension of the U.S. I meet an Associated Press editor who looks like
Neil Diamond. (It seems that so many everyday Americans look like famous
Americans) But Rick Smolan, the entrepreneurial photographer I had hoped to meet is
extremely busy with staff, editing the thousands of images taken for A Day in
the Life of California.
I stay at the youth hostels at
Point Reyes and Golden Gate. I encounter more interesting travelers including the
wandering girl from San Diego who feels that she is going to be famous someday for good or
bad reasons unknown. A late-night game of Trivial Pursuit reminds me of times with Brigeen
Clafferty way back in Newcastle, England. In the meantime, Minolta Canada and
Minolta Corporation (USA) come through with expeditious camera repair and equipment
enhancement.
I bid farewell to
San Francisco by taking self-portrait on Melawend overlooking the city and the Golden Gate
Bridge. Here, I tell of another departure, one hundred years earlier – that of Robert
Louis Stevenson on the yacht Casco, bound for the south seas, on a
voyage from which he would never return.
Melawend and I scoot
halfway across California for a rendezvous with a gentle Kiwi that ends in a reluctant
parting. We pick up Highway 49, the route of the 49er’s and discover my own
gold in the historic sites of California’s gold rush. At a small shop in
Sutter’s Creek, barber Bill Neal cuts my hair for free and tells of his days as a
ranger and a law enforcement officer. On Jackass Hill, I discover the replica of the tiny
cabin in which Mark Twin reveled at Jim Gillis’ impromptu tales and generally hid out
from newly made enemies in San Francisco.
We scoot on to
Yosemite National Park, which has defied first-timers for superlatives since its discovery
in the mid-nineteenth century. Horace Greeley was overcome in 1859 when he wrote:
"I know of no single wonder of nature on earth, which can claim a superiority over
Yosemite." The park is crowded with campers. Tourist-bored wolves stare
benignly back at me and rock climbers look like mites on the sheer gray face of El
Capitan.
Heading north along the desolate
eastern flanks of the Sierra Nevadas, I look again for green splendor and refuge, finding
it in the stately ponderosa pines around the clear deep waters of lake Tahoe. In the
area where TV’s Bonanza is enshrined and commercialism crowds
the shores of North America’s largest alpine lake, I find beauty and solitude.
Finally I make a brief detour
west, north of Lake Tahoe, to pay respects to a brave group of people who had confronted
incredible hardships and tragedies in their quest or a better life – the Donner
Party.
It’s time to head homeward
and get on with my own life. My scheduled return is closing in and the eastward rush
is on.
Chapter 44
THE ATLANTIC RUSH
"You
must have balls this big!" a huge black man says to me at a casino / gas bar near
Reno, Nevada. "Let me shake your hand."
I recover my hand after it is
nearly lost in the man’s meaty mitt and, contemplating just how painful it would be
to accommodate two cantaloupes in my jeans, I take my twenty gas-bonus nickels and
promptly loose them in the casino slot machines (those ubiquitous reconstructed vacuum
cleaners that suck up a party-filled afterlife).
After a tire change in "The
Biggest Little City in the World", where a billboard near the Park Wedding Chapel
advertises "Divorce Made Easy", Melawend and I embark on "The Loneliest
Road in America". Highway 50, which roughly parallels the trail of the short-lived
Pony Express, crossing a desolate landscape of sagebrush and cheatgrass.
Salt Wells, not
shown on the Nevada state map, consists of a blue fenced-in double prefab building. There
is a sign illustrating a scantily clad girl in three poses. A sign on the building reads:
"Best Little Whorehouse in the U.S.A." Another says that it is open
24-hours-a-day, and another says it is closed for re-modeling. Were the old models worn
out?
In Austin, Nevada, the Turkish
proprietors of The Mountain Motel talk about America. On through historical Eureka where a
bohemian activist expresses negative views. At the Cedar Inn in Delta, Utah, Lenore Fowles
and little daughter Paula welcome me with fresh-baked cookies and a video, but I am just
too tired to see the conclusion of Out of Africa. At the Silver
Spur Motel in Grand Junction, Colorado, old Joe Hughes talks proudly of his pioneer
grandfather and of himself being one of the few active old-time ranchers.
Melawend conquers
the Rocky Mountains by going up through Aspen and crossing the Continental Divide over
treeless Independence Pass. Then it’s down into the sudden flatness of the Plains.
There are people seen along the way: a Negro bent over the worn packs of his worldlies; a
frustrated mechanic bent over the engine of an old truck; and a man very happy to be freed
from a public toilet.
Storms
loom over Kansas. Then heat. There is no time to explore historic Dodge City or my
ancestral ties to it. It’s on past the feedlots that implore: Eat Beef
– Keep Slim.
Time
is closing in as Melawend and I streak across Missouri to St. Louis, regrettably omitting
Mark Twin’s town of Hannibal. But whoa! I overscoot the Gateway Arch and end up
heading for Chicago (not on the itinerary). We backtrack across the drought-low
waters of the Mississippi to the St. Louis waterfront and follow the river’s
southeasterly course, crossing it again outside Cairo. At a general store, a man
says of the mighty Mississippi: "I ain’t never seen it so low."
It’s on to the blue grass of
Kentucky horse pastures. We cross The Land Between the Lakes into Tennessee and head
for Nashville. Time and money are against me – there’s no time to see the
city’s full-size replica of the Parthenon (one of Nashville’s sobriquets is
"Athens of the South"), and I have no funds or time to take in an evening at the
Grand Ole Opry. But I content myself by listening to a talented singer in the bar at
Opryland, U.S.A. and see a Kenny Rogers look-alike walk by. Here, I weave in some
background of the home of American country music.
I
glimpse Dolly Parton’s Dollywood in passing on our way up into the Great Smokey
Mountains, out of Tennessee and into North Carolina. At a decrepit hotel in Oteen, a
little girl is severely punished for helping me secure my stay. On the television in
my room, John Williams, who composed much of the inspirational movie music that helped to
keep up my spirits these two years, is now conducting the Boston Pops orchestra.
Then it’s on up the Blue Ridge Parkway with its panorama of blue hills, a passage
held virtually alone until noon. At sunset, we cross the peaceful Shenandoah
River. At Lauray, Virginia, I relax – I’m close enough to Washington, D.C.
Ida Griffiths, the elderly owner of the Cardinal Motel, tells of more peaceful times in
the American capital when you could go for walks to the theatre at night with no thought
of being mugged.
I rest uneasily, anticipating my
capital appointments.
Chapter 45
MR. SMITH GOES TO
WASHINGTON
AND THE UN
An idealist in my
own way, I enter the capital of the most powerful country in the world – with no
expectations. I touch base with my embassy then, though I'm almost broke, I seek
accommodation. Suddenly, on the ring road north of the city, I am pulled over by a
man driving a new Corvette. Though told I am not collecting funds, the impeccably
dressed man hands me a fifty-dollar bill – and unknowingly saves the odyssey in its
final days.
While the embassy reschedules a
meeting at the White House, I visit the headquarters of the National Geographic
Society. The organization, whose continuing mission is "for the increase and
diffusion of geographic knowledge", is celebrating its 100th
anniversary. As Leonard Nimoy narrates in the film about the Society’s history,
I review a lifetime love of the magazine and its television specials.
It’s a hot day in Washington
but dark-suited executives aren’t even perspiring - I guess they are use to (or
contribute to) all the hot air around here. To cool off and to get a better sense of
America, I visit the dark recesses of the National Museum of the Smithsonian where I
marvel at all the memorabilia. There are screams from below but I am too late to see an
American idol that has just left the building – actor Tom Selleck. A girl has passed
out.
Sweating in my Fruit of the Looms
in my tent that evening, I prepare and inscribe one of Melawend’s used tires to
present at the White House the next day. Bill Harlow, assistant press secretary for
Foreign Affairs graciously, if not somewhat bewilderedly, accepts the dedicated memento of
the Odyssey. (Where it reposes now, only God, and perhaps the keepers of the
Smithsonian’s millions of artifacts knows for sure.)
My mission accomplished, I phone
home and learn there will be media waiting at the Peace Bridge.
Before
heading on to New York, Melawend and I reach the Atlantic at beautiful Cape May and I
recall an Atlantic turnaround two years earlier. That night, there is thunder and
rain and bugs being zapped by a bug light and I wonder if my return home will be a grand
event.
Finding a campsite anywhere near
New York City seems impossible and I end up sleeping on the floor of the police station in
Newburg, N.Y., a town which is supposed to have the highest crime rate per capita in the
state.
My personal clean up
in a gas station the next morning, on my way to the UN, is reminiscent of those first days
in England. I follow a diplomat’s car all the way across Manhattan’s 42nd
Street to that tower of nations. How ironic is was that racial prejudice played a
major role in the location of the UN. John D. Rockefeller fared well – he donated the
land for the building, which was occupied by a slaughterhouse, and his adjacent lands shot
up in value. But the UN, in June of 1988, has fallen on lean times – the
fountain is dry because the UN’s budget does not provide for its $10,000-per-year
annual costs. (The UN is also at a low-point in its roller coaster credibility that will
see the war with Iraq take it to its height and the civil war in Bosnia pull it down.)
I am welcomed to and guided
through the UN by a fellow scooter fan, Fred Eckhard, Assistant Spokesman for the
Secretary-General (Fred is now the Spokesman). Of my
journey, he says; "The symbolism of your odyssey for peace is especially appreciated
her in this House of Symbols!" Later, I am very kindly received by the Under
Secretary General of the Department of Public Information, Madame Paquet Sevigny who
shares a belief about world peace, and writes: "It’s the only hope for future
generations."
I buy a UN flag for Melawend and
scoot back across bustling 42nd Street. Times Square of 1988 has lost
some of its former glitter. Next to the boarded-up, ad-plastered Empire Theatre,
once a legitimate theatre until burlesque moved in during the Depression, the Roxy Twin
Theatre is offering Super Sex-O-Rama Wet Wild and Weird 6 Sexy XXX Movies Safe
and Comfortable. For this brief visit, 42nd Street is
New York. But here, I reflect upon the city, detailing in a stream of consciousness
how it represents every facet, every spectral shade of urban American life and American
dreams (not exclusively American), and that indeed, if one can make it here, one can make
it anywhere – a showcase for the universal as well as the American drive to
succeed. For this Odyssey, just to have made it to New York
symbolizes a long-sought goal attained – effectively a beginning as it was for so
many of America’s "huddled masses".
With my diplomatic efforts
virtually at an end, all that remains is to go home – but to what end?
Chapter 46
THE HOME RUN
I leave the bustle of New York
City behind and high tail it up the historic Hudson River. At the KOA campground in
Platekill, I sit in a driveshed-cum-theatre and am the only one to sit through the entire
video presentation of Steven Speilberg’s An American Tail.
At Albany, Melawend and I turn west for the final leg home, my home run, and stop to camp
near Cooperstown, home of America’s National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum.
The sky is gray and the air is
biting-cold all the way across the northern tips of the Finger Lakes, save for a
warm-me-up coffee at a MacDonald’s in Cazenovia. We pass through towns made so
familiar to me on Channel 7 Eyewitness News – Canandaigua, Avon, Corfu, Bowmanville
and finally, finally, "the Queen City" – Buffalo. Melawend and I
scoot under the Peace Bridge, taking a loving look across the Niagara River to Fort Erie
– home. But there will be no crossing today. We press on to Lewiston, New
York, to camp the last two nights of the odyssey.
At
the KOA campground, I meet an Australian girl who is with a group of fourteen tourists on
a three-week mini-van tour of the U.S. Dennis of Hector’s Hardware, a
"haunted" emporium in Lewiston, donates an American flag for the ride
home. I ride into a deserted Artpark and see, across the Niagara Gorge, Brock’s
Monument towering above the Canadian shore – an image of haste in the Odyssey’s
beginning. My last international visit is to the Shrine of Our Lady Fatima with its
translucent world dome and tall figure of Mary on top. The bells, reminiscent of
Rigaud, bring this last international leg of the journey to a tranquil, spiritual end.
Finally, I mount Melawend one last time. With the U.S., Canadian
and UN flags fluttering on iron poles scavenged from a dump, we ride to the Peace Bridge.
First, we stop at Ted’s, near the American entrance to the bridge, for one of
their famous charcoal-broiled hot-dogs. I take a self-portrait at the entrance and
head over the bridge.
Traffic is heavy because of the
Friendship Festival. Midway across the bridge, the same three flags Melawend bears
also mark the international border. I go for a portrait of Melawend on the border.
Traffic behind is held back by a trucker. All I see of him through the reflections
on the windshield is a wide smile and a thumbs up. Click.
Thank you, sir.
I feel weak as we roll down to
the Customs booths. The student officer looks critically at Melawend and the bulky load
covered by the worn orange tarp.
"Do you have anything to
declare," he asks.
Do I ever!
"No."
The officer does not ask how log
I have been out of the country.
We roll up and
around and down to the Niagara Boulevard, intending to go under the Peace Bridge as we did
that first day. The road is closed for the Festival. Crowds and attractions
clog the thoroughfare. I ride back up and around and Melawend is admitted to the
grounds. I spot two figures moving toward me. I park beside a Molson trailer and they come
up to me. I share a most joyous reunion with Melanie and Wendy. There is no
one from the media here to greet me but I don't care.
I check my pockets but find I
have only thirty-five cents left, not enough even for a Coke and I feel embarrassed and
ashamed. But then I remember. On the flight to England, I discovered that I
had six dollars in my pocket so I folded the bills and tucked them into a sleeve in my
wallet – the bills are still there. We share refreshments and stories
anonymously amid the crowds.
Later, the girls go their way and
I wander through the crowds alone, pausing to watch the airshow over the river.
Ironically, today’s newspaper announces my homecoming.
On the same page is reported the fully-honored repatriation of the remains of twenty-eight
American soldiers who died in the War of 1812, discovered in Fort Erie last year.
Melawend and I ride back
to Ridgeway and down the driveway of my father’s home – from when we had
started. Dad and I hug when he comes out of the house. He puts on the pot and
we have coffee on what's left of the patio where Melawend fell so long ago.
Home again?
